The CDC has said that vaccinated people can gather indoors with other vaccinated people! We can hang out inside with our friends! Like we used to! Like humans have for centuries, and also like a bunch of raccoons probably do if you leave the door to a cabin in the woods open. We can be raccoons! 

The full list is here. In the spirit of this, and based on no factual evidence, I’ve started making declarations about other things the CDC has recommended, because I can do that. Because the CDC says if you are fully vaccinated, you can make up things that the CDC has said.

Me after shot #1, or as it is technically called, a half-vaxxiccino.

The CDC has said if you are vaccinated, you do not need to wear a mask if you are outdoors in an uncrowded venue.

This probably means you won’t need to wear a mask to the CDC’s summer theater in the park production of Grease. Ticket sales have not been good.

The CDC would like to note that sales are probably bad because the entire concept of Grease is dated and sexist and the idea of changing for a guy is really awful and also some of the songs are super rapey. The CDC does not feel like it’s being listened to when it recommended Grease 2 as an alternative.

Grease 2, the CDC would like to note, is super feminist and about loving someone for who they are, not who they could be, and it’s all about the girl choosing the right guy, and it’s got some bangers in it.

The CDC recommends you watch the 1982 film version of Grease 2 right now. You can do so with unvaccinated people without wearing a mask provided they are from the same household and understand that Grease 2 is far superior to Grease.

Fine, the CDC will stop talking about Grease 2.

The CDC says fully vaccinated people can gather indoors without wearing a mask or keeping six feet apart, unless you are at an Eyes Wide Shut type party, at which point you will probably need to wear a mask, but it’s not like those cover your mouth. Having your mouth free seems to be an important part of an EWS party. Admittedly, the CDC hasn’t seen that movie, but the CDC did just google “Eyes Wide Shut Masks” and now Joan in IT probably has some questions about the CDC’s search history.

The CDC recommends Joan mind her own damn business.

Okay, the CDC maybe needs to chill out. The CDC has been under a lot of pressure these last few years. The CDC guarantees that you haven’t thought about the CDC this much in your life. Like, a handful of people made bad choices and suddenly the CDC is everywhere, and it’s thrilling and exhausting. It’s probably how Pauly Shore felt in the 90s. The CDC wonders if it needs a catchphrase.

I’m the Center for Disease Control, Babyyyyy!

No. The CDC does not recommend that. Nevermind. The CDC’s schtick is more of along the line of dad-jokes. If your dad were a giant governmental institution dedicated to promoting health and quality of life by preventing and controlling disease. (Sigh. This is why the CDC is no good at parties. Which you should not have be having right now with unvaccinated people from several households.)

It’s not that the CDC can’t be funny!

The CDC says hop on one foot.

The CDC says raise one hand.

The CDC says raise your other hand.

The CDC says hop faster.

Okay, this is ridiculous, you can put your arms down … Ah, ah, ahhhhh, the CDC didn’t say!

(Now go wash those hands for the time it takes you to sing the “Happy Birthday” song twice.)

The CDC recommends blocking your uncle on Facebook who says that the vaccine is going to put a tracking chip in your blood. The CDC would like to remind that uncle that his phone has GPS, everyone already knows where he is, and what he’s searching for while taking a dump, and no one cares.

The CDC says fully vaccinated people don’t have to wear pants. The CDC realizes that you probably haven’t been wearing pants anyway. The CDC lauds your preparedness.

The CDC really wants to know what happened to the neighbor’s cat. If you ask, the CDC would like to remind you to keep as distance of at least six feet, unless everyone has been vaccinated.

Actually, given the state of the cat, maybe stay six feet away, anyway.

The CDC recommends you avoid large indoor gatherings. The CDC recommends you just sit on the couch and rewatch Grease 2, because there is zero chance that you will accidentally run into your ex unexpectedly on your couch and be forced to have an awkward conversation about what they are up to now. Actually, you know what? The CDC is just going to permanently recommend avoiding large gatherings. Like, forever.

The CDC says that even if you have been vaccinated, you should still watch out for symptoms of Covid-19. I mean, you’ll probably be fine, but remember that final scene in Die Hard when you think Karl is dead but then he pops up and tries to kill John and Holly and Carl Winslow has to shoot him?

Covid is kind of like Karl.

The CDC is wondering if the CDC makes too many movie references.

The CDC recommends you still wear a mask in public spaces like stores and airports and around people who are immunocompromised. The CDC also recommends that you don’t race down an exit lane because it’s moving more quickly, and then swerve back into traffic just to save a few seconds. The CDC recommends you pick up your dog poop and that you don’t put that poop in a neighbor’s trash can because maybe that neighbor doesn’t have a dog specifically because they don’t want to deal with poop. The CDC expects you to throw that away at your house. Basically, the CDC wants you to care about other humans and not be an absolute shitburger, and realize that your individual liberty does not mean that you get to endanger others. The CDC would like to note that it isn’t hard to give, like, three flying fucks about other people, and frankly, the CDC can’t believe it has to tell people to stop acting like fully grown, spoiled-ass Veruca Salts, and explain to them that yes, science is real and yes, vaccines work, and yes, everyone in a society has an obligation to one another, and also, Grease 2 is amazing.

This shit is obvious, people.

The CDC is tired. The CDC is done. Happy summer, from the goddamn CDC, babyyyy.

I decided to spend 2020 reading only women authors. It shouldn’t have been a revolutionary act, but somehow, by the end, it started to feel like one. There’s a clear gender bias in publishing (male authors are published more often than women, have their books submitted for more awards, and are highlighted in publications more frequently). When much of the world is already written by men – not just books, but history itself – it felt like this was some small way in which I could try to tip the scales.

It wasn’t a strict rule, nothing set in stone, and I even made the occasional exception (including my friend Mike’s fantastic graphic novel, Flamer, which he published last summer). My goal for the year wasn’t a limitation or a constraint, but a focus – to seek out women writers in a way I hadn’t before.

Beyond this commonality, there was no shared theme between the books I read, and I kept no comprehensive list – it felt like doing so might somehow rob me of the magic of it, might end up imposing order when all I wanted to do was meander. I went from non-fiction memoirs to young adult to literary fiction. I loved a few, hated none, left no book unfinished. And even though not every story was joyous, I found that there was something beautiful in them, in surrounding myself with the words of women. A patchwork quilt of experiences, woven together by this facet of our identity.

Not once was I irritated with how women were portrayed, and while I was often angered or upset by how the world treated them, it never felt gratuitous. Their pain was real, and it was theirs, and they shared it with me. There was something strangely comforting in that – these complex and imperfect women existing in a vicious and stupid and unforgiving world, and knowing that none of us were alone. It had been a long time since I’d found a friend in a book. I thought I’d outgrown it. But maybe you never do.

And god, they were so gloriously, beautifully human. They had acne and mastectomies and unpleasant voices and long noses and were too tall or too fat. They were irritable and unkind and wore the same sweatshirt too many days in a row and drank too much or not at all. They befriended dragons and defeated monsters and fell in love and were hurt or raped or murdered and these things were significant not because of the men they were related to or the ones they loved but because it happened to them. These stories belonged to women. Both the characters and the authors.

(There were zero descriptions of pert breasts or erect nipples.)

When the new year started, I picked up a book by a male author in a genre I hope to one day write in. I had heard of his work, and this latest novel had gotten rave reviews.

There were things that I took issue with, and somehow I thought these things were just my problem. The teenager in a sexual relationship with someone seven years older than her; the classic depiction of a beautiful woman who ends up being a betrayer; the woman who is fragile because of her mental illness. The book and the author were so beloved that I figured it was my inability to just be cool, another example of me being a humorless bitch because that’s what feminism does to you.

It was like all the lessons of the last year just vanished.

About halfway through the book, seemingly out of nowhere, there was a graphic and horrific rape scene. I read it late at night, and found I couldn’t sleep afterwards. The act of violence was between two men. I don’t know if that makes it less of a problem. I find sexual violence against women is terrifying for a lot of women to read. And sexual violence against men is also terrifying for a lot of women to read.

Because it’s sexual violence. And a lot of us have personally experienced that.

