Pretty frequently, I get riled up about the state of feminism and begin to yell. Sometimes it’s triggered by a news story– an ignorant political comment, a gendered legal battle, a violent rape. Sometimes, it’s triggered when a man makes me uncomfortable walking down the street, leering, commenting on my body. Sometimes, I just wake up and I am mad for us. All of us.

This is what happened a few weeks ago. I woke up in the morning (held by my still-mostly-asleep gentleman friend) and I felt so fucking filled with feminist rage. I began to talk about it, about how I feel every day as a woman, sexualized and morally judged.

We laid in bed, and my voice escalated as I began detailing experiences my friends have had; the men who have forced themselves on them. How guilty it makes women feel to say “no.” How angry that guilt makes me. I described loudly the violations on my body– and the bodies of women around the globe– by men who were too selfish and too aggressive to see the hurt in our eyes. The vacancy, the fear. Ignorant to the ultimate feeling of violation that comes with having another person literally inside of you. Too fast, too jacked up on testosterone to care that it’s rape. Because it is rape.

If both people are not present, consenting, enthusiastic, it’s rape.

As my man made me breakfast, I was shouting for all of womankind. Shouting about society’s propagation of these roles, about how our culture still laughs at feminism. About how we all seem to think it’s so goddamn funny when men tell ladies to “get in the kitchen and make a sandwich.” Harr harr, it’s so funny. How women politicians and media members are required to be attractive, and their attractiveness rated regularly in magazines. We see it over and over and over until it’s normalized and part of our culture.

We don’t have equality yet. It’s not entertaining and it’s not funny. I am sick of the anti-feminist propaganda machine telling us “oh, your desire for empowerment is adorable, now quiet down and make some babies.”

I turned my anger toward popular media. 

Me: “Like Archer. Everyone laughs at that show, like it’s so fucking funny to be a sexist misogynist. Like it’s so funny to treat women like objects. Even their supposedly-empowered female character is constantly sexualized. Their females are written as men view women. Not as women really are. The whole show is about this played out stereotypical man with a Oedipus complex, projecting his negative views toward the opposite gender. And everyone keeps on joking about it, so it keeps being a joke. It’s disgusting.”

Gentleman Friend: “You bought me the Archer DVD.”

Fuck. Am I a bad feminist? ::hops off soapbox to confer::

No, wait. That’s not the point. ::hops back on::

I am a great feminist because I yell about inequality. All the time. I yell about it because, until the feminist yelling drowns out the sexist “jokes” and anti-feminist laughter, we aren’t equal. Period.

I yell about it because everyone should be yelling about it. Men and women. Because no woman ever ever ever should be told she deserved her rape. Until the media stops portraying women in a light that implies we are constantly-in-the-act-of-seduction, dangling our femininity in front of mankind like a carrot on a stick– making our sexuality something that belongs to men, it’s just going to keep happening. Until everyone is shouting about inequality, I’m not sure I can stop.

In my mind, the solution is to just be loud as fuck about menstruation and child birth and how expensive it is to buy tampons and bras, until it’s not men vs. women anymore. Until we aren’t this mysterious foreign creature you can violate and steal the magic of. Until we are viewed as people, not sex objects, regardless of how short our skirts are or how low-cut our tops. Because we don’t belong to you and we never did, so don’t be angry about it, bro.

Until this world is saturated with acceptance of female minds, bodies, hormones, and desires as valid, I won’t stop shouting about them. Until little girls stop being taught that their bodies are dangerous temples of temptation, and little boys are told that YES is the only thing that means YES, I won’t stop ranting. And that’s the state of modern feminism.

I’m a mom who happens to be working at a job I love that is only seven miles from my house. I know how lucky I am. Through a combination of events, I was able to stay home with my son for almost 20 months! My husband and I aren’t well off, and we live in a nice part of central NJ where the cost of living is ridiculous.

My luminous 2 year old son Hugo has been in school (day care) full time since January. He loves his teacher and friends, and looks forward to going. Willing separation from mom is a very new development in our relationship. He cried every time I dropped him off at school, 3 days a week from September to January. He cried when I took a shower or ducked into the bathroom to pee until he was 2.

