Not a Good Week for Women

Oh, it's great that Jabba the Hut in a bathrobe is finally being held accountable for 30+ years of sexual assault and harassment.  But the unfolding story is like Weinstein's expanse of back hair:  It just goes on and on and you don't want to contemplate its existence, let alone look at it.

(Incidentally, Weinstein's behaviour would have been reprehensible whatever he looked like but his hideousness and smarminess are so extreme that if this were fiction and central casting had sent an actor who looked like that to play the role he would have been rejected as a caricature.)

Weinstein harassed, threatened, groped, and assaulted women in many different places and contexts but his favourite method seems to have been to invite actresses to a hotel room to (supposedly) review a script and discuss a part for her.  He'd then request some sexual favour as a condition of getting the part.  His accusers have said he demanded everything from massages to threesomes but my personal favourite was this one:

"He allegedly emerged in a bathrobe and told her he would green light her script if she watched him masturbate. She left the meeting."

He is definitely not alone amongst members of his sex in wanting hot young women to watch him flog the bishop, but definitely alone in thinking they would actually enjoy it.  Dozens of women (by the time you read this, there will probably be a few dozen more) have said that when they turned him down, their careers suffered.  Unfortunately, this means that we now look at the young women in his films with an automatic question in our minds about whether they gave in.  Even more disturbing are the rape allegations, and those victims are also coming out of the woodwork by the dozen.  It's easier for the ones who got away to admit they were propositioned than for the ones who either acquiesced or were raped to speak up.

What they all have in common this week is an unjustified backlash for not speaking up sooner.  The general outcry is that if someone had said something years ago, he could have been stopped before he harmed more women.  I even had to school one shithead who was calling for women who hadn’t spoken up to be prosecuted as accessories for his subsequent crimes.  Sexual harassment and assault victims who don't report the crime are sometimes wracked by guilt that the perpetrator will go on to hurt others.  But the cost to victims of speaking up is almost always higher than to perps.  Less than 12% of reported rapes result in any kind of conviction.  Some of Weinstein's victims did go to the police, who did nothing.  Others were paid off for their silence.  No-one in Hollywood was surprised, both because actresses had warned others and because the environment of male entitlement to, and objectification of, women is ubiquitous, both inside and outside of the movie industry.  The casting couch isn't a myth; it's a cliché.

The Weinstein scandal coincided with my efforts to help a friend who finally left her abusive husband, got a no contact order, and is attempting to start divorce proceedings.  But she has been unable to get an attorney because she was a SAHM for 18 years.  He was the breadwinner; he controls the money, and he has withdrawn all the money from their joint bank account.  She has called literally every divorce attorney in her (red) state, along with the bar association, legal aid, charities for domestic abuse survivors, etc., but there are no pro bono legal services for divorce in her area.  It's infuriating.  I did some research on her behalf and found precedent for petitioning the court to order the breadwinning spouse to pay for the homemaking spouse's costs in a divorce to make it a fair fight but when she ran that by some lawyers they scoffed that it wouldn't fly in 2017.  So, she is screwed.

Add to that Trump gutting contraceptive coverage, yet another anti-choice Congressman urging his mistress to get an abortion, and the fact that all of it is Hillary Clinton's fault ("Hog Emperor of Rape Culture" is my new favourite name for Trump), I was in no mood to deal generously with the inane diarrhea of messages from the online dating site I have been using.

I get around 10 messages/day and most fall into one of the following categories:

1) Men who send a generic impersonal message that they clearly send to everyone that gushes “I love your profile" or "we have a lot in common" yet when I check their profile, we’re 100% enemies.  This is the biggest category.  It seems to be common practice for men to send messages based on photos without reading profiles.  Wow, so, you’re a smoker who voted for Trump, doesn’t want kids, and is just looking for hook-ups.  Under favourite book you state that you don’t read and you think the country’s biggest problem is that “libtards" are trying to take your guns.  What is it exactly that we have in common?  Breathing oxygen?

2) Xtians telling me that I am going to hell for being an atheist and/or supporting abortion & evolution.  They usually have Bible quotes in their profiles.

3) Men who message me again after I don’t reply to their first message to tell me I must be some kind of stuck-up bitch.  That’s so endearing!  Gosh, I really missed a good one by not responding.  My loss!

4) Married men who are looking for some on the side.  (These constituted the majority of responses I got at first but they have tapered off since the site started filtering them.)

5) Men who are only looking for hook-ups.

6) Men who don’t want kids.  100% of the men who have messaged me so far don’t want kids.  At the very top of my profile it states that the ONLY reason I am on there is because I want biological children before I am too old.

