I’m still on my Mormon feminist soapbox, dear reader(s). It’s Friday and I think people would like to stop feeling things for a little while. I know I would. And yet, and yet . . .
So many people are still reeling from the church’s policy change of 5 November. I suppose it’s possible that even more people are happy that the very public hullabaloo has (inevitably) died down, but believe me when I say that LOTS of people are still reeling. I am. Has a day gone by since then that someone hasn’t called me in tears because either (a) they’ve just been designated an apostate, or (b) we’ve barred an entire category of children from full church participation? Nope.
The decision to change the way we treat same sex families was terrible*. Just awful. The worst. And here’s the thing: when you shut women out of the decision-making process, you get worse decisions than when you include them. Do I think that the church leadership might possibly have decided that babies born to gay parents don’t get names and blessings, if half the people calling the shots were women? I ABSOLUTELY DO NOT. I could be wrong, because women make odious decisions all the time. However, at this juncture there’s so much science behind the idea that diverse groups make better decisions than homogenous ones that I’m comfortable with my little hypothesis.
But we don’t let women make policy decisions. At any point in the last century and a half, we could have let women in on the whole policy-making thing. But we didn’t.
What we did was sow the wind. Now we get to reap the whirlwind.
*oh my hell, tell me you did NOT blame Jesus for this one.
File this under “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?” Back in the day, we were expected to do two things in k-garten: (1) not pee on the floor, and (2) distinguish our right hand from our left. I very clearly recall mixing up my hands, but that was because I was testing my teacher. She failed. A tale for another day, perhaps, but the point is that if some freaking posse of parents had gotten it into their tiny heads to ask for the privilege of overseeing more homework, another larger and quite violent posse of parents would have arisen to thrash the first posse of parents. And my mother would have led the charge, I guarantee it.
I think I’ve been pretty candid with zillow.com. I ticked all the boxes between “Not Baroque” and “Not a Hovel.” So what algorithm matched me up to a monthly mortgage payment of $20,000? See the above bit of real estate that was just flagged for my urgent attention. Someone, somewhere, is messing with me.
Anyway, if you’re interested, here’s the link: http://www.trulia.com/property/3131777985-65-Denali-Cir-Lindon-UT-84042
(We won’t be neighbors.)
Let me not at the surgence of small blobs
Admit euphoria, love is not love
Which postpones fructuous issue and thus robs
Me of the fruitage I am worthy of.
O no, the season has a fixèd mark,
August would have been the time to ballyhoo,
But you are not even in the ball park,
With your greenish pods, puny and too few.
Love suffers long—too long. Do not ignore
A rankled hausfrau’s loss of faith, young friend.
Pinchfist puttings-out got you the chop, before.
Indifferency will bring a bloody end.
If this be smallness where I should be big,
I never cared, nor ever gave a fig.