Cocktails with the Cult: Rumnog

The holidays are coming, and that means it’s eggnog season! Fuck you pumpkin spice, eggnog is where it’s at. It’s got the spice of pumpkin spice in it, without all that healthy pumpkin. Vegetables are for losers–cholesterol-laden eggs are sooooooo much more awesome.

Eggnog is tasty on it’s own and it also makes an awesome pie. (Because fuck you pumpkin.) But it really shines when you put booze in it. I mean, what ISN’T better with booze in it?

A lot of people I know like whiskey in their eggnog. But me? I prefer rum. Spiced rum, to be specific. And I call it Rumnog. The best part of this recipe is you can serve it cold, or, if you are constantly shivering like I was before they put me into instant menopause, you can heat up the eggnog first and then mix it with the rum. And as usual, you can make pitchers of this stuff if you’re serving at a party.

4 oz. eggnog (I am partial to Darigold’s eggnog, but use whatever you like)
1.5 oz rum

Stir and serve in a mug. That’s it, that’s the drink. We’re you expecting something more complex? We’re talking about me here, people, I don’t do complex. I do FUCKING DELICIOUS.


Jesus, pinktober, would you just fucking end already? No? Alright, then let’s talk about sexualization of cancer. You started this, pinktober, and now I’m going to finish it.

Yes, hetero male world, we know–you love breasts. You just do. I get that. That’s why they’re fucking EVERYWHERE. You’re like fucking zombies only instead of looking for bbbbrrraaaaaiiiiiiinnnssss, you’re looking for BRRREEEEAAAAASSSSSTTTTTTSSSSSS.

But here is the thing about my breast cancer: it’s not in my breast anymore. Because I don’t HAVE that breast anymore. It’s been cut off. Still turned on?
No? Of course not, because making cancer about breasts is FUCKING CREEPY. Seriously, it’s cancer for the love of Christ. It’s not hot.

Except during pinktober. Because pinktober isn’t about people with cancer. It’s about marketing. It’s about selling t-shirts and making your fracking company seem less evil for destroying the planet and making people sick. Because breasts are sexy, and sex sells, and sex also distracts people from the shitty things your company does. Who can think about the carcinogens you’re pumping into our water supply when they’ve got breasts to think about? BRRREEEEAAAAASSSSSTTTTTTSSSSSS.

Ever wonder why there isn’t a month for esophageal cancer awareness? Have you ever SEEN a photo of an esophagus? Was it sexy? No? There you have it.

What really gets me about slogans like “save the boobies” and “cop a feel” and all the other “Hahaha, I am so witty, I made breast cancer into a sexy joke” crap that happens every October is that it doesn’t seem to be about keeping women alive or curing disease. It’s about breasts, and how important they are to heterosexual men, and shouldn’t we do something to save the breasts, because BRRREEEEAAAAASSSSSTTTTTTSSSSSS. Where are the people attached to those breasts in those conversations? Oh right, we’re NOT in those conversations, because women are nothing more than the sum of our parts. Parts that sometimes get cut off as part of our treatment for cancer. And we can’t have that happening, can we? Because BRRREEEEAAAAASSSSSTTTTTTSSSSSS are what’s important, not the people they are attached to.

I have a feeling that’s also why there is such a focus on early detection. It doesn’t ACTUALLY save lives, if you look at the data. But if you find your cancer early, you might get to have a lumpectomy instead of a mastectomy, and then your booby is saved. And what’s more important than saving BRRREEEEAAAAASSSSSTTTTTTSSSSSS? Certainly not research that saves actual lives. Lives are boring–boobs are hot.

Look. I know there are people in the marketing world who aren’t assholes. I know at least some of you must have a fucking conscience. Men of Madison Avenue, please stop living up to your stereotype, and for the love of all that is holy, just stop making my cancer into some creepy sex fetish thing. It’s fucking gross.

Beth’s Classic Film Club: Sunset Boulevard

You guys! Sunset Boulevard. I can’t believe we haven’t done this film yet. Like, seriously, this is one of the all-time most awesome movies ever. It’s dark and creepy and it drips with sarcasm, and it has some of the best dialogue of any film ever. How have we not done this film yet? Let’s do it now.

