Harper Ford on menopause and wellness scams

Looking for humorous fiction, I’ve just read Harper Ford’s Hot (not bothered) and Live, Laugh, and Leave Me Alone. 

In both cases—unfortunately, in my opinion—the levity of the covers and the prose obscure a great treatment of a serious issue, menopause and wellness scams, respectively. 

Both recommended—more for the gravity than for the levity. 

“Home for Unwed Fathers” (short story from Fighting Words)

About a month after, they came to get him.

“Hello, is there a Rob Ellis here?”

He heard the polite voice at the door.

“Yeah,” his mother replied.  “Rob!” she called up the stairs. 

Rob came down the stairs and warily approached the two people standing at the door.

“Rob Ellis?”

He nodded.

“Would you please come with us?  We have an order to escort you to the Home for Unwed Fathers.”  The taller woman turned the tablet to face them both, so they could read the order if they so wished.  They did not.

Instead, his mother turned to him, rage on her face.  “You—”

He said nothing.  Just stood there.  Unsure—

“Go!” his mother shouted at him.  “Get the hell out of my house!”  She reached out then, grabbed him, and practically shoved him out the door.  “You fucker!”  She spat.  She actually spat at Rob’s feet.

Rob stumbled across the threshold.

“You’re allowed to bring one suitcase if you like,” the other woman said to him.

“No!  Let him go as he is!” His mother slammed the door.

Once at the Home, they put an ankle monitor on him. 

“What’s this for?” he protested.  “I’m not on house arrest, am I?  I haven’t done anything wrong!”

The woman stared at him.  Eventually, he looked away.

“It’s for your own good,” she said then.  “If you try to go back home, there will most likely be worse consequences.”

Well, she was right about that.  But maybe he could go stay with Tyler.  No, his parents wouldn’t exactly welcome him either.

Next, they branded him.  A small ‘U’ on one cheek, an ‘F’ on the other.  Unwed Father.  Or, as his mother would surely say, Unwed Fucker.

For nine months, he had to live in the Home.  It was an older house, renovated for its current purpose.  On the ground floor were the administrative offices, a kitchen, and a dining room.  The upstairs was divided into four small bedrooms, each with two bunk beds; a large communal bathroom was in the middle.  The basement had a small utility room, and, now, two large areas that served as school rooms during the day, recreation rooms in the evening. 

The house was full: sixteen guys, their ages ranging from thirteen to just shy of eighteen.  Several other Homes were scheduled to open that month, as soon as the accelerated renovations were done.  The demand was quite high.

There were rules about what to do when.  Everything they did had to be supervised.  They couldn’t even go outside into the fenced yard alone.  It was like they were kids.  He was seventeen, for fuck’s sake.

He spent the mornings and the afternoons in class, with no spares: he had to keep up with his regular courses in order to pass the year and graduate, and there were a ton of extra courses, every one of them mandatory: child development—physical, intellectual, emotional, social; nutrition; first aid; parenting skills for a newborn, an infant, a toddler, a child, a teenager.  They had some good laughs about that last one.

Once a week, they were all encouraged to go on the day trip.  They’d pile into two mini-vans, each with ‘Unwed Home for Fathers’ emblazoned on the side, and spend the afternoon at the mall or, more likely, attending the Saturday game of some local sports league.  Every one of the guys wore an over-sized hoodie and a baseball cap, but still, it was obvious.  Who they were.  What they had done.

He talked with some of the guys, mostly Mitch, his bunkmate. 

“It’s not fair!” he’d protested early on.  “I don’t even know if she’s pregnant.”  Though, he supposed, she must be, if he was here.  She must have identified him as the father.  That’s how they knew to come and pick him up. 

“Yeah, we all fucked someone,” one of the other guys said.  “Big deal, everyone does it.”

It seemed that all of the guys had pretty much the same home situation and so were actually content to be there in the Home.  And as for when they got out?  Don’t know, don’t care.

Rob would have said the same thing, had someone asked, but hearing it from so many others, it started to sound … inauthentic.  He didn’t know what was going to happen when he got out of there, but truth be told, he did care.

