The Oscars made me sick. Not because my George Clooney did not win and attended with that faux galpal arm-candy instead of me. Not because Kathryn Bigelow the first woman to win best director was so ditzily girly in such an historic moment. But because the tribute to horror films was an unrelenting filmic homage to violence against women. The wink wink nudge nudge “it’s just a genre” disclaimer did not work for me, especially after news footage of the actual horrifics of femicide in Nigeria.
A week later and I’m still sick to my stomach. It could be the Boniva my doctor prescribed to aid in the absorption of calcium. I took it just before I read the studies someone finally got around to doing. The drug shilled everywhere by Sally Field, the Flying Nun for god’s sake, causes shattered femurs in women users. Images of Sally Field collapsing in a heap of bones on the set of Brothers and Sisters, taken out to the backlot and euthanized. “You like me, you really really . . . blam.” I’m not taking it anymore.
Nor am I taking the blame for healthcare reform fights over the vexing – for whom? – issue of abortion funding. If I have to spend one more dinner listening to progressive men talk about how difficult it is for them to decide yay or nay weh weh on health care, I’m going to forkstab their thighs. As a Vagina-American (it’s a pre-existing condition) I’m sick of Viagra-Americans not supporting women’s choice.
The Oscars showed graphic violence against women to an audience of 41.3 million. Big Pharma knocks the legs out from under women. Legislators make abortion funding an annoying deal-breaker. It’s the stuppak pits. And my Milk of Amnesia doesn’t work anymore.