Basic plot: William Holden is a struggling writer who can’t make ends meet. Gloria Swanson is an aging former movie star who doesn’t realize the “former” part. He agrees to be her lover and she begins supporting him financially. The whole film is shot as a flashback, because in the opening scene, we see him dead, lying face down in a swimming pool. Dark.

Gloria Swanson is incredible in this film. She has completely lost touch with reality and believes she is still beloved by audiences the world over. Denial: not just a river in Africa. And yet, at some level, she MUST know she has aged and become irrelevant, because she is trying so desperately to hide her wrinkles, and she so desperately needs William Holden to love her, because no one else does. She is the epitome of creepy.

Let’s talk about William Holden for a minute. William Holden, so dreamy. So charming. And yet, so sarcastic. In fact, his sarcasm is so modern-feeling, you almost forget you’re watching a black and white movie. And that’s because Billy Wilder co-wrote it, and Billy Wilder was a fucking genius.

I’ve always thought a remake of this film would be cool. Like, replace Gloria Swanson with one of the many former actors whose careers were ruined by drugs or alcohol, trying to launch a comeback on the reality show circuit and peddling a shitty script that everyone is too polite to tell them is crap. And a struggling writer who wrote one good film and nothing since, and now can’t afford the rent in overpriced LA. It’s a timeless story, isn’t it? I also think it’s a film that could take on new dimensions if you mixed up the gender of the characters. A dead woman floating face down in a pool feels different than a dead man. And age is experienced differently by actors than by actresses.

Alright y’all, get your popcorn and your box wine, and let me know what you think in the comments!

On Anger

When I first got diagnosed with cancer, I was fucking pissed. I feel like people say “I was fucking pissed” and sometimes what they mean is, “I was seriously annoyed.” As in “That dude stole the parking spot I was waiting for, I was fucking pissed.” That’s not what I mean by fucking pissed. I mean FUCKING PISSED. Rage-filled, shaking with anger, ready to beat the shit out of those asshole cancer cells. I think I actually frightened my oncologist when I explained to him how I’m channeling Frank Underwood from House of Cards and that I was going to (spoiler alert if you’re one of the 5 people on earth who haven’t seen Season 2 yet) calmly push my cancer in front of a metro train and walk away. Because, when I’m fucking pissed, it’s a little bit terrifying.

Now, though? It’s been more than 6 months since my diagnosis, and I’m not mad anymore. I’m just not. Disappointed? Yes. Frustrated? Often. Scared? Hells yeah. But angry? Not really. And when I read stuff about cancer being a war, and like, really angry “I am going to fuck you up, stupid asshole cancer” posts, like, I don’t know. It just doesn’t resonate with me anymore.

And I think maybe part of it is this: there are wars like World War II, where we went in, we fucked up the Nazis and Japan, and those who survived came home. (Mostly. I mean, there are still bases in Germany and Japan, but like, nobody is shooting at anybody there anymore.) That’s what non-metastatic, non-recurrent cancer is like. You go in, you fuck cancer up, and you’re like “Goodbye asshole.” Remission is permanent for the majority of people with breast cancer. The Nazis never came back. Oh sure, you’ve gotta be vigilant and take your meds and watch out for those Neo-Nazis who think they can somehow bring about a Fourth Reich, and you’ve got to deal with the emotional trauma that your battle caused you, which I don’t mean to minimize at all, because PTSD is no joke. But facing death isn’t part of your daily existence anymore. It’s easier to stay pissed off during a battle of that duration, to sustain your anger.

Then there are wars like the ones we’ve been fighting near the Persian Gulf. I mean, we fought the first Gulf War, and we were like, “Hooray, it’s over, we won, and it was relatively easy!” And then 10 years later, oh wait, we have to back and do it again, only this time, it’s an ugly 8-year slog. And then 3 years after we get out of that mess, oh look, we’re headed back there again. That’s what cancer that recurs is like. You get all the PTSD and none of the “but you don’t have to take poison ever again” benefits that the WWII vets got. I don’t personally know anyone who’s had a recurrence, so, I’m not really sure if the anger comes back with a recurrence–those of you who have been there, tell us in the comments.

And then there are wars like the war on drugs. It just goes on and on and on, and it’s not likely to end in my lifetime. And everyone sort of forgets it’s going on anymore unless there’s like a big battle between the cartels or something, because, it’s just part of the background noise of our lives. That’s what metastatic cancer is like. It’s hard to stay angry when you know it’s just going to keep on going. Rage isn’t a big part of my world anymore (other than when I get shots that make me go hormone-insane). It’s just too hard to sustain that level of anger when you know it’s just never going to be over.