About eight months in, one of the women came down to the classroom and asked him to come upstairs to one of the offices.  It was the same woman who’d put the ankle monitor on him.

“Have a seat, Rob.”

He sat.

“So … Kaley has survived childbirth.”

He was caught by surprise.  He hadn’t expected that to be what he’d been called to the office for.  Honestly, he hadn’t even thought much about Kaley, her being pregnant, going through childbirth.  And the word ‘survived’—had there been a chance she wouldn’t survive?

“You don’t know it’s mine!  I wasn’t the only one bangin’ her.”

Again, the woman stared at him.  Again, eventually, he looked away.

“We do know.  A paternity test was done.  Back when.”  And since every male’s DNA was on file …

So now what, he wondered.

“Now we wait for her to confirm her decision.  Whether to keep the baby or give it up.”

Well, if she decided to give it up, what the fuck had he spent almost nine months in stupid parenting classes for?  Actually, even if she decided to keep the baby, what the fuck had he spent almost nine months in stupid parenting classes for?  It was her body.  Her baby.  She should be the one in parenting classes.

The next day, he was asked again to come to the office.   

Again, “Have a seat, Rob.”

Again, he sat.

“Kaley has decided to give up her baby.”

Yes! He was off the hook!

But then he was, again, caught by surprise: another woman entered the office, holding a newborn.

“As you know,” the first woman continued, “when a woman gives up her newborn, it automatically goes to the father.” 

The other woman held out the baby to him.  “Her name is Cindy.”

“But—” He did not reach to take the baby.  “No—  It’s not my fault!”

The first woman spoke, while the second one took a seat, carefully holding the baby.  “Are you saying that Kaley, a fifteen-year-old girl, somehow overpowered you, restrained you, brought you to erection, and then to ejaculation into her vagina?”

“No, I—”  Did they have to be so blunt?

“Even if that were the case,” she continued, “perhaps because she put something in your drink, you willingly put yourself in that position, no?”

“No!  I mean—  I used a condom!”  He actually couldn’t remember if he had or not.  Probably not.  They weren’t cheap.

“Yes, well, sometimes condoms break.  There’s a chance with any contraception that it won’t work.  That’s the risk you take when you engage in sexual intercourse.”

“But—  I don’t want it.”  He didn’t even look at the baby.

“Well, you should have thought of that before.  Before you ejaculated into Kaley’s vagina.”

“I didn’t—  We were just fooling around, having fun!”

Yet again, the woman stared at him.  “You didn’t know how babies are made?”

“No—  Yes—  I’m not stupid!”

She kept staring at him. 

No one spoke.

“Okay,” he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.  “If she can give it away, so can I.” He glared at them.

“No,” the first woman said, “one of you has to take responsibility for it.  Ideally, both of you take responsibility, but that’s not an option here, apparently.  Kaley got first choice, since it’s been her body the baby has been using, but since she said no, well, it’s … yours.”

“Why didn’t she ask me first?  I’d’ve said no.  Then she could’ve had an abortion!  I would’ve told her to have an abortion!”

“Rob,” the second one spoke up, gently, “you know that’s impossible.  Abortion’s been illegal for years now.”

“Well, I won’t take care of it,” he insisted.  “I’ll just … leave it somewhere.”

“That’s your choice, of course, but as you should know by now, the baby will likely die without your care.  And then you’ll be charged with infanticide.  For which the penalty is assisted suicide.”

Since Rob hadn’t planned for any of this, they arranged transfer to a ‘Tier 2’ Home, one that had the appropriate facilities and resources for babies. 

“I figure I’ll get a job,” Rob said to Mitch, thinking out loud as he packed his stuff.  Because no way was he going to live in another Home and—  Actually, he didn’t know what that future would look like.  “I’ll get an apartment, hire a babysitter for during the day, then—”

“You won’t get a job,” Mitch scoffed.  “No one will hire you with those,” he nodded to his cheeks.

“Why not?  If I work hard—”

“If you do it again, they’ll be the ones have to pay for this,” he gestured at their situation.  The house.  The program.

Rob looked puzzled.