7) Men who state in creepy, disgusting, or threatening terms what they want to do to me sexually.  I include in this category all the men whose messages aren’t explicitly sexual but ask bluntly where I live, if I am alone, what my phone number is, or ask me to send nude photos.

8) Men who are so illiterate or drugged out I can barely decipher their message.

9) Men who message just to tell me why they aren’t interested in me.  I find this category particularly hard to fathom as I have never felt a compulsion to message someone who doesn’t appeal just to tell them why.  (It has been suggested that men do this to women they feel are out of their league, but that's cold comfort for enduring the insults.)

10) Men who think I should feel blessed by their attention.  They usually say something to the effect that at 48 I must be thrilled to get any response.  They seem to assume they are the only one messaging me and expect me to fuck them in gratitude.  This category overlaps with one for men who tell me that I will never find what I am looking for so I should instead take what they are offering.  The married men and the men looking for hook-ups say that as a follow-up.  If I say, “not interested, looking for a relationship” they respond that, at 48, I should be grateful anyone wants to fuck me.  They disguise it as a compliment, “Wow, are you really 48?  You look amazing!  Maybe we could hook up?”  Their profile will list an age range of something like 20-35.  They don’t want to date me but deem me still attractive enough for a hook-up.  I can’t resist mentioning that these guys are usually ugly.  I get married Danny DeVito lookalikes who somehow imagine that I'd be eager to be a piece on the side for them.  The hubris that enables them to believe that any woman would want to fuck them must be staggering.  Is it the same mentality that leads repulsive monsters like Weinstein and Trump to believe that there is any woman on earth who wouldn’t be nauseated at the very idea of them?

11) Men who are looking for a rich woman to support them.  Yes, this happens a lot; it’s not all the other way around.

12) Men who friend-zone me because of my age, usually apologising that they are looking to date someone younger but that we both like horses or opera or Byatt or whatever so perhaps we can be friends.  I am happy to make new friends but could do without the preemptive age-related rejection leading into it.

13) Subs who want me to tie them up and humiliate them.  This dating site isn’t FetLife and I am not a pro domme, although it might be more lucrative than adjuncting.

14) The outliers: I’ve gotten the odd message from couples looking for a threesome, men in open relationships, and men who live abroad but travel to the U.S. on business looking for stateside pussy, etc.  What all the outliers have in common with the other categories is that they haven’t read my profile.  I have filled out every section, ticked every box that specifies serious, long-term relationship only.  Almost no-one who messages me is looking for that.  Of those that are, they have huge deal breakers:  they don’t want children, they’re Republicans, they smoke, etc.  I am overwhelmed with messages and I answer less than one out of 50.

Why don’t I just message men instead?  Because there aren’t any men whose age range goes up to 48.  60-year-olds list 25-45.  The only guys who have an open-ended age range are just looking for hook-ups.  The serious blokes are looking for someone younger even if they are my father’s age.  Yeah, yeah, I can’t blame them; it’s a biological imperative.  But that doesn’t mean it can’t piss me off and frustrate me.

Another thing that pissed me off this week:  The site has a rule that all photos must include your face.  No body-only shots, no pets, no inanimate objects, etc.  Most guys have multiple photos that violate this rule—their dog, a sunset, their six-pack, etc.  I have 7 clear face shots, more than most people, and I added in a photo of some ice cream, just for fun, with the joking caption that you have to compete with this.  Well, someone reported it and they removed it.  WTF kind of petty bullshit is that?  Why did this bother someone enough to report it?  I could report pretty much every guy’s profile for photo violations in retaliation.

Most of the messages I get are so daft or disgusting or show the asshole didn’t so much as glance at my profile, that I am getting both fed up and creeped out.  I am there for ONE purpose only: To have children.  I am not interested in hooking up.  I am not interested in dating.  I am not interested in a relationship.  (Am I not ever horny? Yes, unbearably so, constantly, but getting laid is not worth living with some narcissistic jackass.)  Above all, I am no longer interested in them.  They are a means to an end, nothing more–just as they are not interested in me as a person based on my profile but only as an object based on my photo.  Turnabout is fair play, dickheads.  I can’t afford a sperm donor nor can I afford to go abroad for IVF (no U.S. IVF clinic will take someone at 48 who refuses to use donor eggs because no-one has ever yet conceived via IVF with their own eggs at 48. The Guinness World Record is 46.) so I am looking for someone with the money to drop on IVF who wants kids right away.  That’s it!  I think the rest are all scary, egotistical douchebags & women should run a mile from them.

Now, is this bitter misandrist screed (which I appended to my profile and will probably delete in a week or two) going to reduce the number of messages I get?  No, because no-one reads my profile.