I’m just starting to adjust to the idea that my husband and I can have time together alone without it traumatizing our son. It is freedom! Well, relative freedom. Hugo still breastfeeds 3 or 4 times a day and sleeps in our bed more than half the night. But he takes up less of my active attention now. He doesn’t want to spend all day every day with me. It’s nice! Good chance to get to know my husband again.

So who’s next?

We always planned on having two children (as far as I know) and I caught the baby crazy again. Now I feel like it will be a good time for my son. And for my husband. And definitely for me! Then I start thinking and feeling things that weigh me down.

I was able to focus entirely on my son for months after he was born. He nursed for an hour every morning when he woke up. For the first five months, he would only take his morning nap in my arms (while I typed away on my laptop. Don’t worry, I wasn’t bored).

At first I thought I was going to have to go back to work for a while when he was six weeks old. I even went to a local day care and put my name on a list. There are tears prickling my eyes now as I think of what it would mean to me to have to leave my newborn in day care. And that’s what this post is really about. Can I even deal with this?

Not every baby wants to nurse for hours (or every 1.5 hours for Hugo) and some seem to enjoy spending time in a bouncy seat or a swing. My hypothetical baby might be independent and laid back. Or we might find a way for me to stay home for a good while again. The despair I feel welling up around the edges of my peripheral vision is not a reasonable response, in any case.

Actually, don’t buy these. Ever.

Now that Hugo’s well adjusted and happy in school, I wonder what would be the optimal age for a child to go to school to learn how to get along with other children and get along happily without his or her mom. I kicked that thought around quite a few times without having the courage to voice it.

And regardless, I feel the intense, decisive desire for a child click into place in my heart. I’ve only felt this way about a few things in my life, with the universe obligingly lining up to fulfill them. I guarantee I will be the happiest pregnant lady you know! I know, I trust that everything will work out for the best.

Do you often get panicked about wrinkles on your face?

Wait, are you saying I have wrinkles? I don’t have wrinkles! I’m still young and handsome! (This is where I go steal the wife’s fancy expensive facial creams and use a ridiculous amount on my face and then she gets all butt hurt about using up her fancy face paints.)

What are your emotions regarding a 10+ year age difference in a relationship?

It depends on the age range. My sister and brother in law are in that range, but she’s in her 40′s and he’s in his 50′s. I think that’s OK. You’re old and experienced at that point and well, face it, your life is half over and you might as well get what you can get (my sister does not read this column, ha ha).

I think 30 and 20 is weird, because what the fuck does a 20 year old know about anything? I’d be really annoyed, especially since it seems like young people are literally getting dumber and dumber. I used to think it was age, but realize now that it’s our failing education system and Americanized devotion to narcissism and shit that doesn’t matter. With that said, I’ve always preferred the company of someone who is close to my age, as their depth of experience will be similar, and they’re probably in that cut off area of “before things went to complete shit”.

I think more than 10 is even creepier. For some reason it’s deemed OK for guys (it isn’t OK, and its not OK vice versa either) to date women half their age, but it always seems like a sham to me. I’m pretty sure 99% of the time its about money, which is gross and makes you a whore (or gigolo). A committed whore (or gigolo) but a whore (or gigolo) none-the-less. I’m sure there’s occasionally an incidence of the 1% where people really do connect well, regardless of age, but being a cynical fucker, I’ll probably never believe that story. The relationship is based on mutual exploitation. I don’t think I could stomach that.

How do you feel about wearing suits?

I love wearing suits! I never have anywhere to go in one though, so even though I have some really nice suits now, I rarely wear them. I’ve stated in the past (with my great disdain of sweat pants) that I wish that trend would reverse. Someone make that shit happen. I look pretty awesome in a suit.

Have you found our publication thus far educational?

I like the stark honesty of the site, and I feel that gives a unique insight into the mind of today’s young women. Keep it up, ladies

Here are things I would rather get for a gift than a Pandora bracelet:

Paper Towels: You can wipe up spills, use them as napkins, clean up dog drool, use them as dinner plates, wrap your muffin. Rub Crisco on baking pans.’ They come in one big square sheet or perforated squares for your paper towel pleasure. Sometimes you can find ones with geese on them. Maybe even flowers, or humorous or sentimental words.