“It’s the law.”

Oh.  Rob sat down heavily.

“Even if you could get a job,” Mitch continued, “you probably wouldn’t make more than what you’d have to pay the babysitter.  So you’d still be out rent, food, diapers …”

Rob exploded back onto his feet and started pacing the small room.  “So how the fuck am I supposed to do all the stuff I gotta do?!  For the baby?”

“Ah,” Mitch sighed, “an age-old problem.  With an age-old solution.”  There was a crooked grin on his face.

“What, I get married?  I suppose that would work …”

Mitch scoffed again.  “Good luck with that.”

“Why?  I’m good lookin’,” Rob glanced at the mirror, as if for reassurance on that point.

“You’re damaged goods is what you are,” Mitch replied.  “Who’s gonna want someone who’s got a kid to look after? 

“And even if you didn’t,” Mitch continued, “even if Kaley had kept the kid, who’s gonna take a chance that you won’t be a Fucker again?

“Who’s gonna want someone who’s pocketing only part of their wages?”

“What?”  Rob stopped pacing.

“If Kaley had kept the kid, they would’ve taken your wages to support her and the kid, your kid, for six years, then just the kid, your kid, for another twelve.  Don’t you know anything?”

Rob sat down again.  Slowly.  Thinking this through.

Mitch waited, the crooked grin back on his face.

Rob saw no way out.  “Okay, genius, so what—”

“Didn’t you pay attention to your Women’s History course?”

Ah.  But Rob just snorted.  Then protested, “I ain’t a woman.”

“Some men don’t like me” Dina Honour

Great read.

https://dinahonour.substack.com/p/some-men-dont-like-me

“Violence against women and children is legal. We just pretend otherwise.” Zawn Villines

https://zawn.substack.com/p/violence-against-women-and-children

“That’s because in patriarchy, nothing trumps a man’s right not to be inconvenienced. His right to act as he wishes will always come before the right of women and children to continue living.”

(No title)

“Women don’t leave for ‘no reason.’ Men just think women shouldn’t be allowed to leave.” by Zawn Villines

https://zawn.substack.com/p/the-myth-of-the-wife-who-leaves-without-a7c

Such an excellent piece. Read it several times. Slowly.

They Never Learn, Layne Fargo – quotes and comments

Great read!  Some quotes and comments …

“He tosses the cap onto the floor.”  p2

As soon as he takes a bottle from the garage fridge and tosses the cap onto the floor, I hated him.  Is he going to pick up the cap later?  Clean up after himself?  Don’t think so.  But he thinks he’s entitled to the service of others.  Bravo Fargo for capturing all that in just that one not-so-small action.

[He captions his selfie with something like] “Rise n grind.  Make 2day yr bitch.” p2

That stops me.  I honestly have to think that one through.  ‘Make 2day yr bitch’ ??  Eventually I realize he means ‘Take control of your day’ but he equates a day, or most likely anything to be controlled, with bitch, i.e., female, because they are things to be controlled.  Wow.  Has exerting control over women become so normalized it’s replaced ‘Have a nice day’ and ‘Have a good one’?  How has controlling women become so normalized?  Ah.  porn.  And the manosphere. 

It occurs to me now that the entitled little prick who dismissed me the other day so easily  is probably a porn addict.  I thought he’d just assumed that all locals and/or all women and/or all old people are village idiots.  But now I’m thinking it goes deeper.  He’s raised himself, by watching porn, on contempt for women.  They are simply so not worth his attention.  At least not an unfuckable such as myself.  I predict a lot of sexual assault in his future.  No wonder young women aren’t dating anymore.  Good for them.

“… slumping down in his seat with his legs sprawled across the aisle like he didn’t give a damn how much space he took up.”  p4

That’s no surprise.  None whatsoever.

And then when someone is killing him, he has the utter cluelessness, which makes him even more dangerous, to ask ‘Why?’

I am going to so love this book.

“‘Afternoon, ladies! … What are you up to?’ ..” p59

As if they’re children.  Up to some mischief.  Go fuck yourself.