I think anger can be useful. It motivates people to take action, like, if Lucy Burns hadn’t been angry, she never would have accomplished all she did. But as a patient, there’s only so far my anger can take me. And frankly, I’m gonna be living with cancer for the rest of my life. I don’t want to live the rest of my life feeling pissed off all the time. But even if I did want to be angry, it’s just not there anymore.

I feel like that sounds defeatist. I think there is an expectation when we talk about badass cancer warriors that we’re supposed to be like some rageaholics drill sergeant screaming in cancer’s face or something. There are a lot of things cancer patients are supposed to be–bald, sickly-looking, but self-confident, positive, but not too positive, there has to be room for rage too. But 6 months of this shit, I have learned that cancer looks different on every person that has it. Just like every parent is different, and our choices are informed by our circumstances, every cancer patient is different, and there is no right way to look or feel.

One of my favorite cancer books is Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person, by Miriam Engleberg. She says all this better than I do, and you should read her book.

Cocktails with the Cult: Chocolate Raspberry Birthday Martini

You guys may or may not have known that my birthday was last week. How did I spend it? Inventing a new cocktail, that’s how! I was sitting on my couch surfing the internet and thought “Hey. I want a drink. And it’s my birthday, so it’s OK to start drinking at 3:30 in the afternoon.” Don’t judge–what’s the worst it can do, give me cancer? (It’s OK to laugh. Dark humor is the best kind of humor.)

So I thought, “Hmmm, what kind of drink.” I was out of box wine, and not in the mood for a dirty martini–I thought about it, and I really wanted something sweet. So I went to the liquor cabinet, and saw a bottle of Chambord, and thought “Raspberry IS nice. But it’s even better with chocolate.” Then I spotted the bottle of creme de cacao, and thought, “BAM.” But the two on their own were waaaaaaaaay too sweet, so then I thought, “Vodka makes everything better.” And thus the Chocolate Raspberry Birthday Martini was born.

1 oz creme de cacao

1/2 oz Chambord

2 oz vodka

I’m lazy and the vodka was in the freezer, so I didn’t even shake it with ice or anything, but if you’re feeling fancy, get down with your bad self. Serve it in a martini glass. Cheers!

Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day

As we continue the long uncomfortable slog through Pinktober, where nearly every day brings a new crassly marketed product, we now find ourselves on the 13th, which is the day we dedicate to learning about metastatic breast cancer. For those of you who haven’t been reading my blog for a while, metastatic breast cancer is the kind I have, where the cancer has spread outside your breast area and attached itself to other body parts. In my case, we’re talking bones, but it can attach to all sorts of other places too.

Last week I became a traitor to the breast cancer community by saying I don’t think breast cancer should have its own month. Today I become a traitor to the metastatic breast cancer community by saying that I am really uncomfortable about this whole metastatic awareness thing. Before everyone gets their pitch forks, let me explain.

The Boy was a preemie, and I do a lot of stuff around World Prematurity Day, because there are still waaaaaay too many doctors performing medically unnecessary early inductions and c-sections, and the consequences to babies born early are real. So, it’s important that women become aware of those risks, so they can tell their doctors to go fuck themselves when they suggest a medically unnecessary induction at 38 weeks. (Obviously I am not talking about the ones that ARE medically necessary. I’m talking about “I’ll be on vacation next week, so let’s get that baby out now.” Yes, that stuff still goes on. A lot.) Awareness about prematurity is important because pregnant women actually can make choices that improve health outcomes for their babies.

Metastatic breast cancer, however, is not something you can prevent with more knowledge. Like, there is literally so little we know about metastatic breast cancer still, that there is nothing I can suggest you do to prevent it. I mean, eat healthy, exercise, whatever you do to hopefully reduce your risk of cancer generally? All that is good stuff, but none of it will guarantee you don’t get breast cancer, and none of it guarantees that your cancer won’t become metastatic. Even breast cancers caught early can and do come back years later as metastatic breast cancer. In fact, roughly 1 in 4 women who have early stage breast cancer will later develop metastatic breast cancer. Why? Nobody fucking knows. So, what good is awareness of metastatic breast cancer going to do you if we don’t even know how to prevent it?