Camera: Cameras can take pictures and maybe even moving pictures. They might have fancy lenses and filters and stuff or they might be basic. But no matter what they will be more useful and interesting than a bunch of glass beads on a string. Unless it’s a Kodak digital camera.

Sneakers: I just did an intensive investigation and it looks like Pandora bracelets start around $65. That will buy you a sweet pair of Pumas. Sneakers are cool. When you’re rocking rad sneakers people notice and they want to be your friend hoping they too will have cool sneakers someday. Maybe you will take them to the cool sneaker store. No one wants you to take them to the Pandora bracelet store.

Lingerie: This says ‘hey lady I wanna bone you’. Pandora bracelets say ‘Here’s a stupid gift go call your sister and tell her how pumped you are, I’ll be in the garage getting a bj from the babysitter’

Library Card: They only cost a dollar or free. Knowledge is beautiful.

Doritos: You could get about 40 or 50 bags of Doritos or even Pringle’s for the price of one bracelet.

Simon: 4 colors. Flashing lights. Beeps

Written By: Kat

Round up the My Little Ponies and smash some cake onto your friends, because it’s a celebration! Your Monthly Periodical just marked our one year anniversary!

Dreamt up by two ladies bonding over mutual misanthropy in America’s rust belt, this publication was created in the dead of winter as a tongue-in-cheek outlet for female hysteria. It has grown and taken on a life of it’s own, which far exceeds whatever vision we had when we began. In the past year, we’ve had the opportunity to write about, and interact with readers, regarding a number of very important women’s issues. Everything from hormones, to the zombie apocalypse, to rompers, to orgasms. We’ve covered reproductive rights, BB creams, and popular literature. We ranted about men, and confessed to you our odd sexual proclivities. We asked you “Who Wore It Best?” And you answered. You just kept coming back for more!

Over the past year we’ve featured some hilarious, educational, and emotional pieces from guest authors. We’ve gotten some great e-mails, started fun conversations, and learned a lot from our Male Correspondent. The interactions we’ve had with other bloggers, writers, and contributors have been honest, inspirational, and real.

Analytics are very scientific. One of our most popular articles is a very naughty “How-To” which has been reposted on Pinterest more times than I even know, presumably by housewives who have since learned the joys of proper self-love. As an editor, this gives me a warm fuzzy feeling. Speaking of Pinterest, lots of ladies this year commiserated with me over my frustration with the site and the guilt I refuse to have for throwing my garbage away. The search terms which bring people to your site are very telling– both of how the internet at large perceives you, and of what people are discretely browsing the vastness of the web for.

TOP SEARCH TERMS

Written By: Sheeny

The only thing I understand about analytics is that I get to see the creepy things people search for on the internet all day. We get a variety of alarming search terms at the Periodical but, to summarize, they are basically all brony related searches. Once someone was searching for nude photos of me, which was flattering. But, yeah. Mostly Bronies. EVERYONE WITH A COMPUTER IS A BRONY.

This is what your friends, family, and coworkers have been doing on their laptops in the past 30 days:

My little pony cum

Cumming on my little pony

Cumming to my childhood toys

Pony cum

Man cuming on my little pony figures

Ponyjizz

Jazzing on pony toys

Cumming on mlp toys

Brony cum

Guy cumming on my little pony

Man ejaculates on mlp toy

My little pony cumshot

My little pony working a cock

And with that final item, I’m out.  The bronies have tried to pretend that they “just like the show.” It’s “just for fun” and they’re ironic hipsters. Well, that is not true because apparently everyone who has a computer is googling” My Little Pony” and various words for semen, and what the fuck.

Well, here you go bronies. Here’s buttercup working a cock. Are you happy now? She’s going to go cry in her stall. She just wants to play in the meadow with Glory her unicorn gal pal. Maybe have Molly braid her mane later. But no, she’s going to go cry in the shower because some man has ejaculated his giant load of semen all over her beautiful tail.

In other news: a lot of people want to fuck and smell girl’s armpits. Call me.

