Dreaming of the Patriarchy

So ever since Alito got confirmed, I'm having all these dreams about being oppressed. (Help, help, I'm being oppressed!) They've all been especially vivid since the pneumonia. No doubt something about the lack of oxygen to the brain. (Insert your own joke here.)

Last night's was splendid -- I was late to work, the house was appallingly filthy -- water on the floor, dust balls everywhere, dishes stacked around, and mr. delagar had decided to cut a record with some guys he knew. One of the guys had about fifteen children, all under the age of seven. (Many sets of infant twins were involved.) He had brought them all with him, because his wife was out volunteering somewhere. All these sets of twins were lying about on the filthy wet floor, or crawling about, or sitting blinking stupidly in their jamma sets. I've got 15 minutes to get to work before my first class starts. Some of these infants look, frankly, premature. As in, you know, five month old fetuses. Fused eyes and all.

"Shouldn't someone be dealing with these children?" I demand, of the guys who are, with mr. delagar, working on the record.

Their father smiles patronizingly at me and says they're fine. "They can handle themselves," he says.

Fine, I think. Fuck it. I have to work. They ain't my kids.

I start to pick my way through the crowded floor, covered with infants -- it looks like way more than fifteen by this point -- and clip one on the head with the side of my shoe. It starts to wail. Well, I have to stop and deal with it then, don't I? Even an arch feminist can't kick an infant in the head and not comfort it.

"I need some help," I say to mr. delagar. "I have to get to work."

"I'm cutting a record here," he says.

The meaning of this dream, I submit to everyone out there in the blogosphere, is perfectly obvious.