Besides, what I, a person with metastatic breast cancer, need is not awareness. What I need is some scientist to figure out a cure, or at least, a way to keep me alive that doesn’t involve nausea, making my hair fall out, or mood swings that terrify everyone around me. Research is fucking expensive, and we know all that the pink shit you see at the store isn’t going to actually fund much research–it’s mostly going to pointless awareness campaigns that do nothing to help people like me. Actually, it’s mostly going to line the pockets of the person selling it, and a tiny portion is going to awareness campaigns that do nothing to help people like me.

So, I’m going to pretend that what today is really about isn’t awareness of my flavor of cancer. It’s awareness of organizations that fund metastatic breast cancer research–so you know where to send your money to make sure it actually helps people with metastatic breast cancer. If you are interested in donating to the cause of breast cancer, please don’t just go out and buy pink crap–it’s too hard to know if your money is going to research or not. Instead, donate to one of the organizations listed below (note: they did not ask me to write about them) or to another organization that funds metastatic breast cancer research. We’re the ones dying–cancer that remains in the breast will not kill you, it’s when it turns metastatic that shit gets real–and our cut of the research pie is smaller than our percentage of people with breast cancer.

First up is the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. They do just what it sounds like–raise money and spend it on breast cancer research, including metastatic breast cancer research. 88% of what they raise goes to research. That’s a shitload more to research than the big breast cancer charity whose name I will not mention for fear of them suing me. Don’t laugh, they seriously sue people for saying “for the cure” without permission. Oh fuck, now I’m going to get sued…oh well, then I guess I might as well mention that they also spend a way smaller portion of their money on research than most people realize. BRCF, on the other hand, funds research.

Next is the Mary Kay Foundation. These guys have two causes: domestic violence prevention, and women’s cancer research. This year alone, they gave to 4, count ’em, FOUR metastatic breast cancer research projects. You can donate directly (and earmark the money for cancer research, although domestic violence prevention is a pretty damn important cause too), or if you really must shop this pinktober, you can talk to your friend who sells Mary Kay stuff about products that have proceeds going to the Mary Kay Foundation.

Now, if you are curious about metastatic breast cancer and just want to know more, even though there is no information that will help you avoid this shitty condition? Well hey, I have a resource for that too. It’s the Metastatic Breast Cancer Network, and there’s tons of info on their website. I always find something interesting on their Facebook page, too. Their mission is to advocate for folks with metastatic breast cancer, like me. Your dollars won’t be wasted there either if you wanted to send some their way, but they’ll be spent on advocacy for people with metastatic breast cancer, rather than directly on research.

Just a couple more weeks of pinktober to suffer through. I think I can I think I can…

Worst Wife Ever Moment: Medically Induced Menopause

Small cancer update: I had my radiation, it’s done, and now I am waiting for the effects of radiation to go away so I can have a PET CT to see how much cancer is left. That’ll take a couple months, so in the meantime, I am taking an aromatase inhibitor called anastrozole, and I had a shot called leuprolide that shuts down my ovaries so they stop making the estrogen that my cancer loves so much. Which means, I had a shot that suddenly put me into menopause. Like, I had chemo-induced menopause already, but now, it’s like, all of a sudden, for real.

This is the point where the people who live with someone who is menopausal say “Instant menopause?!?! HOLY FUCK RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!”

Two days after the shot, after a particularly ugly-crying session just before bed, I sent my oncologist this email:

“Holy mood swings Batman! How long can I expect to be riding the crazy train from that injection? (The Hubs is really hoping the answer is ‘not much longer.’ Poor guy has a cold AND an insane wife.)”

My oncologist asked for details and asked if I had already begun taking the anastrozole, so I wrote this back.

“Lemme see, like, unreasonably angry about things that I know I am being unreasonably angry about but I am still angry, then crying because I am an asshole for being unreasonably angry, then laughing at myself for crying. Like, in the span of 5 minutes. Hubs, does that about cover it?

Yep, taking the anastrozole. (Which my iPad wanted to autocorrect to astrodome. Which is absurdly funny to me right now. Don’t worry, I’ll be unreasonably angry again here in a minute or two.)