Men have a right to tell those stories, too, of course. We all do. But we have to do it responsibly. Especially if you wield a bigger audience, and you come to the conversation with a great deal of privilege, as men so often do.

I put down the book. Over the next few days, I went through a strange mental exercise that I’ve been through before – wondering what I did wrong, wondering if I should have been more careful (should I have read more reviews? Looked up triggers for this book?), wondering again if the problem was with me. I felt betrayed, somehow.

I read a few more chapters, wondering if the assault would be addressed, if the character’s own trauma would be discussed (it wasn’t, except his attacker threatening to do it again). From a plot perspective, it wasn’t even relevant. I tried to figure out the purpose it served, other than to be homophobic and terrifying. I read spoilers for the book, hoping someone would make sense of the scene. No one did, or could. In the middle of the glowing reviews, a few people commented on how horrific it was, how blindsided they were, how it was never talked about again.

I’ve read stories of rape last year, written by women, some of which were autobiographical. It felt like they were holding my hand and leading me through the pain, and then out of it. Their assaults were not the heart of their story.

They were the heart of the story.

I told myself to keep going – that I could get through this damn book. I am a completist, after all. It was words on the page. Then I got to another chapter, where a woman with a disability was being tortured.

And I decided that I was done.

But enough about that book. Let’s not shift the spotlight away from where it should be. That happens enough already. I don’t need to do it in this post, as well.

Instead, let’s go back to the books I loved last year.

It’s still far from a perfect collection. I had hoped to read more poetry and more plays, I wish that I had sought out more women authors who remain underrepresented in publishing: trans women and indigenous women, and women with disabilities. But I remind myself that nothing ended when the clock hit midnight. My reading list is a work in progress, something malleable and alive. It goes on and on. And I keep adding to it, every damn day. There are some men on the list, of course.

And a hell of a lot of women.

Here are some of my favorites from last year:

Clap When You Land by Elizabeth Acevedo (TW sexual assault, plane crashes, death. This is YA, and it’s handled very delicately but still.) A story about two sisters – one in the Dominican Republic, one in New York, who deal with the aftermath of their father’s death, and discover that he was living a dual life, with, yes, two families in two different countries. It’s heartbreaking but ultimately beautiful and redemptive and it’s written in verse.

Circe by Madeline Miller (TW sexual assault, violence, murder. Honestly, this one was the easiest to handle for some reason.) Okay, it’s not like you haven’t heard of this one, right? It was on everyone’s list. But, damn. It’s so, so good. Told from the perspective of Homer’s witch, she is given life and agency, and it’ll leave you feeling like everyone who got turned into a pig maybe had it coming.

Fleishman is In Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner (TW, mental breakdowns, divorce, child bullying and abandonment) Admittedly, I slept on this one, too, and was probably the last person I knew who read it. But it’s such a fantastic exploration of a marriage (and people) falling apart, done with precision and vivid writing, and it unravels like a mystery.

An Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon (TW sexual assault – alluded to, violence, racism, child endangerment and murder). An afro-futuristic tale of a genderqueer doctor/scientist struggling against a racist, oppressive system on a spaceship. Simply one of the most unique and captivating books I’ve read. It’s a tough read, emotionally, but so, so good, and Rivers Solomon’s voice is unlike anyone else’s out there.

A Heart In the Body in the World by Deb Caletti (TW gun violence, murder, stalking) A young woman tries to grapple with an act of violence by (literally) running across the country. It’s so sad, but also redemptive and sweet (it takes place partially in Seattle, and the family at the heart of it is Italian, which hit close for me for a lot of reasons.)

My To Be Read (TBR) list includes Culture Warlords by Talia Lavin (where she goes undercover and infiltrates white supremacist groups online), Wow, No Thank You – Samantha Irby’s book of essays (another book I’ve been sleeping on), and Mikki Kendall’s Hood Feminism. I also just bought Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles, and I’m planning on picking up Rumaan Alam’s Leave the World Behind. If there is something you want to recommend, please do so in the comments. (My book buying attitude over the last few years has basically been this.)

This was the month that Seattle started to shut down, a year ago. It’s the last month that I ate inside a restaurant. We were scheduled to go to Italy that March, just as Covid was starting to take hold there. Those few weeks before we were set to leave were fraught – were we cancelling out of paranoia? Would we look back and think, “Well, that was silly. It all turned out to be nothing?”

It didn’t, of course. We cancelled Italy along with a half dozen other trips I no longer remember now.

In some ways, I suppose it’s not that unusual – staying at home for a year. But I hadn’t done it in well over a decade. It’s part of how Rand and I engineered our lives: no kids, no pets, only a few neglected houseplants that I’m probably overwatering as of late, because, well – I’m around. Travel is simply what we do. Or rather, it’s what we did. At the apex of it, we’d spend a third of the year on the road.

I have been home for a year. But others in that world I used to inhabit have not. I see Instagram photos of someone proudly standing at a podium, receiving a travel writing award for glowing coverage of a state where the governor has adamantly refused to take any preventative measures to curb the spread of the virus (the governor is in the photo, maskless, applauding him). They never once mention that they’re in a Covid hotspot, with one of the highest death rates in the country.

In another travel community thread, a woman said that because she’s tested negative, she had every right to keep traveling. That she’s “not endangering anyone.” Someone tried to tell her that negative tests do not mean that one is immune. That you can still be a vector for spreading a disease. The woman doubled down. She’s not going to let Covid stop her, she said – as though she was somehow Joan of Arc facing the fire.

But there’s no nobility in it. As my friend Naomi notes, it comes down to the same thing as always – the concept encapsulated in that old Buzzfeed News Headline: “I Don’t Know How to Tell You That You Should Care About Other People.”

The proclamation that something is safe rattles her.

“Safe for who, exactly?” she asks.

I see snapshots from airports, heading to the few countries that will still let us in, or to Hawaii, because “People forget it’s part of America!” They ignore the fact that schools in Hawaii remain closed. That my friends with family on the islands are terrified for their well-being, because of the influx of tourists. Yes, there is a lot of shit that you can still do right now. You can still go to Disneyworld. You can eat indoors. You can attend a rally mashed up next to people who think that pandemics are fake and baby-eating lizard people are real. But that doesn’t mean that you should.

“These places are struggling,” I hear people say. “They need our money.”

I take a deep breath to stop the blood vessels in my eyes from bursting with rage.

Look, Hilton Hotels and United Airlines and the other titans of travel and hospitality? They are going to be just fine. They’re not going to collapse because you didn’t buy a $99/day super saver weekend getaway to Las Vegas. You are not going to single-handedly save the travel industry with your money. You might kill someone who’s working the front desk, though.

“BUT WHAT ABOUT THE SMALL INDIE HOTELS AND RESTAURANTS. I MUST HELP THEM.”

Buy a goddamn gift card. Or, hey, support your local restaurants with take-out, or order something from a local independent shop. They need you, too. Or if this is such a charitable effort on your part, why not just send them money? You can donate to organizations that are helping small businesses survive during this time (OH LOOK, THE U.S. CHAMBER OF COMMERCE HAS A WHOLE GODDAMN LIST.)

*unclenches jaw and fists*

“BUT I HAVE DONE EVERYTHING RIGHT AND I SHOULD GET TO SAFELY HAVE A GETAWAY.”

Sigh. To refute this, I’m just going to borrow some phrases of rage from my friend Pam.

“To be clear, I understand there are safe scenarios — drive to a cabin! Bring all your groceries! Okay! And that the burden on close families is hard! Wear a mask, quarantine for two weeks upon arrival, do the same when you get home! THAT is doing everything right. Also, SHUT UP. Your performative “traveling safely” makes it look like it’s okay for any clown to “travel safely” and we live in a world of science deniers. SHUT UP. Take your trip and SHUT UP.”

Look, there’s a lot of privilege wrapped up in being a travel writer. Some of it is inherent. It requires a (semi-expendable) income, flexibility with work, valid passports, and bodies that are easily moved from one spot to another. But there’s an obligation in it, too. Travel is not a singular, solitary action. It is not something that exists in a vacuum. We interact with our environments, with the community and cultures that we find ourselves in. If we travel during a pandemic, we aren’t simply assuming risk for ourselves. We’re endangering everyone around us. We could spread a disease to fellow passengers, to airline and airport and hospitality employees. We could eventually be hospitalized in healthcare system that is unprepared for an influx of travelers, diverting resources from locals.