One of the tabloid news’ current big obsessions is the relationship between (entertainer/ business mogul) Mary Kate Olsen and (half-brother to the former French President) Olivier Sarkozy. Apparently, two very adult people engaging in a happy-seeming, albeit publicly affectionate, relationship is a big fucking deal these days. I’m not going to get all “Leave Britney Alone!” about it, but I think it’s only fair someone openly stand on the other side.

I, for one, am not disturbed by this pairing whatsoever.

Why do the Hollywood reporters have their panties all in a bunch? Well, first off the ~17 year age difference between Olsen, 26, and Sarkozy, 43, seems to really bother people. Like a lot. Like so much that everyone discussing it recoils, in that same phony prudish way they probably do when they hear the word “moist.” Oh, eww so yucky. Like this grandfatherly man is molesting a sweet young rosebud of a girl and nobody looking on will stop it. Vomit. Save your sympathy for the Courtney Stoddens of the world. Those cornfed smalltown girls with shitty parents who “escape” to LA with stars in their eyes and dimes in their bank account, only to fall prey to some morally-questionable man with money (who grown-ass women wouldn’t give the time of day to).

Mary Kate Olsen was raised in the Hollywood spotlight. We all watched her (some of us more obsessively than others, OKAY?) go from little Michelle Tanner to haute NYC fashion designer. The Olsen girls never really had a childhood, not in a traditional sense, so romanticizing Mary Kate as this innocent little lamb is actually kind of absurd. These girls know work. They know schedules. They know money, and business, and professionalism. They know fashion and fabrics and galas. And it’s been that way for their whole lives. Please, please point me in the direction of all the mature 26 year old men who’ve been working hard for 20+ years, who understand the pressures of being constantly in the media. It’s fair to wager, there are not many men who can get on her level.

On the other side of all that, unless you’re still in middle school, I am going to assume you realize 43 isn’t that old. They say men “mature at a slower rate than women,” which is just code for: it takes most of them a long time to stop being selfish man-child doofuses and realize they’re heading for a pretty fucking lonely future if they don’t decrease the value of their own agenda a little bit. In my experience, men in their 40s tend to be established, experienced, and better able to appreciate an adoring lady. Plus I’m a sucker for a furry chest, laugh lines, and slight touch of grey, but that’s probably just me.

At this juncture in my life, I stand by my belief that guys under 30 aren’t even worth dating. What if Mary Kate is like me and doesn’t WANT to get married? Do you know how hard it is to get that concept through a 20-something man’s head? Especially if his parents are still happily married; or if he is Italian, Jewish, or an only son. Living in constant fear of a proposal. With Olivier Sarkozy, the pressures of marriage and children are alleviated a bit, since he’s “been there, done that” already.

The second issue people seem to take with Mary Kate’s relationship is the size difference between she and her man, which is about 15 inches. Well, if that isn’t the dumbest shit I ever did hear. Mary Kate is a tiny human, hardly over 5 feet tall, like she’s only supposed to date other short people? I love tall men. Love them. I am 5’4″ and my gentleman friend is 6′ 1″ and I think thats awesome. If he were 6′ 10″ I would also find that awesome. I would climb him like a tree, and ask him to carry me like a princess, and be the big spoon sometimes for a laugh. Sexual dimorphism is an evolutionary function, people, not that weird.

Lastly, I think people just find Olivier Sarkozy unattractive.

Before I finish up here, I want us all to take a look at Mary Kate’s most recent boyfriend, NYC artist Nate Lowman. Ever hear of him? Probably not, since pretty much the only images that come up when you Google him are of him and MKO. I won’t waste your time making you search for him– in short, he is a self-important hipster who fancies himself the next Andy Warhol. He paints smiley faces. Seriously. His art is pretentious, and he is not particularly attractive. My douche detector is beeping like crazy. They dated for two years, yet he and Mary Kate were not the subject of tabloids day in and day out. Personally, I am more offended by their relationship than I am of hers and Olivier Sarkozy.

Yeah, maybe Mary Kate is a weirdo with weirdo taste in men, but she seems super happy now, and the well-dressed half brother of a foreign diplomat seems a whole lot classier and more intriguing than that other guy. Total upgrade.