It occurs to me that there should be three separate crimes:

1. rape – for penis forced inside a hole, be it a vagina, a rectum, or a mouth

2. forced impregnation – for when rape results in pregnancy

3. sexual assault – for any sexual non-consensual touch

And the stuff about her research and his research … p60, p85

“Kinnear and Stright always talk about Gorman football victories with a sense of ownership, like they took to the field and sacked the quarterback themselves.”  p93

Yeah, I’ve always thought that.

“[K]illing a man is so much more satisfying than fucking a man could ever be.”

T-shirts, anyone?  Fridge magnets?  Bumper stickers?

And then all the excuses … Fargo has them all p151-155.  (Except for ‘You’re crazy!’)

“You think flirting is an invitation for him to assault her?”  p198

No.  Simply being female is.  Apparently.

re choking during sex

https://theequitablehome.substack.com/p/choking-during-sex-went-from-rare

“T]elling a young man he might give a girl a brain injury was not sufficient reason for him to stop, but telling him it might land him in court was.”

Women, understand this. Remember this.

And this:

“So: choking is strangulation. Strangulation causes brain damage that leaves no bruise and accumulates with every occasion. There is no technique that makes it safe, and anyone offering her one on a phone screen is repeating something they read somewhere that was wrong.”

Men Need Sex (fiction from Fighting Words)

We got so tired of hearing that.  Men need sex.  There were so many iterations, so many variations  … 

In 1943, Maslow, in his hierarchy of needs, included sex among the physiological needs that must be satisfied before anything else.  Unfortunately, his theory, along with an unforgettable pyramid illustration, became accepted as fact, men loving both hierarchy and sex, and dominating, along with everything else, the science of psychology.  Worse, psychology was the social science elective most often taken by business students, and the influence of the business worldview is near insurmountable.

Prostitution defenders, porn apologists—they too shouted that men need sex.  Never mind that they might have created the need.

The mantra was used, consciously or not, to justify not only men’s relentless sexual overtures in general, but also specific instances of pressure and coercion.  Rape.  First by husbands of their wives, then by boyfriends of their girlfriends, then by any man of any woman.

It was even used to justify the expectation that we sexualize ourselves.  Not just at night, but during the day, all day, every day.  It became our responsibility to keep men in a constant state of arousal.  If men needed sex, they needed first to be aroused.  Bizarre, really.  If you don’t have an itch, you wouldn’t feel the need to scratch.  Yes, there is pleasure—well, relief—not the same, note—when you scratch an itch, but wouldn’t you rather just avoid getting itchy?  Who would intentionally roll around on a patch of poison ivy?

And of course when I say ‘sex’, I mean ‘sexual intercourse’.  Penis-in-vagina.  Apparently masturbation won’t do.  An equally indefensible stance. 

Which is, of course, why they were so hell-bent on calling it ‘a need’ rather than simply ‘a want’.  Calling something ‘a need’ increases the chance that you’ll have it met.  Saying you need something makes it so much harder for others to refuse to give it to you. Because needs are, well, things one needs—they’re required.  Needs take priority to wants.  And, so, people with needs are important.  And all too many men simply must feel important.

Of course the argument could be made, indeed should be made, that one’s moral obligation to meet another’s needs holds only when to do so is not at one’s own expense.  But we’re talking about women meeting men’s needs.  In a male supremacy—and let’s face it, that describes every country in the world—women are expected to meet men’s needs.  We are, after all, according to the two religions that, combined, claim membership of half the world’s population, made for men.

More than that, we are expected to sacrifice ourselves for others.  Yes, in times of war, young men are also expected to sacrifice themselves for others, but at least to do so in that case comes with payment and honour.  Women are expected to do so daily, throughout their entire lives, with not so much as a thank you.  Let alone a medal and veteran’s benefits.

Case in point: pronatalism.  Despite the risks of pregnancy and labour, not to mention motherhood—loss of actual life in the former, loss of independence and aspirations in the latter—women are expected, pressured, coerced (through the withholding of contraception and abortion) to become pregnant, to go through labour, and, unless one takes drastic action (such as leaving your newborn on a park bench), to be a mother.  If women’s rights—specifically the right to be free of harm and the right to autonomy—were as important as men’s rights, impregnating someone without her explicit and expressed, nay, enthusiastic, consent would be illegal.  Not ‘an accident’.