And if we are travel writers, we are leading by example. If we travel, we risk spreading the misconception that all travel is safe. As Pam notes, the world is full of science deniers. They do not see the differences between our actions and theirs. They do not understand the precautions that we’ve taken. They simply see it as an endorsement – from travel professionals – that it is okay to see the world right now.

And it’s not.

Look, this sucks. Being a travel writer who doesn’t travel messes with your sense of self. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss my job.

I even miss the haze of landing in Europe first thing in the morning after a trans-Atlantic flight and having pancakes with this barely-conscious cutie.

But the thing, pandemics aren’t supposed to be fun. Global catastrophes aren’t supposed to be convenient, or enjoyable. They turn your world upside down, by design. It’s fucking awful. People are dying. I haven’t hugged my mom in a year. My nephew doesn’t know me. I am literally a stranger to him. My aunt and uncle are in their 80s, and my husband is terrified – absolutely terrified – that something will happen to them and we won’t get to say goodbye, in the same way we didn’t get to say goodbye to his grandmother.

There’s this longing for things to go back to how they were – I feel it so desperately, in my bones, while at the same realizing that it doesn’t get to happen for so many people. I think of everyone I know who has lost someone to Covid, and about how once vaccines are available and the world opens back up, their lives doesn’t go back to how they were. If you stretch an elastic band far enough, sometimes it stays like that, stretched out and brittle. Sometimes it just breaks.

I miss ferry rides. I miss the feel of smushing my face next to my beloved’s while we breath in sea air.

I want this to be over. And it fucking would be, if people just stayed at home. I’m asking you to do that, not just for yourself but for all of us. And if you decide to ignore not just your own well being, but everyone else’s … well, at least have the decency to be quiet about it.

As you know, Rand and I are social creatures. We thrive on seeing the people we love, on following the winding paths of your lives, on quietly building a history of private jokes and shared experiences together. We aren’t simply growing old with each other, we are growing old with all of you, and this brings my heart a sort of levity that I can scarcely describe. The closest I can come to is this: imagine a nest of baby squirrels inside your chest. It’s both squirmy and warm.

Usually, we host, because we bought this big, old, drafty house last year, and that is what you do with big, old, drafty houses. Our lives have become a pastiche of dinners and brunches characterized by noise and laughter and crumbs on the floor.

I am entirely okay with all of that.

What I am not okay with, my dear friends, is that one of you left poo on my toilet seat.

The events of which I speak, events which still have no name (because those of you who have read my book know that “apoohcalypse” is already taken), transpired a few weeks ago, but in the narrative of my life, when they occurred is meaningless. They are so burned into my memory that they have always existed, and will always exist. I can’t remember a time before them. It is as though they have always been with me. The first creature emerged from the primordial goo and stepped foot onto the earth and pooed on my toilet seat. That is the history of the universe.

But even eternal stories have a genesis, and this one occurred late one evening, after my guests had gone home, and I was tidying up. The toilet seat in the downstairs bathroom had been left up (a strange sight in our home, but alas, all our guests happened to be male on that evening) and I gently lowered it. And then I gasped like a blonde in a Hitchcock film. There it was.

Just sitting there.

Naturally, I announced my findings at full volume to my husband.

“SOMEONE LEFT POO ON THE TOILET SEAT.”

After 17 long years together, my beloved is accustomed to me screaming about bodily fluids and so his reply was calm and measured.

“There is often poo on toilet seats, my love. It was probably an accident.”

He had not seen the carnage, and so he was untroubled, his voice so tranquil, that for a brief moment I assumed everything was fine, too. (This is the power that men have – to take an absolute egregious situation of which they know nothing, and make it seem completely acceptable.)

This poo was fine. This poo was normal. And so I would clean up this very normal situation.

I put on a pair of rubber gloves and grabbed the bottle of Chlorox that I keep under the sink and I polished that toilet until it sparkled and my nostrils singed, until Lady MacBeth herself would have taken my hands and whispered, “Enough, dearest, enough. It’s clean.”

That much chlorine late at night in a non-ventilated space can do things to a person.

Husband: You’ve been at your computer for hours. Are you working on something important?
Me: … yes.

And it was only after I had eradicated all evidence of what had happened that I realized my initial rage and shock were not misplaced.

Rand was right; poo can often be found on toilets, but it usually hides on the underside of the seat, unseen until the seat is lifted. But this poo was not on the underside of my toilet seat (which, I will note, was and is splatter free). No, dear friends. This poo was on top of the toilet seat.

I explained this to Rand, watching as his face moved from confusion to understanding to utter disgust.

“Oh … oh god,” he whispered. “How much crap are we talking about?”

“It was like the smudge that one would find on a Catholic’s head on Ash Wednesday. Subtle but unmistakable.”

My husband is Jewish, and so this reference was mostly lost on him, but he quietly nodded and offered to clean it up.

“The deed is already done,” I explained.

“I am so sorry,” he said.

“So I am. I don’t know who it was, but I can never look at any of them the same way again.”

“Nor should you, my love. Nor should you.”

I have scrutinized this scenario, imagining the many ways in which that could have occurred. I have sat on that toilet seat (after attacking it with Chlorox again. Out damn poo, out) and tried to recreate the events of that night. Not only was I unable to replicate the results, I failed to understand how, once smeared, the poo went unseen. Presumably it was as visible when it was fresh as when I saw it. Feces does not develop slowly before our eyes, like some sort of bacteria-ridden Polaroid.

The question was, how many people had seen and ignored it? Until I lowered the toilet seat, I had no awareness of its existence. It was both there and it wasn’t at precisely the same moment. It was Shrodinger’s crap.

I went over the facts with a friend, who noted that there was very likely a second person who also played a role in Poopseatgate (I came up with a name). We can – if we are generous – allow for the possibility that the person who smeared the poo did so accidentally, and left the bathroom entirely unaware of what they had done. At least, we hope so. We assume that most grown adults, once aware that they’ve left feces somewhere, will take some measures to clean it up. We can fault this individual (Person 1) with being an inattentive wiper (“Or a poorly angled pooper.” – Rand), but not with willfully leaving poo on my toilet seat.

At least, that is what we hope.

That leaves us with Person 2. Presumably, they entered the bathroom after Person 1, and saw the poo on the seat. Rather than do anything about it, or gently call for the person who had occupied the bathroom before them, or bring it to my or Rand’s attention, or flee from the house weeping (all acceptable behaviors that I would have considered in their position), they instead lifted the seat, peed, and went on their merry way.

This person is a unequivocal monster.

Sometime later, I brought the events of that night up with a group of suspects friends and one of them said, in an attempt at camaraderie, “You know, one of the kids smeared crap on the wall of one of our bathrooms the other day.”

NO.

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO. NEVER SAY THIS TO A WOMAN WHEN SHE VOICES A CONCERN TO YOU. NEVER SAY THIS TO ANYONE. NEXT YOU WILL START TELLING ME HOW HARD IT IS TO BE A STRAIGHT WHITE GUY AND I WILL NOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR MY ACTIONS IF THAT HAPPENS.

The poo smearing that occurred in your home was poopetrated perpetrated by your child. But whoever left poo in my bathroom to harden like unholy spackle was not a child. It was a grown ass-adult. I should not be cleaning up grown-ass adult shit that is not my own. Because make no mistake – it is me, and not Rand, who does that. I get paid way less than him on an hourly basis. That does not mean that my time is less valuable to me. That does not mean that this is how I enjoy spending it.

If I complain to you about adult poo, DO NOT TELL ME ABOUT YOUR CHILDREN’S POO. Because if you draw that parallel, you better fucking believe that I will treat you exactly like a child.

I will point to the bathroom, screaming, demand to know who did this, and take away all computer and phone rights until someone cleans. that. literal. shit. up. And just in case there is any confusion about this for next time, I have left notes.

And just in case we need a refresher on this part:

I mean, it doesn’t, not really. You need a bidet for that. But it’s a start.