I noticed my first wrinkle when I was 19 years old. I was high on LSD and under the bright lights of a hotel bathroom, staring in a mirror and wondering what would happen if I filled the bathtub with glowsticks. Suddenly, there it was. Between my eyebrows. A line. A furrow. A WRINKLE! Considering it took my pupils being dilated to the size of quarters to see it, the aforementioned wrinkle was hardly noticeable. But once I knew it was there, I could never un-see it.

Now, I know all the older-than-I-am ladies will tell me to “oh, stop” with my wrinkle panic at 26. But, you know what, I’m not being unreasonable! You can’t undo years of skin damage. Lotions, potions, and even injecting Botox yield mixed results. Good care of your derma needs to be preemptive.

Since that time, I have made a point of wearing an SPF on my face almost every day, even in the winter. We gingers cannot afford to mess around with UVA/UVB, especially not if we want to live relatively wrinkle-free lives. But that isn’t where my panic ends.

Recently, I began noticing more wrinkles, new wrinkles, in the middle of my forehead and under my eyes. Not happy jolly laugh lines. No, these are creases full of concern. They belong to a dubious follower of world news and politics, someone who experiences frequent frustration and monitor strain. They are not deep. Yet. They are not alarming. Yet. But they are there. More and more so, every day.

So I stood in the isle with all the anti-aging and pore-refining creams. I read the back of a dozen or more packages and compared the ingredients, like I even know what they are anyways. As I looked at serums, I pondered whether they do anything at all. Probably not. I fought with myself over the legitimacy of the beauty industry, capitalizing on women’s societally created insecurities. I left the store with an eye cream, because I am a sucker.

I put it on twice a day. I don’t know if it actually works, but I will most likely buy more.

If I learned any important lessons during this year’s Super Bowl match it is that Destiny’s Child is the reason why I have failed at personal money management.

If you were a Destiny’s Child fan like myself, your bible was The Writing’s On The Wall. I bought this CD with my Christmas money and I remember listening to it in my Discman when I waited for the school bus, and again during math tests. These fabulous ladies taught me pretty much everything I needed to know about life. Mostly how to find a man, and how to handle my bills. What I need: two-to-three BFFs, sparkly almost-matching outfits, and a weave.

I practiced being an adult to the tunes of D.C. while dancing in my bathroom in front of the mirror to Kelly, B, and the other two mystery ladies. I sang along into empty toilet paper roll microphones and tucked my blouse into my bra. Nobody was watching, so I danced like Beyonce’s blood ran through my veins. I never paid attention to the other two ladies, and this is a good thing because they were quickly kicked out and replaced by mediocre Michelle, who joined Kelly in making sure that Beyonce was always front and center.

So how exactly is Destiny’s Child to blame for my poor money management? Very simply. For starters, I was under the impression that men were going to voluntarily pay my bills, bills, bills. I had assumed that as long as I avoided a triflin-good-for-nothing-brotha, I would discover another brother who found it erotic to pay my credit card balances off. So where exactly am I supposed to find these bill paying brothers? Naturally, I turned to the ladies again for more advice. Of course! The men that I am looking for are jumpin’ jumpin’ at the clubs with their pockets full grown.

But wait. Just as I was growing comfortable with the fact that I was a white-wanna-be-black, Beyonce and the girls suggested that I become an independent woman. This occurred at the same time that my educators were brainwashing me into thinking that college was a valuable investment. Thanks. I had pretty much no choice but to be an independent woman which meant that I needed to find a different source of financial contribution other than a man. Enter, student loans. Perfect. I’ll pay you back later when I am so so so so good. In the meantime, dancing in my dorm room to Bootylicious.

Good news, girls: I was a survivor. I survived four years of drinking Coors Light and listening to Top Forty tunes on blown-out speakers at fraternity parties. I acquired some jelly. I practiced wearing ridiculous outfits. I even bought a pair of camouflage capris (seriously, WTF?). So, naturally, one would assume that I have my shit together and I am a D.C. back up, in case Michelle realizes nobody likes her and a skilled professional replacement is needed for a reunion tour. Nope. I’m broke and even Kelly Rowland hasn’t returned any of my calls.