So it did no good to speak up—and we did, loudly, clearly, and frequently—about women’s wants, women’s desires, women’s preferences.  It did no good to say ‘What about women’s needs?’

And since the argument (about obligation being limited by expense) was not made, at least not by most men, need implied entitlement.  Which simply increased the prevalence of coercion.

Of course many of us responded—screamed, actually—no, you do not need sex.  You need food, water, and shelter, but you do not need sex.  You won’t die without it.  As Signme Uplease said on Feminist Current, “No man has ever died due to a lack of sexual access to women.”

Well, guess what.

In 2014, Elliot Rodger killed himself.  Due to a lack of sexual access to women.  He said as much in the explanation he left: “I decided to go out in Isla Vista in an attempt to lose my virginity before I turned 22.  That was the only thing that could have saved me.  I was giving the female gender one last chance to provide me with the pleasures I deserved from them.  … I will punish all females for … depriving me of sex.” 

Many women argued that Marc Lepine, who in 1989 killed himself, was patient zero.  None of the reports at the time link his death to a lack of sex, but one must keep in mind that most, if not all, of the reporters were male.  (It’s almost always men who write the stories,  edit the stories, ‘make’ the news, manipulate our world view.)  So even though Lepine killed fourteen women, they didn’t link his action to misogyny; they reported it as a crazed shooting, not premeditated femicide.  But any woman who reads the letter Lepine left behind can see quite clearly between the lines—”I have decided to send the feminists, who have always ruined my life, to their Maker.  For seven years, life has brought me no joy …”—that he was a so-called incel and fatally frustrated by his unmet need.

Regardless, similar incidents started occurring.  Many of the men identified their actions as part of the ‘Incel Rebellion’ started by Rodger, and the police identified the incidents as ‘copycat crimes’.  But given the exponential rate at which the incidents were occurring, it was soon apparent that the (male) police had misnamed the incidents.  Rather than imitation, we were seeing infection.  An epidemic.

It was also soon apparent that the infection was affecting not just incels.  Any man who didn’t get sex when he wanted needed it was at risk.  The epidemic became a pandemic.

At first, the prostitution business boomed.  Not that it wasn’t already flourishing better than every other business in the world except porn.  (Though of course, the distinction between the two was becoming more and more … obscure.  Untenable.  Given the cross-over in personnel, business practices—kidnapping, trafficking—and content.)  Mega-brothels such as those in Germany offering an ‘all-you-can-fuck’ option on their menu appeared on every continent, in every country, in every city … 

But the boom didn’t last.  As mentioned above, by mistaken logic, need implied entitlement, and men figured they shouldn’t have to pay for something they were entitled to.  After all, they pointed out, we don’t pay for the air that we breathe.  Nor, typically, the water we need.  That we do have to pay for food, as necessary for survival as air and water, seemed to escape them.  Perhaps because most men didn’t do the grocery shopping.

The porn industry also boomed. The illogical prerequisite need for arousal, remember?  Of course the rational thing would’ve been to just stop watching porn.  But men aren’t very rational.  ‘Course, neither are women, but then we aren’t the ones proclaiming superiority in that regard.

Since the men so often killed women before killing themselves, some fathers armed their daughters.  Alas, this was most often motivated not by love, but by outrage.  At the theft and dishonour.  As in the case of rape, femicide was considered to be a crime against men, not women; in this case, against the deprived fathers, not the deceased daughters.

Happily, since women typically have better hand-eye coordination than men, the girls often shot the boys first.  Surprisingly, in those cases, there was no problem arguing self-defence.  Why now?  Why not when girls and women killed their abusing boyfriends and husbands, and their would-be rapists?  Was it because now the men were about to kill them?  Surely not.  Many an abusing boyfriend/husband ended up killing their girlfriend/wife, and many a would-be rapist would have killed his victim.  Perhaps it was because by this time, there were more women serving as the arresting officers, the prosecutors, the judges and juries.   