Here is a small list of appropriate responses which may be used individually or all together:

“Oh, Geraldine, that sounds awful. We will endeavor to be more careful.”

“Thank you so much for cleaning up after us – we really do appreciate it.”

“It was probably me, because I’m a big smelly jerk. I’m very, very sorry.”

Dear friends, I work hard to make that bathroom pristine, not just for me and Rand, but for you. Every time I know you are coming over, I bleach that fucker. I scrub the floors. Like, I literally get down on my hands and knees and scrub the floors. I do this gladly, yes. But make no mistake: it takes and effort.

I don’t do this because I expect any accolades. I do it because I want you to be comfortable in my home. If you need to use the bathroom, I want you to, and I want it to be a glorious expanse of porcelain that smells like bleach when you walk in. I understand that it may get a little messy. That’s fine – I will gladly take care of a little mess in exchange for having you in my home. But please understand that when you leave poo on the seat? You also leave it on our friendship.

And I need to exorcise this tiny demon inside of me, lest it start inviting its friends over for the most incoherent Christmas Pageant ever, complete with lobsters. But I’m getting ahead of myself. We’ll get there, friends. Patience.

Tradition would dictate that I summarize the plot of the film to you, but I’m not going to do that because it would require me to watch it again. By now you’ve either seen it or you’re my grandmother, who has been dead for the better part of two decades. Besides, I’m not entirely sure that the film has a plot besides … fucking? No, really. Everyone in this movie wants to have sex, and some of them succeed and some of them don’t. This isn’t so much a plot as “the human condition”, but in Love, Actually, all of the disparate story lines are tied together with the clever motif that … they are all friends or coworkers.

Seriously, that’s it.

A few people are related, but mostly everyone is friends with everyone else, and the audience is supposed to be blown away by the fact that people know one another (note: the trope of intertwined storylines has been done well, and if it interests you, check out the 1998 film Playing By Heart, the pilot episode of This is Us, or the Five Short Graybles episode of Adventure Time, all of which accomplish this task far better).

And look, there’s nothing wrong with a movie about people trying to bone, even if said boning has been (and I cringe at this) conflated with love. It is, fundamentally, a film about relationships, which wouldn’t be problematic except for one thing: nearly every single relationship portrayed in this movie is fucked up. Like, profoundly. As in, “you might not want to tell your therapist about this shit because they will probably have to report you to like, the therapy police or whatever” fucked up. And while the audience is let in on how screwed up some of those relationships are, we’re supposed to be cool with other ones.

Sadly, my ability to enjoy this holiday classic is dampened by my understanding of consent and feminism. I’ve decided to share my ruinous Christmas spirit with you by sorting every major relationship in Love, Actually from least to most dysfunctional. Unfortunately, in the end, they all sort of ran together in a huge clump of sex, codependency, and depression. Enjoy, and happy holidays.

Martin Freeman and Joanna Page. I’d seen Love, Actually a half dozen times before I even knew this storyline existed, because it is always left out of TV broadcasts (and Rand and I were way too broke in the early 2000s to go to the movies). Freeman and Page are stand-ins on the set of a racy film, where they meet and start chatting and it is all immensely kind, boundaried, and functional (they just happen to be naked and pantomiming sex acts, hence it being cut for American TV). They’re possibly the sweetest love story in the movie, so it’s understandable that they’ve been left out, leaving more room for the trainwrecks.

Colin and Jeannie, Carol-Anne, Stacey, and Harriet (Kris Marshall and January Jones, Elisha Cuthbert, Ivana Miličević, and Shannon Elizabeth.) The idea of an English guy going to America for the specific purpose of sleeping with a bunch of hot American women who are solely into him because of his accent feels unimaginative and objectifying for everyone involved. But these relationships seem to work. They’re annoying and clearly conceived by a 15-year-old boy, but they work.

(Also: women do not generally dress like this in the middle of winter in Wisconsin.)

At some point, Colin chooses (he gets to pick!) one of women to take back to England, presumably because she is the hottest, and I am increasingly curious as to how that was ascertained. Was it a fight to the death? Was it by blind vote? How. How.

But everyone is a consenting adult and they all seem to be having fun, so I wish them well and hope they use lots and lots of condoms.

Sam and Joanna (Thomas Sangster and Olivia Olson). Thomas Sangster plays Sam, who has a crush on one of his classmates, Joanna, played by Olivia Olson (he’s also going through some personal stuff that we’ll get to later). That part is sweet and normal. Where it gets weird is that Sam somehow decides to woo Joanna by learning the drums in two short weeks (HOW?) and somehow landing a role in the Christmas pageant (which makes no sense because PRESUMABLY PARTS WERE ASSIGNED PRIOR TO HIM LEARNING HOW TO PLAY THE DRUMS). And when that doesn’t work he busts through airport security to tell her he is in love with her. Even though, you know, HE HAS NEVER TALKED TO HER BEFORE.

But whatever. They’re kids. That’s what kids think love is. So it’s sweet.

Plus, it’s not like grown-ups are doing this ridiculous bullshit, right? RIGHT? (Spoiler: they are.)

Billy Mack and Joe (Bill Nighy and Gregor Fisher) Bill Nighy might be the best fucking thing about Love, Actually. He’s plays Billy Mack, a washed up rocker, and spends the entire movie lilting around like the love child of Keith Richards and a bottle of Viagra, with the haircut of the little girl on the Morton salt container. He’s an asshole, but he’s totally self-aware, unlike the other assholes in the movie.

After numerous failed marriages and love affairs, Billy ends up realizing that one of the best, most loving relationships he has is his friendship with his manager, Joe.

“It’s a terrible, terrible mistake, Chubs, but you turn out to be the fucking love of my life. And to be honest, despite all my complaining, we have had a wonderful life.”

But of course, he can’t express that in a functional way. Instead, he fat shames his manager so incessantly THAT HIS NICKNAME FOR HIM IS CHUBS. Billy is a raging asshole and his manager puts up with because codependency is a hell of a drug.

Jamie and Aurelia (Colin Firth and Lúcia Moniz) There was a time, when I was young and impressionable (i.e., stupid), that I swooned at the concept of falling in love with someone without actually speaking a common language. But then I actually fell in love and realized that talking is an important part of that. You should want to have conversations with your partner, and to share your ideas and feelings and be able to communicate with more than just smoldering glances, because it is very hard to convey complex messages in smoldering glances. A SMOLDERING GLANCE CANNOT TELL YOU IF YOU NEED TO UNLOAD THE DISHWASHER OR BUY MILK OR THAT ONE OF YOU HAS AN STD.

Yes, Firth and Moniz are adorable. Sure, he’s forty-something, recently been cheated on and rebounding with his 20-something *checks notes* … housekeeper? (You will soon learn that everyone in this movie is trying to bone their coworker or employee. Everyone.) Anyway, he learns to speak Portuguese and she learns English, which is maybe something that should have happened prior to them falling in love.

Daniel and Sam (Liam Neeson and Thomas Sangster) Neeson plays Daniel, a recent widower. Like, really recent. But apparently he’s like THE ONLY ONE WHO SEEMS TO CARE THAT HIS WIFE HAS JUST DIED. And everyone tells him to sort of suck it up.

“Get a grip, people hate sissies. No-one’s ever going to shag you if you cry all the time.” – Emma Thompson’s character, Karen, to Daniel. No, really.

(Is this an English thing? Or like, does he just have really shitty friends? Because I cannot imagine saying anything besides “THIS IS BULLSHIT AND I AM SO SORRY, HERE ARE SOME COOKIES” whenever my friends go through something traumatic.)

Anyway, Neeson’s stepson, Sam (Sangster, whose entire adorable head is made of cowlicks) is upset, but apparently he’s not really that upset about his mom dying, but rather because he’s in love (which feels like how a kid would react to a loss that big). And Liam Neeson decides that he will do everything possible to make this love blossom, including buying the kid a drum kit, even though what he really needs is a grief counselor. Honestly, the entire thing feels like a thin excuse to play Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” during the holiday play, which features lobsters and an octopus, and feels like you’re watching Zoobilee Zoo after drinking too much DayQuil.