Funereal Thoughts

City Boy's father died last night, the day after his 71^st birthday.  I'm finding the situation weird because, even though City Boy and I never married, he was essentially my father-in-law for 13 years.  I've spent the last few days, since I learned he was on his death bed, reminiscing and sorting out my feelings.

City Boy and I split up over two years ago and I've had little contact with his family since.  I emailed his father twice about money that City Boy owes me, in the faint hope that he might be able to put some pressure on him to pay up, and perhaps give him the money to do so.  He never replied, which angered me.  It's a legitimate debt, which I can back up with records and receipts, so it's an issue of personal integrity and I hoped futilely that his father would urge him and help him to do the right thing.  So, I have some unresolvable anger at his father for not backing me up there.

Also on the negative side, many of City Boy's flaws can be traced to his father.  That's true for everyone so we often blame our parents for our shortcomings.  There comes a point when we must take responsibility for ourselves and stop blaming them but that doesn't mean that other people can't look at us, look at our families, and make connections.  So, I've felt some frustration on that score when I observed his father modelling some of his worst characteristics.  Likewise, those flaws sometimes made it embarrassing and stressful to deal with his father in public.  I don't want to say anything too identifying on my anonymous blog but he was a Jewish lawyer from Brooklyn, and the embodiment of certain boorish stereotypes that, in environments such as restaurants, were cringe-inducing for this uptight WASP.  E.g.: In a vegan restaurant, he kept saying to the waitress, "Honey, could you go next door and get me some butter?" & repeated this routine about cream for his coffee, eggs, etc.

But he was also kind and generous.  He loved his family unconditionally.  He taught school before he became a lawyer, worked for the city until corruption drove him to leave, and he never got rich because he stayed in his working class neighbourhood, even as the demographics changed radically from Jewish to Asian and Latino immigrants, to serve local clients who needed him.  He was highly regarded by everyone that knew him for his warmth, cheerfulness, generosity, humour, and positivity.  He accepted me into the family even though I am not Jewish, and joked about our pets being his "granddog" and "grandchickens".  He took City Boy and me to Pavarotti's last ever performance at the Met.  One Thanksgiving, he overheard me say I had never gone to see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall and he immediately got us tickets to the Xmas Spectacular.  He would make the long drive up to see us just for one night when he had a busy work schedule, take us out for dinner and brunch the next morning, and secretly buy us a gift certificate for more meals at the restaurant.  He was a kid at heart, sometimes giving us toys for Xmas—I remember getting a Mr. Potato Head one year.  Once when we were showing him around the area on a beautiful fall day we stopped for ice cream and later passed another ice cream place where, knowing ice cream is my favourite food, he insisted we stop for a second helping.  He couldn't eat ice cream, so this was all for us.  He simply enjoyed being generous to his family; it gave him pleasure and satisfaction.

I've been reminiscing about him today, and more generally about City Boy's father's side of the family.  City Boy's aunt, his father's beloved sister, died of breast cancer on City Boy's 16^th birthday (awkward timing).  His cousin, son of his father's brother, died last year of a drug overdose.  His father talked frequently about losing his own parents, and about the deaths of his own aunts, cousins, etc.  He was always conscious that time was limited and he strove to make the most of it, traveling frequently to see relatives around the country.  He came to visit us when City Boy had a Fulbright in Paris, renting a car and driving us to amazing historic attractions all over northwest France.  Since he ended up dying so young, he was right to make every moment count.

When I heard he was in hospice, I toyed with the idea of asking City Boy's stepmother if he'd like me to visit, but by then it was too late, he was no longer responsive.  I will send a condolence card to his uncle (as I did when his cousin died) and to his stepmother.  I considered going to the funeral but I don't want to create any unnecessary drama.  I may make a shiva call, if it seems appropriate.  I could bake something and bring it.  I keep making mental lists of the many practical things to be done now.  His father's law office will need to be closed up and cleared out, his car sold.  Some of this can be done by his uncle and stepmother but City Boy should take some responsibility.  He is now stuck down in NYC for all of the Jewish mourning rituals and he may not have brought enough clothes when he rushed down to his father's bedside in hospice—wait, what?!?  Why do I give a shit?  None of this is my problem anymore.  These people aren’t my family and they certainly don't give a shit about me.  City Boy has said and done such reprehensible things that he doesn't deserve a shred of consideration or help from me.  He is not a good person and the death of his father doesn't negate that.