In any case, the wives looked on as their husbands armed their daughters, considered the matter, and armed themselves.  Almost overnight ‘domestic abuse’ petered out.  Unfortunately, that meant there would be no justified use of the forementioned arms.  But if the forementioned wives didn’t kill their husbands, the forementioned husbands would, eventually, soon, kill themselves.  The wives figured it was better that way.

Even so, women asked—begged—for stronger gun control and a curfew for men (men seemed more affected at night, but that was probably due to cultural tradition, not the infection), but since the gatekeepers to legislative change were, still, for the most part men, their requests didn’t even get to the point of official debate.  There was no way men would suggest, let alone agree, that their right to bear arms or their freedom of movement—their freedom!—be limited.

So women curfewed themselves.  That is to say, they curfewed themselves more.

In fact, they essentially quarantined themselves, by establishing girls-only schools (and what an unexpected wonder they were!) and women-only businesses, mostly for essentials.  Such places had to have armed protection, but many young women were more than happy to become qualified and provide such protection.

And then something strange happened.  The rampages got shorter.  The men seemed to have less and less time, during which they killed others, before they were overwhelmed by the urge to kill themselves.  Soon, the men were able to kill only themselves.  Yay, mutation.

Of course, not all men.  Not all men were infected.  With the belief that men needed sex, were entitled to sex.  Some seemed to be naturally immune.  Others seemed able to resist.  It became a kind of litmus test.  Many women were unsurprised when their husbands, their boyfriends, became infected.  They were secretly—at first—not so secretly as time went on—pleased, or at least relieved, when said husbands and boyfriends killed themselves.  But many women were surprised.  Dismayed, actually.  Especially when it was their sons who proved to be infected.

Our best minds continued their efforts to understand the infection.   Was it an infection?  If so, was it viral?  Bacterial?  Something else?  Was it contagious?  What caused it in the first place?

Of course typical infections, whether viral or bacterial, are immune to belief.  Which is why many thought it was something else, some sort of prion infection, perhaps.

But the vectors of contagion were unclear.  In fact, the very real possibility of social contagion severely muddied the waters.  We knew that many opinions, beliefs, attitudes, and desires—and the behaviors, the actions, motivated by those opinions, beliefs, attitudes, and desires—were due to a sort of peer pressure rather than to any independent, conscious consideration.  Especially among young people who were plugged into social media sites 24/7.  Could the infection be caused by a sort of social virus?  If so, the cure would be what—social isolation?

Perhaps it wasn’t an infection, per se, but an addiction.  This was one of the leading theories.  We knew that addition could literally rewire the brain, and we certainly knew—well, women certainly knew—men seemed to keep their heads firmly buried in the sand about this—that watching porn was addictive.  We knew that watching porn changed men’s attitudes—toward women, toward the acceptability of violence toward women …  We also knew that smartphone companies had entire departments researching dopamine triggers (a neurological update of the old-fashioned manipulation sought by advertising) in an attempt to get and keep our attention …  It would be no surprise if porn companies had been doing the same.  In which case the addiction to porn would be physiological as well as psychological (though of course, there was no clear distinction between the two).  It did seem that watching porn messed with men’s chemicals, a consequence very likely exacerbated by eating meat, ingesting the steroids fed to livestock …   If this theory were correct, the cure would be simple: stop watching porn.         Not gonna happen. 

Another leading theory, developed by Soong Malm, was that the Y chromosome, deformed from the get-go and long disintegrating, was making a desperate, and final (as it may turn out), bid for survival.  When the Y chromosome disintegrates to a certain point, she hypothesized, a hitherto dormant virus was activated that makes sexual reproduction—and hence survival of the Y chromosome—an urgent need.  The theory was supported by all the selfish gene arguments, popularized by Richard Dawkins, and by the work of the famous, but pseudonymous, TrustYourPerceptions.  Since the end result, in the case of the need being unmet, is the death of the male, it’s obviously a defective strategy, but then we would expect no less from a defective chromosome.  Regardless, this theory similarly doesn’t point to a cure. 