Also, at some point Daniel tells Sam that if he meets Claudia Schiffer, they’re going to want to have sex in every room in the house, including Sam’s, so he’ll have to kick him out.

And he refers to him as a “wee motherless mongrel,” which feels like sort of humor that might be lost on a kid whose mom has just died. I’m cutting them both some slack, though, on account of they’re both going through a hard time. Stay strong, lads.

Sarah (Laura Linney) and everyone. Alright, so Sarah (Linney) is taking graphic dating advice from Harry (Alan Rickman), who seems to be her boss (see below), which is problematic in and of itself, but she also has one of the saddest, most textbook cases of a codependent relationship with her schizophrenic brother who lives in an institution. She’s his primary caretaker (and she calls him “babe” which is … sexually confusing). He calls her constantly, and she picks up the phone constantly.

It’s so extreme that it interferes with her romantic life in a scene that is absolutely agonizing to watch.

It’s heartbreaking and also infuriating. HANG UP THE FUCKING PHONE, SARAH. AND STOP TAKING DATING ADVICE FROM YOUR BOSS. AND FALL FOR SOMEONE WHO IS EMOTIONALLY MATURE ENOUGH TO REALIZE THAT YOU HAVE FAMILIAL OBLIGATIONS.

Juliet and Peter and Mark (Keira Knightly and Chiwetel Ejiofor and Andrew Lincoln). Keira Knightly was 18 (18!) when this film came out and she’s cast as a newlywed because … ugh, I don’t know. Every woman in this movie is much younger than her male counterparts. Anyway, Mark (Lincoln) and Peter (Ejiofor) are best friends, and Peter is married to Juliet (Knightly), who Mark apparently hates. But wait, that’s not correct! He actually LOVES her. And the reason he treats his best friend’s wife terribly is because he is so madly in love with her. Because obviously that’s what you do when you care about someone.

But what’s really messed up is this scene, which would be sweet were it not happening between a woman and her husband’s best friend:

Mark shows up and confesses love to Juliet while Peter unwittingly sits upstairs watching TV. It’s so unnecessary, and completely unfair to everyone involved. And it’s also really shitty of Juliet to not shut that thing down immediately.

Harry (Alan Rickman) and everyone. Let me be clear: the late, great Alan Rickman can do no wrong in my eyes. He was brilliant in Die Hard (which isn’t a Christmas movie. Nope. Don’t even start, pumpkins), and he is possibly one of the best parts of Galaxy Quest, a film that is made up almost exclusively of great parts. But dear god, he is a walking sexual nightmare in this movie. Harry (Rickman) works with Sarah (Linney), and at one point confronts her about being in love with another coworker.

Sarah is mortified but owns up to it, at which point Harry tells her to have lots of sex and babies with said coworker. Which is charming when it’s coming from Alan Rickman, the snarky girlfriend we all want and need, but it’s illegal when it’s coming from Alan Rickman, your goddamn boss. Harry is married to Karen (Emma Thompson), the mother of his two children. And THE FUCKER CHEATS ON HER WITH HIS SECRETARY. Karen actually finds the gift he’s going to give the other woman and thinks it’s for her, and the scene where she figures it’s not is fucking devastating.

Oh, and also, the necklace looks like a butt.

Emma Thompson is a thespian goddess who has a pair of Oscars and they made her cry over a necklace that looks like a butt and that is unforgivable.

David and Natalie (Hugh Grant and Martine McCutcheon). True story: the first time I saw Love, Actually, and Martine McKutcheon’s Natalie appeared on screen, I looked at Rand and said, “Holy crap, that woman is sorta shaped like me.” And I was so excited because having curves in the early 2000s was basically an unforgivable sin. Then, immediately afterwards, THE OTHER CHARACTERS SPENT THE ENTIRE MOVIE TALKING ABOUT HOW FAT SHE IS. Her dad even nicknames her “Plumpy.”

Let’s be clear: there is nothing wrong with being fat. But when we start joking that averaged sized women are fat, that is warping reality in a way that is unhealthy for everyone.

Anyway, Hugh Grant is David, the Prime Minister (insert heavy sigh). Even though he was 43 when the movie was filmed, everyone talks about how old he is. He immediately gets a crush on Natalie, who is a housekeeper at Downing Street, and it appears to be reciprocated but it’s hard to tell because he’s 15 years older than her and also he’s her boss and ALSO THE PRIME MINISTER. Like, what the fuck does consent even mean with that sort of power deferential?

Anyway, at some point, Billy Bob Thornton shows up as the President of The United States and David walks in on Natalie looking scared out of her mind while The President of the United States is like, leaning in creepily and appears to be licking her eye.

But here’s the fucking kicker: DAVID BLAMES NATALIE. I mean, he blames the President, too, and has this weird monologue in front of the press about standing up to the U.S., which probably ignites some sort of trade war and also manages to slut shame Natalie in the process. Then Prime Minister David relocates her to a less prestigious job.

To recap: she gets assaulted by the President, and the Prime Minister demotes her because he has a crush on her. That is a thing that happens in this movie about romance and Christmas.

David eventually has a change of heart, realizes he likes her, and tracks her down like a creepy ass stalker. When he finally finds her she keeps telling him that “nothing happened” with her and the President.

GIRL, YOU DO NOT OWE HIM AN EXPLANATION.

Anyway, this blatant abuse of power is so fucked up that it wins the award for most fucked up dynamic in a movie full of them. Yay!

I have tried time and again to glean some sort of moral out of this movie and the best I can come up with is that Love, Actually‘s goal is to illustrate how fucked up relationships can be. I supposed it succeeds in doing that, but that’s not what most people want from a romantic holiday movie. Every time I watch it, I find myself hoping that things will turn out okay in the end, even though I know they won’t. It feels like a perfect metaphor for a terrible relationship: you keep hurling yourself at it even though you know it’s all going to turn out to be a bunch of bullshit.

Love shouldn’t work like that. It can be difficult sometimes, but it’s also fun and rewarding and respectful. You grow and learn. You talk to one another. You celebrate your 18th Christmas together.

And then you go and watch Scrooged.

—–

P.S. – I didn’t include this relationship in the list above because I just learned it existed and it was cut from the final film – an unfortunate choice, in my opinion. It’s the story of the school’s headmistress and her longtime partner, and it’s just beautiful. And yeah, I gasped at the final scene because … well, just watch it and see.

If you read the news in the last two days, you might have caught the story that is presently haunting me: a mother, traveling with her children on a United flight, paid extra to bring her French Bulldog in the cabin. After boarding, a member of the flight crew insisted she store the dog in the overhead compartment, where people put their suitcases. The dog whimpered and cried for a while, and then it stopped. When the flight landed, they found that the dog had died, likely from suffocation.

A lot of people are asking why the woman didn’t fight against the flight attendant more. This reaction is understandable, but also unfair. We’re angry that the dog died, and we’re used to feeling like flight crews don’t care about humans, much less dogs (and United has the worst track record when it comes to their treatment of animals). So we place the onus on the owner, who must have been crazy to allow that to happen.

I’m a travel writer (mostly). I’ve been on a lot of flights. I was on four last weekend alone. And I know how utterly terrifying and confusing it can be. Flying puts you in a position where you largely feel powerless. Just yesterday I wrote about how a TSA agent made me take off my sweatshirt – claiming it was a jacket – and go through security in a skimpy tanktop that I had no intention of anyone seeing. I wanted to speak up, but I also know that every time I’ve escalated a situation like that one, it hasn’t gone well for me.

I’ve noticed the similarities in comments on both my blog post and the news story about the dog. Yes, what happened was wrong, but why didn’t you stand up for yourself?

I’m not the first woman to hear this criticism, and I won’t be the last. But the assertion that we’re choosing to be victims is bullshit. No one chooses to be a victim. The truth is this: for a lot of us, speaking up makes a situation worse. Being on a plane is already a terrifying thing. If you disagree or upset flight staff, you could be accused of violating federal law. And the wording of the law is incredibly vague:

An individual on an aircraft in the special aircraft jurisdiction of the United States who, by assaulting or intimidating a flight crew member or flight attendant of the aircraft, interferes with the performance of the duties of the member or attendant or lessens the ability of the member or attendant to perform those duties, or attempts or conspires to do such an act, shall be fined under title 18, imprisoned for not more than 20 years, or both. However, if a dangerous weapon is used in assaulting or intimidating the member or attendant, the individual shall be imprisoned for any term of years or for life.

