Women
hard to please
It is a Tuesday. You are Katie and you are baking cookies. You are not being oppressed. Sometimes you iron too, but only in a very non-oppressed fashion. Ironing, as you know, is very important.
Because you are Katie, you ought to know that you are not a feminist on Tuesdays. You don’t participate in movements aimed at establishing and defending equal political, economic, and social rights, you don’t concern yourself with equal opportunities, you don’t fight inequality and injustice, and you don’t worry yourself over the social construction of sex and gender- as a matter of fact, you don’t do any of these things to any extent- in any case, not on Tuesdays.
You just like cookies.
Then there’s Sam. Sam likes you. He will ask you to dinner, and you will accept. You will agree on a time (seven-thirty, sharp) and a place (Angelica’s Spaghetti Villa) on Saturday night. You don’t really like Sam, but you will look forward to the date. You do like spaghetti.
On Saturday you will meet Sam and you will have a lovely time with him. He will impress you with his extensive knowledge of Tudor England, and you will bedazzle him with your quite comprehensive comprehension of contemporary economics. You will drink red wine and eat breadsticks and laugh politely but not insincerely, and you will enjoy yourself very much. Before the dessert comes (a delectable double-decker tiramisu with toffee toppings), you will have already begun to plan your next date.
Unfortunately, at the end of the night when it’s time to leave Angelica’s Spaghetti Villa, all thoughts of a future with Sam will be dashed to pieces on the rigid rocks of reality. He will pay for the meal, help you from your seat, help you into your coat, and open the door for you. He will be the perfect gentleman, the very image of chivalry, and somewhat bashful because he will only then realize the small fleck of marinara sauce on his blue shirt collar. Once you get outside, you will punch him four times in the gut, swing at him with a patio chair, rip his tie, and proceed to call him a series of names which amount to something along the lines of “you chauvinistic pig”. It is, afterall, a Saturday. You need to fight injustice.