Like, I am not even making that up. That’s literally what went through my brain. It was like the worst PMS I ever had, multiplied by infinity. One of the things that made me angry? That The Hubs had a cold. As if he got one on purpose? The amazing part is how, as I said, I knew I was being unreasonably angry. Like, the rational part of my brain was still there going “Damn, girl, you CRAZY” while the rest of my brain was like “SHUT UP I AM NOT CRAZY…OH FUCK MAYBE I AM CRAZY, I AM A HORRIBLE PERSON…HAHAHA I AM CRAZY HAHAHA!”

What. The. Fuck.

Maybe it’s not quite this dramatic for people who do this naturally. Otherwise, I am confused why our prisons aren’t more full of menopausal women who murdered their husbands because they got a cold. Like, for reals, you guys, this shit is not for sissies.

Anyway, after reading that crazy, my doctor was clearly terrified that I had turned into some kind of rage-bear and decided he’d better make sure nobody got mauled. I mean, who wouldn’t be terrified by my email? I obviously wasn’t kidding about going round the bend. So he wrote back a very kind “please don’t hate me for constantly making you feel like shit” email with some proposed solutions. (You know, it’s gotta be hard being an oncologist, because, yeah, all the treatments they have at least come with the possibility of making you feel like shit, and frankly, most of the ones I’ve had actually HAVE made me feel like shit.)

We exchanged a coupe more emails about my hopefully temporary insanity before the whole email conversation devolved into The Hubs and my doctor and I exchanging Youtube clips to express ideas. Because we’re all GenXers and we communicate via postmodernism. (If you can express complex ideas using nothing but YouTube clips and animated gifs, you were probably born between 1960 and 1980.) My favorite is this gem that my doctor shared. You’re welcome.

The good news is, after another day, the mood swings subsided, and nobody was murdered. The bad news is, there is a very real possibility this shit could happen again at some point in my treatment. Everyone should now send their condolences, along with protective gear, to The Hubs.

Fuck Off, Pinktober

This is my first breast cancer awareness month as someone with cancer, but already I hate it. I mean, I REALLY fucking hate it. It brings out all the cancersplainers, and Jesus, the marketing.

When I was pregnant with The Boy, I obsessed over which baby things to buy. Which car seat was best? Which crib? Which stroller? Which baby bottles? I felt like if I chose wrong, everyone would think I was a bad mom. And conversely, if I got it right, everyone would know I was an awesome mom. Which was crap, of course, but marketing is powerful stuff.

It feels the same with all this pink stuff in October. As if you have to buy shit with pink ribbons on it so you can prove you are a good person who is supporting cancer patients like me. Or even more absurdly, post pink ribbons on Facebook and Twitter to “raise awareness.”

Look, if you are my friend, I know you care. I know it because you brought us dinner when I had chemo, or offered to take the kids on a play date, or made me a quilt, or sent me a note saying you were thinking of me. You don’t have to get with the pink marketing to prove you hate cancer. I already know you do.

Besides, barely any of the money you spend on pink crap is going to the research to cure my cancer. The little bit that actually flows to real cancer charities is often spent on education and awareness programs. And of the few dollars going to research, only a tiny fraction goes to metastatic research. I mean, thanks for the hundredth of a cent from that $3 bottle of water you bought and all…but if you want to buy a $1 bottle without a pink ribbon instead, I won’t be offended.

And posting that pink ribbon to your Facebook page? Yeah, that does nothing. Seriously, is there anyone left on the planet who isn’t aware of breast cancer? Like, seriously, we need a whole month of pink ribbons and inspirational Facebook posts to make us go “oh wow, I had no idea you could get cancer in your breast until I saw that pink ribbon in my news feed”? Seriously?

Also, and maybe this makes me kind of a traitor to the breast cancer world, but I don’t see why breast cancer needs its own marketing separate from other cancers. Like, I have tumors on my bones too. Cancer is cancer. As Reverend Al Sharpton said, “The most insane thing for sick people to do is to lay up in the hospital debating about who’s the sickest. We all need to unite and get well together.” When we single out one type of cancer for special treatment, it divides our community, instead of helping us all get well together.

I could go on, but this blogger really said it better than I could have. Go read her words, and then feel free to change your profile picture back from that pink ribbon to a picture of your kids covered in finger paint. Because THAT picture will really make this cancer patient smile.