Whipped Body Goods are a line of vegan skin and hair products. They use all natural ingredients and unlike a lot of the so called ‘eco’ brands they don’t ruin any natural goodwill with excessive packaging and bloated prices. Like seriously you do not need 5 outer plastic bits on your shampoo bottle which is what I find in many of the green brands. It’s very confusing.  Whipped Body Goods come in plastic jars with screw tops. You can actually get all your lip gloss or lotion out instead of throwing half of it away. And then you can wash and recycle the container for real instead of just pretend because most lotion bottles are still 1/3 full and you just have to throw them away. What else can we do with empty lotion jars? Store hair accessories, paper clips, staples, dead bugs, tiny teddy bears, make some more lotion of your own.

fancy swirlies and it smells pretty.

Usually when I find out about a new brand I get amped up and order all their products and end up  really regretting that. Somehow I managed to be practical and do a test purchase of lip scrub and creme before ordering everything on the website. The scrub comes in a couple of flavors. I got the chocolate version. It actually smells like chocolate and left a light flavor on my lips which were super soft and moisturized afterwards. I didn’t even really need to put on lip creme after, but why not? I got the lip creme in blackberry. It’s got a slight tint to it to be worn alone or over your lipstick. This creme isn’t greasy and really does deeply moisturize just like the company promises.

Whipped Body Goods also sells something called Bikini Line Butter which I obviously had to try. It comes in vanilla or chocolate cupcake. Sometimes vanilla makes me die inside a thousand times so I went with chocolate since I knew I already liked that scent in the lip scrub. It smells the same and really is a very buttery texture. I love that it comes in a tub and is swirly like whipped butter or some frosting. The Bikini Butter promises to even skin tone and reduce ingrown hairs.  Your vagina will smell like a bakery. I haven’t used it long enough to find out the public’s opinion on all this, but it is very moisturizing and that can’t be bad.

The bath oil is amazing. I smell like dragons and blood and it’s great. I had forgotten what a fan of bath oil I am. If you want your skin to be super soft, take a bath with oil. You probably won’t even need to rub on lotion afterwards.

The last item I tried was the night time eye cream. Again, like all their other products this is very creamy, smells great (this one tastes the most edible of them all, like a jar of cake frosting). The jar is 4 oz, and only $12. My Origins eye cream was about 1/8 of the size and 4x the price. This stuff is awesome. It is very rich so you won’t get old haggard eyes and have no love in your life, but it also does soak in so you’re not going to have greasy unattractive eyelid syndrome. I think the difference with these products is that they are all natural for real instead of faux all natural which is what you get from the mass produced beauty lines. This stuff is all made with olive oil and avocados and real ingredients so they work with your skin instead of fighting it.

Dear men in well-fitting suits: I would hereby like to extend, from the bottom most glorious part of my bosoms, a sincere and heartfelt “Thank You.”

Thank you for ironing your shirt, occasionally dry cleaning your jacket, and visiting your tailor. Thank you for considering, if only for a moment, whether your socks clash with your shirt. For taking the time out of your day to match your tie to your mood. For pondering pinstripes and pleats and paisleys and plaids. And for making sure your collar looks crisp.

I’m appreciative, man wearing a well-fitting suit, of your attention to detail, and the pride you’ve taken in your appearance. I like the cut of your jib. You seem confident, commanding, and authoritative. You have a vintage air of manliness that makes me ponder fetching you a glass of scotch in your study, wearing nothing but fluffy house slippers and a satin robe. There are many uses for a necktie, and you, sexy well-dressed man, are certain to know at least the good ones.

Yes, man in a suit, in this world of track pants and T-shirts, your emphasis on personal appearance is admirable, even if mandatory.

Whether you are at a wedding, a funeral, an office event, or you are just the all-too-rare sort of gentleman who enjoys looking professional, I am here to let you know that you are appreciated. On behalf of the ladies of this world– who struggle daily with hosiery, brassieres, and ill-fitting, but oh-so-sexy footwear– Thank You for looking so damn refined.