If you interfere with the duties or performance of a flight attendant, you can get up to 20 years in prison. There’s a good chance that you won’t be found guilty, but the wording is unclear and the risk is huge. And even if you aren’t charged with violating the law, a whole host of things could happen to you, including financial penalties, being removed from your flight, being added to the no-fly list, or (if applicable) deportation. And we don’t know what someone’s circumstances are; simply stepping off a flight because you are unhappy is the realm of the rich and the privileged.

Now, imagine: flying on a plane with your two children (one of whom is an infant) and not speaking the same language as the flight attendant. Imagine being told that even though you paid to carry your dog in the cabin, you have to put it in an overhead compartment. Some part of you has to be freaked out – you can’t fight with the flight attendant. There’s also some presumption that a trained professional who works for an airline wouldn’t advise you to do something that would kill your dog.

And remember, most airlines won’t put up with any dissent – even if you later comply. Alaska Airlines recently told me I couldn’t bring my smart bag on their flight (even though it’s not prohibited by the FAA and other airlines allow it). I fought them on the issue (which made the situation worse, I assure you) and eventually I agreed to throw out my bag. Alaska still threatened to not let me board after the bag was thrown away. I had to literally beg them to let me on.

And get this: after I ditched my bag (which they told me they were going to detonate along with unattended baggage), they put the bag on the flight after having checked it under someone else’s name.

I don’t know who Lauren (?) Williamson is, but I’m fairly certain she’s another passenger and not an Alaska employee.

I have no doubt that being a flight attendant is harrowing work. And the power dynamic between passengers and crew has been intentionally skewed, because that’s how you maintain order among 300 smushed inside a flying metal canister. But if they are going to wield that kind of power over their customers, they need to do so with empathy and understanding and mindfulness. The issue here is not why this passenger didn’t fight for her dog’s life. The issue is why an airline would endanger that dog’s life in the first place.

Pictured: Rand, the best person on this plane. Also pictured: Dude in headphones who screamed when people got too close to him.

I have this terrible habit of assuming that most people are generally good, contributing members of society, and not bat-shit barely-functioning assholes. Every now and then we may deviate from this norm (I once woke up angry with Rand because he’d done something to piss me off in a dream) but for the most part we adhere to a social contract that requires us to at least pretend that we’re simply scratching our nose when we are actually digging around for boogers.

And while I have seen all manner of weird things while on the road, I can safely say that nothing compares to what I saw on the Southwest flight that Rand and I took from Albuquerque to San Diego.

Generally, I don’t fly Southwest because I don’t hate myself. I fly Alaska Airlines, and the delta (ha!) between the two airlines is the same one that exists between Donald Trump and Obama: on some level, these two things are fundamentally the same (men who have held the office of president; commercial airlines) – but seriously, fuck no. No way. These things are not the same. One will get you where you need to go and the other is probably going to get us all killed OH GOD HOW DID THIS HAPPEN.

Ahem.

Anyway, Alaska’s big flaw is that they don’t really operate anywhere but the Pacific Northwest. Outside of the west coast, everyone assumes flying Alaska Air means you are from Alaska. They inevitably start asking questions, and I’m too embarrassed to admit I’m from Seattle so I just say things like “YES PENGUIN MEAT IS DELICIOUS”.

For those of you who are itching to point out that there are no penguins in Alaska: that is not the biggest problem you should have with that sentence.

ANYWAY.

Southwest does not have assigned seating. I mean, I’ve been to movie theaters that have assigned seating. It the cornerstone of any functioning society. It is what separates us from the Italians. Remove it, and people start strangling one another for free t-shirts. I’ve seen it.

Instead, Southwest is a fucking free-for-all. First come, first served. And that is where I think the root of all appalling behavior on Southwest flights originates.

Rand paid extra to have us board in an early group, because Southwest isn’t going to let its running-of-the-bulls-but-with-children-and-old-people-and-carry-ons seating structure stop them from having a social hierarchy.

I should note that the crew was actually lovely. But they are still part of this evil empire so I blame them, too. Sometimes the devil brings you ginger ale.

We boarded, and the crew announced that there was plenty of room on this flight, which meant that everyone became Gollum, screaming “MY PRECIOUS” while lying across an entire row. I’ve seen this tactic before.

Other people go the more passive aggressive route: they wear paper masks over their faces, despite showing no discernible signs of illness, to frighten away hypochondriacs.

Or they just act like assholes, which seemed to be the school of thought that most of the people on this flight adhered to.

We boarded, and as Rand was graciously putting my carry-on in the overhead, I guess he took a second too long to do it, because some woman passed him and said haughtily, “Uh, they check bags for free.”

OH SHIT, REALLY, LADY? THEY DO? Sorry I’m not fucking up to speed on Southwest’s amenities, but since they can’t even get seating right DO YOU REALLY THINK I’M GOING TO CHECK MY BAG SO THEY CAN SEND IT TO A DUMPSTER ON WHICH SOMEONE HAS HASTILY SPRAY-PAINTED THE LETTERS “SFO”?

I wanted to hurl myself at her like a cat thrown from a car. Instead, I restrained myself. For that, I deserved a cookie, which, like social contracts, is something else that Southwest does not have.

The problem with Rand is that when there is a fight for limited resources he is not strategic at all. He will absolutely not push over an octogenarian for a free sandwich, and that is why he will never get ahead in life or on a Southwest flight.

(Sorry. I don’t actually believe this. It’s the airline talking.)

Rand pointed to aisle and middle seat that were free, but taking a middle seat on a non-full Southwest Airlines flight is basically asking to get shivved.

By the time I realized that wasn’t going to work, the nearest seat available to me was an aisle seat a few rows back. There was a woman already in this row, seated by the window. She’d pulled the tray table for the middle seat down – a subtle way of saying “back the fuck up” – and glared at me as I sat down. Over the course of the flight, she proceeded to eat numerous hard-boiled eggs with her bare fingers. I hate her.

Opposite me was seated the asshole in headphones pictured above.

I call him an asshole because when another another passenger asked if they could take the window seat, this guy yelled, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THE ENTIRE PLANE IS EMPTY.” He then refused to move, but the other passenger just stood there, calmly waiting, and finally the guy stood up, visibly pissed, and let him take the window. He then mumbled a bunch of unrepeatable things under his breath.

And while I think there is a special circle of hell for all of these people, it does not compare to the gentleman who was seated across the aisle from me and one row back.

His actions made me question whether or not I was hallucinating. I thought my club soda had been drugged.

Roughly halfway through the flight, I heard a metallic clicking sound.

*CLICK*CLICK*CLICK*

I furrowed my brow. I knew that sound. But … no. No way. I turned, trying to identify the source.

And then I found it.

HE WAS CLIPPING HIS FINGERNAILS. I kid you not. They were flying everywhere like some unholy confetti. There is never a time in which that many pieces of genetic material should be airborne.

There are so many questions that I wanted to ask him.

What is wrong with you?

Are you actually an alien who is pretending to be human, and failing in the endeavor?

Why didn’t you do this in the bathroom? OR AT HOME?

You’re going to pick that shit up when you’re done, right?

What is wrong with you?

Is this your first time on a plane? And around other humans?

No, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? 

Alas, only one of these was answered. When he was done, HE. SWEPT. HIS. FINGERNAILS. ON. TO. THE. GROUND.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DO NOT HAVE ASSIGNED SEATING. Everyone has an “it’s me or them” mentality that extends to the entire flight. *I* want to sit here. *I* want to be an asshole. *I* do not give a fuck that other people exist.

I stared, disbelieving. I looked around, to see if anyone else was appalled. Rand was asleep and rows ahead. Asshole dude was watching some video, oblivious to his surroundings. Hard-boiled egg woman was … holy shit, where did she get more eggs?

No. I was the only one who witnessed it. On Southwest, no one can hear you scream.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Wait, there’s glue made especially for vaginas? I’ve jut been using whatever I had lying around the house!