So, why does my mind even go there?  I think I have figured it out: It has nothing to do with City Boy or his family per se.  It's just the natural human resistance to feeling peripheral in a familiar setting.  It's not rational; one of my greatest joys in not being stuck in a miserable relationship with City Boy was no longer having to deal with his family.  In the years before we split up, when the relationship was long dead, I stopped attending family events.  I was thrilled that I would never have to see them again.  I don't want to see them again.  But I felt a part of something when I was in the family, as I had when I was with Country Boy.  When you end a relationship, for better and worse, you lose the entire family, and the sense of being an insider.  City Boy and I were together for 13 years so I got to know his family well.  He'll be at the funeral with some random current girlfriend who won't know anyone.  I have no sexual or romantic interest in him (on the contrary, I don't respect him and thus find him repulsive), but I have this residual sense of belonging, like I would know exactly what to say and how to handle each relative and situation, what disputes to stay out of, how to counteract City Boy's immaturity and myopic selfishness and prod him into acting dignified (I might have failed at that), what to say to his stepmother to mitigate whatever he said that was tone deaf and insulting, etc.  It would not be a situation I'd relish, but it's one I could stage manage from years of experience.  It feels odd not to be part of it, although I am resoundingly glad not to be.  I don't want to be involved with him or his family, it just feels weird when something like this happens.  I'm sure it will fade with time.

Defending Gravity

Young women are rejecting the term "feminist".  When I hear a woman state that she is not a feminist, I grill her on her views.

"So, you don't think women should vote?  You don't think we should be allowed to drive?  Be educated?  Own property?  Leave the house without a man's permission?"

They are invariably shocked and stammer that they believe in complete equality of the sexes.

"Ah," I reply, "you are a feminist."

At which point they protest that they don't hate men and they don't believe women are superior.  That is what they believe the definition of "feminism" is.

According to one survey, only 23% of Americans identify as "feminists" but 82% agree with the statement that “men and women should be social, political, and economic equals.”  In a survey of millennials, only 35% identify as "feminists" but a majority agree that discrimination against women is still a problem.

It seems we have a semantic snag.  According to the OED, the definition of feminism is, "The advocacy of women's rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes."  Not, please note, "the advocacy of women's superiority on the basis of misandry."

So, help me out here, people.  I'm having a Rip Van Winkle moment.  When and why did the definition of feminism morph in the popular view from equality to misandry?

I can take a guess:  It's the same problem as Charlottesville.  The civil rights movement changed the laws of the land and forbid legal discrimination on the basis of race and sex.  But it didn't change people's attitudes.  It affected how they could behave, what they could say in polite company, but not their mindset.  The disgusting racist displays we have been seeing since Trump's ascendance to the presidency indicate that racist attitudes have not died out; they were just hidden underground (another reason to protect free speech, but that's a rant for another day).

In a related fashion, men have increasingly been called out on sexist behaviour so some of them have learned to put on a veneer of civility to women in the workplace to avoid getting fired.  But it hasn't changed their attitudes, just their surface behaviour.  Their resentment at having to treat women like equals has manifested in a victim mentality.  They used to be in charge and having to share power with women (and minorities if they are white) feels like a defeat, a blow to their egos.  So, they retaliated by labeling feminists as man-haters, claiming we want special rights rather than equal rights.

Gays have also been accused of requesting special rights when seeking equality.  When same sex marriage was being debated, it was common to hear opponents blathering that gays were asking for special rights.  That twist was a way of delegitimizing a bid for equality.  It's the same with feminism.  By claiming that women who seek equal rights with men are man-haters who think we are superior to men, they delegitimize the term.  Don't buy into it.  Call yourself a feminist.  Reclaim the word.  Defend gravity.

The Big E, Revisited

Today was opening day for the Big E.  Best day to go as it is the least crowded & admission is discounted, although traffic is still from hell.

My post last year about the Big E is my favourite ever post for this blog.  If you haven't read it yet, read it.  If you have, read it again.

I don't have much to add to that thorough guide except I am sorry to report that the singing animatronic dairy products are still there, ready to inhabit your worst nightmares.

On a much better note, the pumpkin pie & graham central station ice creams are also still available, with hot fudge, in the Connecticut building.

 I saw an oreo cow getting blow dried.

Somehow, I escaped without eating anything fried, on a stick, or fried & on a stick.  But I am compelled to report that this is a thing that exists:

More Tales From The Trenches

(You can read my first post about online dating, in which I explain the dick pic phenomenon, here.)

"Is racism a deal-breaker?"

The genesis of this post lies in the moment I observed that I was asking myself that question in all seriousness.

It happened after speaking with an online suitor who ticked so many of the boxes (even ginger!) that I found myself unusually hopeful and optimistic.  But over the course of a two hour conversation, during which he asked me zero questions, it became clear that he held some racist views.  We left it that I would call him if I were still interested and I found myself considering it.  I mean, if he ticked other boxes, was believing that other races were intellectually inferior to whites something I could overlook?

It was one of those step-back-and-look-at-yourself moments that makes you question your entire life path since conception.