There would be a certain satisfaction in thinking that the cure could not be found because of ongoing, persistent sabotage—for surely every male scientist had a number of assistants, surely at least one of whom was female.  Such sabotage would be even more possible as time went on, because as the male population decreased, so many jobs, including high-level research positions, had to be—could be, finally—filled by women.  It made a difference.  Especially when a certain critical mass was reached.  Eventually whole teams, whole departments, whole companies (mainstream, not just the forementioned small essential ones), were run by women.  Most women were surprised at the change they couldn’t, at first, put their wedding-ringed finger on when they walked into, for example, a bank staffed entirely—entirely, including every single one of the managers—by women.  But some women, mostly radical feminists, were not surprised at all.  Such places were … relaxed.   But we simply do not know.  Whether sabotage is occurring.

What we do know is that few women are upset by the lack of a cure.

After all, most crime has been committed by men.  Most violence has been committed by men.  Men, by and large, have created and sustained the porn industry which overwhelmingly portrays women being hurt and humiliated.  As entertainment. 

The truth of it is that men are not only destructive, they are self-destructive.  Case in point: what they have done to our planet.  Its food, its water, its very air.  So, the mass suicides are just a personal expression of what they’ve been doing all along. 

So, we’re just … waiting.

from The End of Men, Hanna Rosin

Recommended! 

A few quotes and notes …

“Women … make up almost 60 percent today [of pharmacists]…” p118

And the average income was $110,000/yr (and that was in 2012!)

“‘Get a college degree!  If you get a degree we will give you a shitload of money … and yet men are failing to get the message.’  Why are men failing to get the message? … It’s a mystery that Hannah’s mom, Dian, thinks she has figured out.   … ‘Lazy,’ she calls them.  ‘They don’t like to think too hard.’ ”  p126

“Women ear almost 60 percent of all bachelor’s degrees … 60 percent of master’s degrees, about half of all law and medical degrees, and about 44 percent of all business degrees.  In 2009, for the first time women earned more PhDs than men … ” p149, 150

And that’s not just in the U.S.  The author provides similar numbers for Norway, Australia, Europe, Latin America, the Caribbean, Central Asia, the Arab States.

“Guys high-five one another when they get a C, while girls beat themselves up over a B-minus.  Guys play video games in their dorm rooms while girls crowd the library.  Girls get their degrees with no drama, while guys seem always in danger of drifting away.” p157

The description of a woman’s finance (p158)—he sounds like a teenager.

“Boys of every race and background have a much higher incidence of school disciplinary and behavior problems and suspensions, and they spend far fewer hours doing homework. … Teachers consistently rate girls as being less disruptive and putting in more effort than boys in high school.”  p163

And this has probably been the case either because they’re just less mature than girls, or because they don’t need to put in the work, because of cronyism and sexism.

“What used to be considered a marker of leadership—the ability to ac quickly, to remain in a state of pumped-up confidence—was recast as a liability.  At the same time, what was long viewed as a feminine weakness—hesitating, waiting for outside feedback and confirmation—now looked like a critical life-saving skill.  Researchers have even started looking into the relationship between testosterone and excessive risk-taking [duh], trying to discern whether groups of men, in some basic hormonal way, spur one another to make reckless decisions.”  p201

Ya think?

“The picture emerging is a mirror image of the traditional gender map: men and markets on the side of the irrational and overemotional, and women on the side of the cool and levelheaded.” p201-2

“In May 2012, when Wall Street was scratching its head about how JPMorgan could have made the disastrous bet that led to a $6 billion loss, The New York Times came up with a novel and very relatable explanation.  The bank’s chief investment officer, Ina Drew, had been overseeing the team responsible for the bet. … Using coach-like post-heroic  leadership skills, she kept the traders’ huge egos in check.  In morning meetings, she would ‘huddle’ with them and get them to outline the risks they  would be incurring in trades that day.  … But Drew developed Lyme disease in 2010 and missed huge chunks of time at work.  The morning meetings turned into ‘shouting matches’ in her absence … Egos raged and ‘everything spiraled’ …” p202-3

Load more