Just kidding, what you are actually thinking is something along the lines of What in the holy hell is going on this is fucking satanic no no no glue does not belong anywhere near my vaginal opening are you fucking kidding me dear god no.

The labia-glue’s creator is a Wichita-based chiropractor named Daniel Dopps, a man who lacks a vagina as well as basic of understanding of human anatomy (related: this does not bode well for the chiropractic community at large). Mr. Dopps – and you’ll notice I use the term “mister” and not “doctor” because HE IS NOT ONE- is the CEO and creator of the “lip-stick glue” as well as countless untold nightmares.

He has named his product “Mensez”, completely failing to see the utter hilarity of a dude making a product that no one who actually menstruates would want, and then calling it MEN SEZ.

The theory behind his “product” is that if labia are glued together then … honestly, I have no fucking clue. I don’t actually think there’s a theory here. As far as I can tell, this is just an elaborate prank by internet trolls and possibly the ghost of Maquis de Sade. But Dopps believes that instead of leaving our vaginas unglued, as they have been since human vaginas have first existed, we should glue them together. This will somehow create a leak-proof seal and negates the need for sanitary napkins or tampons.

The official Mensez website does not instill much confidence in me regarding the product’s efficacy or safety. It is also riddled with typos, and they’ve managed to misspell a five-letter-long word.

It sounds like a pretty terrible idea, though admittedly I can’t say that with any firsthand knowledge because neither I nor anyone I know has been stupid enough to glue their vaginas shut.

The labial glue dissolves in urine, which would make slightly more sense if the urethra and the vagina were the same thing, WHICH THEY ARE NOT. I thought most of us figured this out in the fifth grade, but apparently not.

While answering the many, many, many questions on his company’s hacked-and-presently-disabled Facebook page, Dopps dropped this gem:

“You as a woman should have come up with a better solution than diapers and plugs, but you didn’t.”

Okay, wow. Where to begin.

• Tampons are not “plugs”.
• Menstrual pads are not “diapers”.
• Glue is not a “better solution.”

I know, I know! All of this is confusing, so I’ve made a flowchart that we can easily reference should we need to.

Now, I realize that most people are going to look at this product, note that it’s fucking insane, and have that be the end of it. But the problem isn’t just that Dopps made a faulty, unhealthy, utterly barbaric product. It’s that he has no idea. It’s not just that he doesn’t understand female anatomy – it’s that he and countless others like him feel that they are an authority on women’s bodies.

As my friend Charlotte brilliantly puts it, this is mansplaining at its finest.

Y’all… Imagine a team of the best scientists created a lab to produce the most egregiously mansplaining incident imaginable… (thread)

— Charles Clymer (@cmclymer) February 22, 2017

And let’s be clear – this isn’t just a brainstorming session. This is an actual viable product that exists and HAS A PATENT. Now, if any other group besides menstruating women was targeted with a body glue, do you think it would fly? Imagine someone pitching a cure for diarrhea that involved gluing your anus shut.

Actually, nevermind, don’t.

At a time when women are still – still! – fighting for autonomy over their bodies, when the state of Oklahoma is trying to pass a law where all abortions must be approved by men because women are simply “the hosts” of a fetus, when the fucking President of the United States has bragged about grabbing women by the pussy, my patience for misogynistic batshittery is at an all-time low.

The first rule of vaginas is a simple one: If it’s not yours, and you don’t have explicit permission to touch it, leave it the fuck alone.

The second rule? Don’t glue your labia together. Ever.

Ham. Ham, everywhere.

Dear Spain,

I like you. I truly do. You’re like Italy, but less mafioso-y. I begrudgingly appreciate how entire cities will shut down so that people can take naps. It’s absolute bullshit, and really annoying for tourists, but y’all are like, “FUCK IT! It’s 1pm. Let’s eat paella for 3 hours.” It’s hard not to be impressed with that level of impracticality. I, too, am weirdly committed to rice.

You have a bazillion types of ham, priced according to how much the pig in question seemed to appreciate the works of Cervantes. You came up with the idea of sangria. You gave us Javier Bardem and Antonio Banderas and Julio-Effing-Iglesias.

You also gave us the Spanish Inquisition, but I’m trying to focus on the good.

The point is, Spain, I can totally get behind you on a lot of stuff, and even excuse some of the batshit crazy things you do (like, seriously, chill out with the mayonnaise. There, I said it). But there is one thing that kept coming up, and it’s absolutely bullshit, and normally I wouldn’t give a shit except for Clayton.

Can we talk about Clayton?

Here he is with Rand at the Alhambra:

He’s quite adorable. Every time I tried to take a picture of him he kind of froze up and got a case of something I affectionately call “constipation face”, and I understand because I do that, too. Constipation face is a global epidemic that no one wants to talk about. We just scream, “LOOK NATURAL,” which, like screaming “RELAX” results in precisely the opposite reaction of what we are seeking. But look how cute he is when he doesn’t know he’s being photographed:

Clayton, at right, with his husband Rob, and yes, they look alike, and yes, they’ve heard it all before.

Now, under normal circumstances I would not be worried about this enormous tattooed gay muscle muffin. He can clearly take care of himself and fell entire forests while in the company of Babe, his Giant Blue Ox. But here’s the thing: Clayton is Canadian.

Have you ever been to Canada? It’s the most polite and unobtrusive country in the entire world. It’s like a giant Minnesota. Where apologizing is a national sport. Where people are so well-mannered that you think you might be hallucinating. Where someone once held a door open for me and then said they were sorry afterwards.

And here’s where the problem arose: Clayton is Canadian, and a vegan. Bless his crazy, protein-deprived heart. He realized that in Spain, this essentially equates to starving (even the water has cheese in it), so he downgraded this to just vegetarianism while we were there. He was compromising. He was being flexible.

This is where you let us down, Spain. Well, not us. (I love ham.) But this is where you let Clayton down, Spain.

And, if I’m to be perfectly honest, it’s where we let Clayton down, too. (But mostly, I’m blaming you.)

Because we went to countless restaurants – tapas bars and cafes and places that were well reviewed – and at most, there was one, maybe two items that Clayton could eat. I don’t mean entrees – I mean actual items.

Have you ever seen a 200+ pound man nibble of a crust of bread and some tomato slices while on the verge of collapsing from low blood sugar? It’s really funny but also sad. Like a sedated panda.  

In our determination to not let him starve (and rest assured, in every single one of these photos, Clayton is starving), we looked up a few places that were recommended by vegetarians. One night, we even splurged and went to a gorgeous rooftop restaurant, and beforehand let the staff know that we had one vegetarian in our midst. That won’t be a problem, they told us.

When we arrived, I mentioned it again, and the server nodded – it wouldn’t be a problem, he said.

“He eats fish, right?”

“What? NO. He’s a vegetarian. He doesn’t eat meat of any kind.”

“Ah, then we don’t have anything for him.”

This happened again and again. Because in Spain, “vegetarian” somehow means you eat fish. Now, as my eating habits and physique will clearly attest, I am no expert on vegetables, but I am pretty fucking sure that salmon isn’t one. Plants grow in the ground, by mechanisms that I’m entirely unclear on (something to do with compost?), and fish can be found in the sea and, if you are in Spain, IN EVERY FUCKING DISH ON THE MENU THAT IS LABELED “VEGETARIAN”.

(Apparently the phrase for an actual vegetarian in Spain is “vegetariano estricto”. All of this is theoretical, of course, because there are no vegetariano estrictos in Spain. They all starved or moved to London.)

“We can make him some risotto,” the waiter said. That was basically what Clayton ate for nearly two weeks. Risotto. Crust of bread. Wait, no, sorry. Not that bread. That bread is actually made of ham.

Oh, and guess what? Clayton doesn’t like risotto.

Clayton, staring at rocks, wondering if that’s what we’re going to force him to eat that evening.

Honestly, we should have left that restaurant then and there. We should have left all of those restaurants then and there. We didn’t. Most of the time, three out of four of us had a nice meal. And that’s just a shitty percentage. That’s our fault.