I have already explained in another post that I embarked on this online dating lark for two reasons only: 1) I want financial security but I have no chance of achieving it on my own; and 2) I want biological children before ye olde eggs spoil and I cannot afford to be a SPBC—new acronym I just learned: Single Parent By Choice.

Dating in such a time-sensitive, calculating way has proven distasteful.  One of the best pieces of advice my mother ever gave me was never to be emotionally or financially dependent upon a man.  As a feminist, the idea of needing a man for his money is anathema. On the emotional side, "I've had enough so-so for the rest of my life" but the dictates of biology and finances don't give me the luxury of waiting.

Add to this some recent discussions about men amongst friends and online:  Increasing numbers of women are describing themselves as "happily" widowed or divorced, declaring themselves "post-men" or otherwise not seeking out relationships.  The general consensus seems to be that men are not worth the hassle—if you don't need one to co-parent or help pay the bills, then you are better off single.

If I am questioning whether I would seek out a new relationship if I were independently wealthy, and if many women are choosing not to date, that is a pretty depressing indictment of half the population.  There have to be some advantages to being in a relationship, right?  Most couples are together for financial reasons, but surely not all of them?  I could think of a few possibilities:  I occasionally have to move heavy objects.  It would be nice to get a lift when I have to take my car to the garage for repairs.  It would be useful to have someone to watch the house, take care of the cat, and water the plants when I go out of town.  I need daily massages.  I like to have someone to cook and bake for who appreciates it.  But none of those things requires a romantic partner, or even a male.  (And I've never met one willing to reciprocate a massage.)  Sex?  Horniness is a constant problem but I've only fucked four men in my entire life, so clearly I am not the casual sex type.  I've never had a one-night stand but one obviously does not need to be in a LTR to have sex.  Intimacy?  I've yet to date a man capable of it so that's not guaranteed in a relationship.

I posed the question about the value of relationships in a private, candid online forum populated by thousands of thoughtful women over 40.  I expected a poignant stream of responses describing the joys of coupledom that were eluding me, anecdotes, and odes to concerned, supportive partners that would restore my faith in relationships.  Or, at the very least, give me some less cynical views on dating.

I think you can guess what happened.

At this point, I don't expect to meet anyone online.  I am overwhelmed with messages (I respond to about one out of 100) but it's easy to dismiss anyone who does not tick every box on my list.  A 51-year-old man from CT messaged me yesterday and his profile reflected a well-earned cynicism about online dating: "What's so frustrating is that [after 7 years on this dating site] I have to qualify myself to mostly antisocial, contemptuous, vainglorious, standoffish, superficial, narcissistic, aloof, fickle women...Which I refuse to do. Ladies, you should be lucky to meet/date me." I can understand his frustration; I'm yet another woman who is going to see that he is only 5'8" and balding, and never write back to him.  Yet, if I met that guy in another context, perhaps he would have some qualities that might inspire compromise or there might be chemistry that overrides every other consideration.  Well, not him, he's clearly an asshole, but I mean any guy to whom I don't deign to reply based on a 5 second glance at his photo and profile. 

OTOH, I could have great chemistry with someone I met in person who turns out to be unsuitable – maybe he doesn't want kids or he doesn't have enough money.  That would suck, but at least I have a better chance in person of meeting someone whom I like rather than who ticks boxes, who inspires me to view a potential relationship other than as a necessary evil.

Book Review: Dear Committee Members, Kindly Go Fuck Yourselves

Dear Readers,

I hope this missive finds you in "fighting form," rather than in the usual post-holiday sunburnt torpor, and eagerly awaiting my recommendation for your final summer read. (Ha!)  I acquiesce to the clamouring demand for my venerable opinion and with suitably false humility suggest via this LOR that you slurp up "Dear Committee Members" by Julie Schumacher as your last beach treat of the season.  It will go down as easily and quickly as a popsicle melting in the August heat.  You will find its taste more tart than sweet—definitely a tangy lime rather than a syrupy strawberry—with a bitter finish akin to licking the drips from your hand and finding they taste like acrid sunscreen and salty sweat.

This tidy tome comprises a representative sample of a year's worth of correspondence (entirely one-sided) from a tenured professor of creative writing and English at the not-subtly-but-nonetheless-aptly named Payne University, a second-tier school in the Midwest that is tottering on the threshold of tumbling into the third tier, despite its best efforts to attract students by the addition of yoga studios, climbing walls, and rampant grade inflation.

