I yelled at my husband last night. Not pick-up-your-socks yell. Not how-could-you-ignore-that-red-light yell. This was real yelling. This was 30 minutes of from-the-gut yelling. Triggered by a small, thoughtless, dismissive, annoyed, patronizing comment. Really small. A micro-wave that triggered a hurricane. I blew. Hard and fast. And it terrified me. I’m still terrified by what I felt and what I said. I am almost 70 years old. I am a grandmother. Yet in that roiling moment, screaming at my husband as if he represented every clueless male on the planet (and I every angry woman of 2018), I announced that I hate all men and wish all men were dead. If one of my grandchildren yelled something that ridiculous, I’d have to stifle a laugh.
A man behaving this way would be accused of domestic abuse. And John Sexton’s comment is on point: “Someone needs to say ‘get a grip’ and it might as well be me.”
Nobody makes the case for patriarchy as persuasively as the feminists.
Related (From Ed): “If somebody starts a Go Fund Me account to pay for Mr. Brown’s tab at his local bar, I’ll kick in,” Rod Dreher writes.