“You don’t eat meat? Okay, cool. Here’s an animal cooked it its own shell. ENJOY!”

The problem was we had no idea that Clayton was miserable half the time, because he’s so fucking polite. See, Rand and I are Americans. If we go to a restaurant and there’s nothing there that’s acceptable, we leave, but not before flipping over a few tables, dousing them with gasoline, and running around in circles with a match while screaming Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” That is how we gently communicate our displeasure at being inconvenienced.

For fuck’s sake, a major plot point in our country’s fight for independence involves tea. We are not afraid to lose our shit in the name of sustenance.

It wasn’t until Clayton’s husband, Rob (also giant, also tattooed, hunky, polite and Canadian because God is real) let us know that Clayton was having a hard time. Three courses in at dinner one night, he gently informed us. And we realized that most of the time, they were just too polite to make their unhappiness known in a way that we Americans could understand. By the time we caught on, it was too late.

A happy moment before we talked to the waiter and realized that one of us was going to starve.

Later, Clayton would say that he wanted other people to realize that vegetarianism is a viable option. Even if it was just once a month, or once a week. He needed to show them how happy he was – and he couldn’t do that by feeling or being miserable because there wasn’t anything for him to eat. He’s so committed to his cause, he didn’t even complain.

I’m so sorry, Clayton. You deserved better. You deserve sweeping smorgasbords of lentils and falafel and whatever the hell tempeh is. You deserve cookies made with flaxseed eggs and coconut oil. And while I’ve uttered those exact sentences as a threat to people in the past, I say them to you with utmost affection. I hope you never go hungry again.

So I realize that we were part of the problem, Spain, but you also somehow think that turbot is a plant, so a lot of this is on you, too. You need to understand that there are people out there who are, well, good. Really good. They care about animals and the planet and about other humans. And when they have decided to live their life with a commitment to that, you cannot say, “Great, here’s a fish. Its name was Javier and it probably had feelings and a family. ENJOY.”

We need to make those people are happy, because they are really good people. We need to make sure they’ve gotten enough ethically-sourced food to eat. Especially if they are 6-feet tall and mostly made of slow-twitch muscle fibers.

Eating candy underneath a dental clinic sign. As one does.

In anticipation of seeing Clayton again, I’m reading up on how to make lavender and cardamom cupcakes without animal products. You can step up, too, Spain. We did our research, and you let us down. You need to understand that if something can wiggle around and swim away from you and has eyes that IT IS NOT A VEGETABLE. If you don’t want to cater to vegetarians, then say that. Stop pretending that you have options for them because there’s sardines on the menu.

Maybe – and I really can’t believe I’m saying this – MAYBE STOP PUTTING FUCKING HAM IN EVERYTHING.

I don’t mean my order – I love ham.  But you know, consider having some options for the good people out there. For people like Clayton.

Trump, like, ate a baby or something. His constituents are thrilled, because they’re pretty sure the baby was a radical.

The Olympics are showcasing the miraculous things humans can do, even if they have the misfortune of being born women. Seriously, the coverage is so damn sexist that I’m pretty sure that NBC’s announcers are like, 2 seconds away from describing the female weightlifters as “little ladies.” Help us, Leslie Jones. You’re our only hope.

(I am watching this on repeat because it makes me feel better about everything.)

Oh, and a piece of crap article has recently gone viral, as they so often do. The writer is a woman who is filled with God’s love and also possibly methamphetamines. Let’s talk about that last one, because it is currently making me the stabbiest.

This is, I shit you not, the title of the article:

“When God Sends Your White Daughter a Black Husband.”

This is actually something that someone willingly wrote, presumably not under torture. I can only assume that there are other pieces in this series, including:

“When God Sends You a … I Think She Might be Pakistani or Maybe Indian? Hairdresser.”

“When God Sends You a Jewish Lawyer (You Say ‘Thank You!’)”

“When God Sends You an Italian Cleaning Lady and You Are Pretty Sure She’s Stealing But You Can’t Get Her Deported Because She’s a Citizen Which Doesn’t Make Sense Because She’s Italian.”

“When God Sends Your Neighbor A Chinese Baby.”

“When Satan Sends Your Husband a Gay Boyfriend.”

Now, I didn’t really want to read this article, because life is short and I’d rather spend it doing virtually anything else, but my family taught me long ago that you can’t truly destroy someone without knowing them. So I read the entire thing, while wincing and sending a play-by-play account of it to my friend Marika (subject of my future article, “When God Sends You a Girlfriend Who Will Fuck Shit Up When Shit Needs Fucking Up.”)
Here’s my email to Marika:

OMG. God “called her bluff” by sending her daughter a black man. “You think you like black people but what happens when the call is coming from INSIDE YOUR DAUGHTER’S VAGINA? AUUUUGGGHHHH!” – God

She calls him “an African American,” which sounds grammatically problematic in a racist way. Like, “the gays.”

Is … is she actually talking him up in a way that suggests that the good things about him are surprising, given his dreads and blackness? Like, “He’s black, but look! He holds doors open for her. WHO KNEW BLACK MEN HAD MANNERS.”

I want to punch this woman in the esophagus.

I’m now just going to pull quotes from this piece of digital crap and scream about them in all caps.

“Glenn moved from being a black man to beloved son when I saw his true identity as … a fellow heir to God’s promises”

WHY DID HE NEED TO “MOVE” FROM BEING A BLACK MAN IN ORDER TO DO THAT? Honestly, she’s so fucking proud of herself for being able to ignore this man’s racial identity, as though being black is antithetical to being a good person.

“loving her well means not only permitting an interracial marriage but also celebrating it.”

Wait, wait, wait. Is there actually a fucking reality where she thinks she could NOT “permit” an interracial marriage?

“Calling Uncle Fred a bigot because he doesn’t want your daughter in an interracial marriage dehumanizes him and doesn’t help your daughter either.”

Actually, it sounds like a great idea, because Uncle Fred is a bigot and I suspect cutting him off might teach him something. Also, I can think of lots of ways in which it would TOTALLY FUCKING HELP YOUR DAUGHTER TO CUT OFF BIGOTS WHO HAVE A PROBLEM WITH HER HUSBAND.

“Several people asked Anna and Glenn, “Which world will you live in—black or white?””

I need to know where these people live. I feel like the answer will be “1963.”

I … I don’t even know what to do with myself. The worst part is that I think she genuinely thinks she’s being progressive. I look forward to Glenn’s follow-up article, “What to do When God Sends You A Racist Mother In Law”

Marika’s response was delightful:

Not even…”I hope he’s nice” or “May his dong be filled with righteousness” or “I want a guy with a Trans Am.” Just… JESUS LOVER. Is it me or is that just like… pretty BASIC? There are billions of people who love Jesus, no? She got a Starbucks coffee and the barista was like “I love Jesus!” and she was all “MARRY ME!” Sorry, Anna, to throw you under the bus. Maybe her mom was minimizing and Anna actually said “It’s really awesome he’s so cute and owns a house and treats me good and has a dong filled with righteous Christ milk, right Mom?” or whatever.

YES, MARIKA, YES.

The premise of this article is fucking terrifying. This is a woman who is trying to deal with the idea that her daughter’s husband is black. That is literally the entirety of the mental obstacle she had to overcome and for the record REALIZING THAT SOMEONE IS SIMULTANEOUSLY BLACK AND A GOOD PERSON SHOULD NOT BE A MENTAL OBSTACLE FOR ANYONE. And ignoring or overcoming someone’s racial identity is fucked up for lots of reasons. It suggests that there is something that you need to ignore or overcome. It robs the other person of a key part of their identity, it prevents you from truly being empathetic to their experiences. To quote the awesome Hari Kondabolu, “If you don’t see race then you don’t see racism, and what good are you?”

Overlooking someone’s race because they share the same value system as you doesn’t make you open-minded – it makes you a bigot. And not even a very self-aware bigot.

And the author didn’t just have these thoughts, she felt the need to write them down for the entire world. Because she sincerely thought that her words were kind and enlightened and progressive. That her ideas were nuanced and important and that someone could learn something from them. But honestly, the only thing anyone needs to learn from this is that bigots are out there, and they haven’t got the faintest clue that they’re bigots.