It seems trite to call our prolific letter writer curmudgeonly but the term is a perfect fit.  He is inopportunely implored to write LORs for students, faculty, and staff when they apply for jobs, grad school admissions, scholarships, and myriad other opportunities to advance their careers or avoid homelessness.  His charming quirk is that rather than say no when he cannot in good conscious write a positive recommendation, he simply writes a sardonic one.  This practice occasionally backfires on him, such as when he is eager to get rid of his department's rude and unhelpful IT specialist but his honest LORs preclude the fellow being hired away.

Not limiting himself to a cheerfully blunt assessment of his subject's shortcomings, he adds fulsome commentary on the potential employer, the job, and the remuneration offered.  When he has exhausted those topics, he launches into scathing indictments of the state of the humanities.  For anyone even tangentially affiliated with academia today, his withering denunciations will resonate.

"Sociology has gone the way of poli-sci and econ, now firmly in the clutches of rabid number crunchers who have abandoned or forgotten the link between their abstruse theoretical musings and the presence of human beings on the planet's surface."

On sending a student to mental health services: "Please offer her something more lasting and substantial than guided breathing or twenty minutes with a golden retriever."

Larded onto a LOR for a former student who wishes to enter a seminary: "Literature has served me faithfully (no pun intended) as an ersatz religion, and I would wager that the pursuit of the ineffable via aesthetics in various forms has saved as many foundering souls as a belief in god."

"Mr. Napp demonstrates all the winsome ebullience one expects these days from a young person more inclined to socialise with machines."

"Deny him this fellowship and he will undoubtedly turn his hand to something more lucrative, probably hawking illegal substances between the athletic facilities and the Pizza Barn."

"May the bump in salary allow her to avoid scurvy by adding fruit to her diet once a week."

The key to our professor's caustic snark is tenure.  He is able to say with impunity what others can only think privately or whinge about whilst nursing a beer with friends between adjunct gigs.

The one weakness in the book is its reliance on the professor's misbegotten love life as fodder for much of its humour and poignancy.  If his divorces, dalliances, and affairs had been less predictable, his epistolary musings may have been less cringe-inducing.  But the plight of the self-absorbed writer who dissolves into middle-aged bitterness and self-pity when he realises the limits of his talents has been done to death.  Of course women leave him once they see the man behind the curtain and his flagellations appear self-serving and passive-aggressive.  His attempts to make nice with his exes in an it's-all-water-under-the-bridge manner are undercut by the obvious insincerity of his apologies.

But the pleasures of the cutting sarcasm and shameless snark in his correspondence more than compensate for any shortcomings.

I will leave you with this excerpt from his response to a request to serve as department chair:

"…the upper echelons of the administration justifiably detest me; because my colleagues view me as a cantankerous pariah; and because, given my stance on several university-wide issues, I would consider the position a significant ethical and even spiritual compromise."

Acerbically,
Your Anonymous Blogger Who Doesn't Have Tenure

Tires & Testicles (Part 3)

You can read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.  There wasn't supposed to be a Part 3 but let's just say it bears out the truth of the expression.

This post is about the agonizing decision of whether or not to geld my Friesian stallion.  A lot of people seem to think this decision should be easy, that of course I would geld him, but it's not a simple decision at all.  It's irrevocable so it's not a decision to be made lightly or for temporary convenience, and it means giving up a significant lifelong dream and goal.

From the time I was a horse-crazy kid, I always assumed I'd have a stallion someday.   From the Black Stallion and other stories, from seeing famous horses in racing and other sports, even from collecting Breyer horse models, I saw that the most beautiful horses, the ones with the strongest bonds with their owners, the ones with presence and speed or talent or intelligence were usually stallions.

I realised it would be challenging to keep a stallion but when I became involved in the Friesian world, I saw that the performance horses at expos and demos and in competition were mostly stallions.  The first Friesian I met in person was a stallion; he was an ambassador for the breed and you could plop a toddler on his back, and I met women who had Friesian stallions as pets with no intention of ever breeding them.  I also saw Friesian stallions ridden or driven with other stallions, and with mares.  Some lived in bachelor herds or with barren or pregnant mares or gelding friends rather than being stuck alone (which is cruel for a herd animal).  Friesian stallions weren't as difficult as stallions of other breeds; their sweet temperaments made them seem as safe and tractable and easy-going as geldings of other breeds.

