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What we talk about when we talk about pockets

Oh my gosh, seriously, this is why I buy men's clothes. A lot.

Originally posted by swan_tower at What we talk about when we talk about pockets
Originally posted by kylecassidy at What we talk about when we talk about pockets
This post is about pockets, feminism, design, autonomy and common sense. Please feel free to repost or link to it if you know people who'd benefit from the discussion.

A few weeks ago trillian_stars and I were out somewhere and she asked "Oooh, can I get a cup of coffee?" and I thought "why are you asking me? You don't need permission." But what I discovered was that her clothes had no pockets, so she had no money with her.

Mens clothes have pockets. My swimsuits have pockets. All of them do, and it's not unusual, because, what if you're swimming in the ocean and you find a fist full of pirate booty in the surf? You need somewhere to put it. Men are used to carrying stuff in their pockets, you put money there, you put car keys there. With money and car keys come power and independence. You can buy stuff, you can leave. The idea of some women's clothes not having pockets is baffling, but it's worse than that -- it's patriarchal because it makes the assumption that women will either carry a handbag, or they'll rely on men around them for money and keys and such things. (I noticed this also when Neil & Amanda were figuring out where her stuff had to go because she had no pockets.) Where do women carry tampons? Amanda wondered, In their boyfriend's pockets, Neil concluded.

I then noticed that none of trillian_stars' running clothes had pockets. Any pockets. Which is (as they always say on "Parking Wars") ridikulus. Who leaves the house with nothing? (It's not a rhetorical question, I actually can't think of anybody).

We fixed some of this by getting this runners wrist wallet from Poutfits on Etsy -- it holds money, ID, keys ... the sort of stuff you'd need. Plus you can wipe your nose on it. It solves the running-wear problem, but not the bigger problem.





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The bigger problem is that people who design women's fashions are still designing pants and jackets that have no pockets. In fact, this jacket we got last December has ... no pockets. It's not a question of lines or shape, it's a question of autonomy.




Clickenzee to Embiggen



So I'm asking my friends who design women's clothes to consider putting pockets in them, they can be small, they can be out of the way, they can be inside the garment, but space enough to put ID, and cash and bus tokens. And maybe a phone. (And if you can design a surreptitious tampon stash, I'm sure Neil & Amanda & a lot of other people would appreciate it as well.)








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Baustrom.

So in my dream I am driving down the interstate (71) to a meeting somewhere. I leave in plenty of time, and while driving, think of other things, like my current book-in-progress, my weaving, the sunlight, the cornfields (71 is cornfields on both sides for a long while; I always liked to drive that road when the sunbeams would fall on the far-spaced farmhouses and make them light up), and etc. You know, you settle back in the car on a long drive on a familiar road and kind of daydream. Or cardream, I suppose. One portion of your mind is paying attention; the other is busy elsewhere.

Anyway, so I'm driving along, and suddenly, I'm... not anywhere familiar. The cornfields are still there, but there's a city up ahead; I look for the familiar Columbus landmarks, but this city is not Columbus. I'm still on 71, but I don't recognize anything.

And I can't remember where I was driving to, either.

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By Any Other Name Parts 7 & 8 and THE END

7.



Her role was still small. For safety's sake, it was decided that Abby wouldn't go home that night, and Madame Mim graciously offered her a room after a moment's conversation with Toby.

By the time Abby walked back to her booth, it was late afternoon. Grey greeted her with a stack of money and she greeted Toby with a kiss. They had not worn their masks on the trip back; at her question, Toby had said that the Hunter couldn't possibly get to Colin inside Madame Mim's, and not to worry.

Abby couldn't help but worry. What if they failed? She didn't quite understand the concept of the story they had talked about; she knew that people came to the RenFaire because they wanted a show, but what if Colin died?

They were all in this together, Toby had said. But he hadn't really explained. Abby wasn't sure she wanted an explanation.


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By Any Other Name Part 6

"Are there any real wizards here?" Abby had asked before leaving Madame Mim's teashop and returning to her booth with the note tucked securely in her pocket.

"They tend to gravitate towards these things," Colin said. "Usually they're the ones who look like they belong in their persona--in the true sense of the word."  

"And they wouldn't be willing to help you," Abby had asked.

Colin had smiled at her; the same smile he'd used when Madame Mim had told him the Hunter would have to get through her first. "Not without something in exchange, and I have nothing to give them in exchange for their help."

"Not unless they need the services of a vampire who can juggle razor sharp silver knives while blindfolded," Matt had added.


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By Any Other Name Part 5

"A duel," Abby repeated, and then said it again, since he was lying in bed, unable to sit up, presumably half-dead from the attack the night before. "A duel."

"I'll be fine by tomorrow morning," Colin said.

"The Faire's only open on weekends," Abby reminded him.

"But this is a holiday weekend," Matt said. "So we're open tomorrow, too."

Abby had forgotten about the holidays. There were only two of them during the Faire's run, and she'd been so frazzled and busy that they'd slipped her mind completely. "Oh. Right. But--a duel?"


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By Any Other Name Part 4

The campground was, of course, deserted. The campfires cold; the RVs locked up for the day, and the tents zippered shut. Abby saw no one and heard nothing amiss except for a dog's frenzied yapping somewhere amid the small group of vintage pop-up trailers.

The jester was not in evidence, but as she moved down the gravel path, she heard a snatch of music. A radio. Somewhere up ahead.

And then she heard a door slam shut, slightly echoing in the silence. And footsteps along the gravel path.


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By Any Other Name Part 3

Part 3

She went home. She wasn't sure what else she could do. But all through the night and into the early morning she tossed and turned, seeing Colin's face and all the blood; watching the two pirates run across the parking lot to where he lay.

When she pulled into the lot the next morning, she half-expected to see it cordoned off with police tape. But there was no tape and no sign at all of Colin, save for a slightly scorched patch of grass right under the bushes, and the charred remnants of what looked like--

Abby crouched down and picked up the charred piece of wood. One end was flattened, the rest crumbling, but it was obviously not firewood, and even more obviously not from a nearby tree. It was her bloodwood phang. The same one the pirate in the frock coat had purchased.

She stared down at the charred patches of grass. Had someone tried to burn the evidence away? But evidence of what? And why use her phang?


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By Any Other Name Part 2

She sold two more bead spindles ("Hair sticks!") before the fanfare signaled the end of the day. At one point, she had a crowd of three people watching her spin, but not a single one of them purchased anything. While watching the buskers, she wondered if it would help if she put her hat out and sprinkled some coins in it. Maybe that way she'd make back the cost of the booth money.

It took her a little while to pack up her wares; the permanent booth owners could lock up their stock and sleep in the tiny lofts at the top of each fanciful building, but the newer vendors--those with tents--had to tear down each night and set up again the next morning. By the time she'd loaded everything up into her car, the sun had set and most of the faire folk who were staying behind had gathered around the nightly bonfire.


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By Any Other Name

By Any Other Name, Part 1



"It's called a phang," Abby said for the twentieth time in an hour. "A supported spindle."

"For what?" the barbarian asked. Or maybe he was supposed to be a Viking; she wasn't quite sure. Vikings weren't exactly welcome in Medieval England--neither were barbarians, for that matter. But the Renaissance Festival had changed a lot since she'd been there last time. More magic and fairies; less historical accuracy.

"For spinning yarn," Abby said, and picked up her demonstration spindle. "Would you like me to show you?"


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