Feminist Warrior Fridays: Lucy Burns

You guys, it’s been a long time since I wrote about my pal Julia Ward Howe, whose picture is the one here on this page. I love reading and writing about women from the past, especially if they are people I had not learned about before. Because, first, I love a good story with an interesting heroine, don’t you? And second, I find inspiration when I read about women who did cool stuff. It makes me want to do cool stuff too. So, I am going to do a series of posts on feminist warriors, and I’m going to try to make their stories as interesting as possible for you without just totally making shit up, because truth is usually more interesting than fantasy anyway.

Now, for some of these women, you may say “What the fuck, she is not even remotely a feminist warrior.” That is because my definition of feminist may be different from yours. Let me give you an example. Julia, my pal in the picture, was really into motherhood and family. Some might say that for a large part of her life, she was just a housewife who wrote. If she lived today, people would say, “Wow, she is really into traditional female roles.” But for the era she lived in, she was a badass feminist warrior. Call me crazy, but I think we understand the people of the past best when we understand the context they lived in, instead of based on today’s values. I hope the feminists of the future will look at my life and say “she was ahead of her time” instead of “she was behind our time.”

First up today is the AMAZING Lucy Burns, who nobody would say wasn’t a feminist warrior.

Holy shit, you guys, Lucy was a badass. I don’t even know where to begin with Lucy. I mean, check out this list of colleges she attended. (And no, she didn’t get expelled from them—she went to so many because she wanted to learn ALL THE THINGS.)

Yale University

Columbia University

Oxford University

University of Berlin

University of Bonn

Vassar College

Then she took all that education and said, “Dude, why the fuck don’t women have the vote? This shit is messed up, I’m clearly as smart as these dudes in class with me, and they can vote and I can’t? What in the actual fuck?” So, she joined the women’s suffrage movement, starting in England. Now, if you don’t know much about the suffrage movement, then let me explain about English suffragists. They were hardcore. Like, seriously, those women weren’t fucking around. Lots of them got arrested during the time Lucy was with them, including Lucy herself. Later on, the suffragists in the UK turned seriously violent–they burnt down rich people’s houses, they smashed in shop windows, they sent letter bombs. Lucy had left for America by then, but the idea that you need to show the world you’re serious about your rights was definitely part of Lucy’s belief structure.

Speaking of getting arrested, Lucy met Alice Paul (who was also a badass) when both of them got arrested and were hanging out at the police station, and Lucy was all, “Hey, you’ve got an American flag pin, I’m a yank too!” And then they became BFFs. They went back to America and joined the American suffrage movement, but had trouble convincing the old-timers who were running it, like Carrie Chapman Catt, that they should get hardcore like the British suffragists. So, Lucy and Alice were all “Fuck it, we’ll do it ourselves” and formed their own suffrage organization, eventually called the National Woman’s Party.

And that’s when shit got real. Like, they protested in front of the White House every day, with snarky banners that said stuff like “Kaiser Wilson, take the beam out of your own eye” and threw President Wilson’s own words back at him, like “We shall fight for the things which we have always carried nearest our hearts–for democracy, for the right of those who submit to authority to have a voice in their own governments.” That would be the early 20th century equivalent of throwing down. It pissed the president and his people off enough that they ordered the protesters to be arrested for “obstructing traffic” (which they weren’t, they were on the sidewalk and not even blocking pedestrian traffic).

Lucy got arrested along with lots of other suffragists from the NWP, and organized hunger strikes and protests among the prisoners. The prison officials force-fed her, and handcuffed her with her arms up in the air and left her there overnight, and did all kinds of bad shit to her. Funny, none of that convinced her to change her mind, so when they’d let her out of prison, she’d go right back out and protest again. I think if she was alive today, she’d say “Because fuck you, that’s why.”

Honestly, I don’t think the 19th Amendment would have gotten passed without her. Seriously. And when it passed and she was like “My work here is done” and she withdrew from public life and went to church and hung out with her niece instead. Because I’m pretty sure she’d earned a fucking break, amiright?

Lucy was most famously portrayed by Frances O’Conner in the amazing HBO biopic Iron Jawed Angels. Which was really more about Alice Paul than about Lucy, but was still awesome. Especially the cinematography.

If you’ve got a Feminist Warrior you’d like me to feature on Feminist Warrior Fridays, drop her name in the comments!