When I finally got my dream Friesian, thanks to the generosity of a horse-loving relative, I wanted to keep him intact for two reasons:

1) Type:  He is a baroque-style Friesian, sired with frozen semen from a long-dead baroque-style approved stallion.  I love the baroque Friesian and they are rapidly dying out because a more modern style is taking over the breed.  The breed registry (I realise this will bore Friesian people, but I am also writing for an audience that doesn't necessarily know or care about such things) is only approving modern type Friesians because that is what the market is demanding at present.  My plan was to present him at keuring and give him his chance at approval, knowing that it was unlikely due to his type, but I felt strongly that he should be given a chance.  If he was not approved, the plan was to have all of the same tests done on him that are done on approved stallions and, if he passed, to make him available to those Friesian lovers like me who don't want the baroque style to die out.  There are quite a few of us, and no stallions to breed to anymore (and few baroque mares left as well).  When I tell Friesian people this, some protest that I am wrong and send me photos of approved stallions that they call "baroque".  And this frustrates me because they are far from baroque, and have no hair anymore.  It make me heartsick to see what has happened to the breed.  So, I have felt not just a personal preference for keeping the baroque style alive but also an obligation to the breed and to other baroque style aficionados.

2) Looks: Even if he were never bred (and, just to make this doubly clear, I would never consider breeding him if he did not pass the rigorous health tests that approved stallions must undergo—I am not a general advocate of breeding to unapproved stallions and my ONLY reason for considering it is the fact that the registry has made it necessary to do so to get a baroque Friesian), only stallions have the Friesian look—the hair, the presence, the hair, the high-stepping, floating gaits, the hair.  Unlike in other breeds, you would never mistake a Friesian mare or gelding for a stallion, in person or in photos.  When horses lose the testosterone, they lose the hair.  With most breeds, you can't tell the difference but it's very obvious in Friesians.  I know many people who have Friesian stallions that they have never bred and have no intention of breeding but they keep them intact for the look.  Since Friesians are like giant Labradors, the fact that they are stallions appears not to be an issue in terms of safety and handling.

Given the above, why is there any question of gelding him at all?  Well, as Robert Burns noted so memorably, "the best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley".

His height:  As I stated above, even though the registry is not approving baroque-type Friesians anymore, I have intended to give him his chance.  Colts can go to be judged starting at age 3 but they must have a minimum height of 15'3".  Silas was a good-sized foal and weanling and a normal sized yearling.  At 18 months old, he reached 14'2"….and there he has stayed.  I couldn't bring him to the keuring at 3 because he was still 14'2" and I can't bring him now at 4 because he is still 14'2".  By the time he reached age 2, I was beginning to worry about his height but thought he'd inevitably have a growth spurt soon.  When he never did, I consulted many vets, and the Fenway Foundation, and had tests done.  The collective opinion of all the experts that have examined and tested him is that it's a mystery.  His conformation and movement are not only correct, they are excellent.  He is as close to perfect as anyone could dare hope for except for looking like you left him in the dryer for too long and he shrunk.  He is not a dwarf and his hormones and everything else are normal.  It's just that people keep asking me jokingly if I got a Fell pony by mistake.  Friesians grow until they are 7 and I desperately hope he will get taller but there's no magic formula to make that happen.  If I feed him more, he just gets wider.  If he does grow, it seems unlikely he will grow enough to reach 15'3" and ever be able to be presented at keuring.  Also, I am 5'9", so my dream of riding him in costume in exhibitions is already shattered because I will look ridiculous on a pony.  I am aware that gelding increases height but, based on my research, that is only true when gelding occurs as a foal.  It's too late for gelding to increase his height now.  But this is the main reason to geld him:  Even if he is otherwise perfect, he is too small for anyone to want to breed to him and too small to be shown as a magnificent Friesian stallion.

His hormones: Until mid-March, when he was nearly 4, he lived in a big pasture with a herd of geldings.  He also had the best temperament you could ever wish for, even in a breed known for good temperaments.  The fact that he had no clue that he was a stallion made it easy to keep him as a stallion.  But that abruptly changed when the mares at his barn went in season this past spring.  Like an adolescent boy who wakes up one day with sticky sheets and a deeper voice, Silas suddenly became very interested in girls.  Since he didn't have access to them, like incarcerated men, he humped what was available: the none-too-pleased geldings.  This led to his removal from the herd and subsequent difficulty in figuring out where to put him at a stable that doesn't have the facilities to accommodate a second stallion (the owner has her own).  Like teenagers of all species, when puberty kicked in, he underwent a Jekyll & Hyde-like personality transplant.  I would now classify him as dangerous, and I won't handle him solo for my own safety.  He settles down to work, and he is NOT mean—he is still the same sweet boy under the raging hormones—but he is so excited by other horses that he can accidentally harm people.  After being so easy to lead he'd follow anyone like a lamb, you now need a whip in hand as a precaution and he rears and pulls and screams and when you finally get him in the cross-ties, he fidgets and calls and tries to bust out to get to any other horses he can see or hear.  He's not trying to be bad or evasive or hurt anyone; he is just controlled by his hormones now.  And I am not exaggerating when I say this happened almost literally overnight.

His happiness:  Silas loved living outside with the geldings.  He hated being cooped up in a stall and he hated being separated from other horses.  To some extent, it was good for him to get used to a stall and to get used to being by himself—he was too herd-bound.  But having lived with other horses all his life, he is very social.  He loved his friends (even if they didn't always love the baby who wanted to play all the time) and he loved living outdoors.  I never intended to condemn him to a stallion's life of living alone.  When he was purchased for me, I was underemployed and the arrangement of him living 250 miles from me, with my friend's geldings, was meant to be just temporary.  I intended to board him closer (and eventually have my own farm) and to have a gelding buddy for him to live with.  I also intended to handle him daily so that by the time the hormones exerted themselves and he became an obnoxious teenager, we'd have a bond and he'd respect and trust me.  As a first-time horse owner, I would not have bought an adult stallion.  But raising one from a foal would give me a chance to get to know him and acquire skills that would keep me safe by the time he grew up.  My money situation did not improve.  In fact, it got worse: my partner left me two years ago, when Silas was two, and my living expenses doubled.  A year ago, I began freelancing and my income is both insufficient for even my basic living expenses and erratic.  I also expected to be out of debt by the time Silas grew up and instead I am in more debt due to long periods of unemployment when I lived on my credit cards.  Due to severe OCD-induced procrastination and a total lack of a work ethic, I am in some respects unemployable, which limits my income potential.  So, I have never been in a position to move him closer, nor have him in regular training, nor see him often enough to build a bond or increase my confidence and skill to the point of being able to handle him now that he is an adult stallion.  If he were gelded, he could go back out in the field with his buddies, which would take the strain off my friend who is keeping him for me for free, it would make him easier and safer to handle, and make him easier to board if I ever have the money to bring him closer.  He would no longer be alone nor be driven crazy by his hormones.

Given those reasons, why is there any hesitation in gelding him now?  Well, gelding spells failure.  It means I failed to acquire the money to raise him properly—to handle him, have him trained, build a bond.  It means I have failed to help the baroque type stay alive.  It means I give up my dream of ever taking him to a keuring or ever having an announcer say that I am entering the arena to perform a musical freestyle on my Friesian stallion.  It means giving up my Friesian dream.

Finally, I fear that I have a simplistic idea that gelding him will fix all of his new temperament issues but he is still a young horse.  He will still have the attention span of a gnat with ADHD and he will take about 12 months to settle down from the gelding—by which time, with regular handling, he might have settled down anyway.  I don't want to cure a headache by decapitation.  Gelding is irrevocable.  If he grows, if he settles down, if he turns out to be magnificent—his movement and balance are remarkable and he is showing a talent for performance that is lacking in the baroque type; when asked if they'd ever approve a baroque-type again, a Dutch judge said "show me a baroque Friesian that can move like a modern one, I have no prejudice against them, they just can't do the movements with their build"—I don't want to spend the rest of my life regretting it.  I feel like I am rushing into it because I am scared to handle him right now but he will still be a bratty teenager, even when gelded.  I also feel I am rushing into it because of short-term money issues.  If I find a rich husband, I don't want to have implemented a permanent solution to a short-term problem.  It's a HUGE big deal and it violates everything I ever intended or expected about owning a Friesian.  If his hair thinned, if his temperament didn't go back to his old self, if he reached 15'3", I know I would regret it bitterly for the rest of my life.

I have sought advice from my Friesian acquaintances around the world and I have deeply appreciated their honest, heartfelt, and difficult answers.  Some of them have tried to assure me that gelding him so late means he will retain some of the hair, but there is no way to know for sure; it is a risk.  Geldings do not have comparable hair as a rule.

Finally, there is the issue of bonding.  We haven't spent enough time together to form the bond that I want to have with him but, when he was younger, he seemed to be attached to me and focused on me when I visited.  Now, he's all about other horses and pays no attention to me.  I realise every parent goes through this with their teenager.  But I feel that I am counting on gelding to bring him back to me, to make him focus on me.  That seems selfish and pathetic, and there is no guarantee that gelding will do that.  I am just counting on him being less distracted without the testosterone and that seems logical but may be wishful thinking.

Since this has all come up so suddenly since spring, I was planning to send him, as soon as I could afford it, for a few months of driving training, to buy time where he is not driving my generous friend nuts and where he would be in full-time training, learning some stallion manners.  But this is now complicated by the fact that the farm where I was intending to send him just had a devastating fire, so it is unlikely they will be in a position to train him for the foreseeable future.

So, here is what I am planning to do:  1) Get him tested for genetic diseases; 2) If he passes those tests, get him collected so I at least have some baroque semen stored if he does turn out to be worth breeding in future; 3) Then it looks like, unless something changes drastically, I will have to geld him.