“WHAT ARE YOU FEMMES DOING,” my father booms from the doorway. He always calls us femmes. It is, believe it or not, a term of affection. When he’s angry, he calls you a feminazi. When he first encountered that epithet, on Rush Limbaugh’s radio show in the early nineties, he hugged it to himself as wholeheartedly as a second wife. Nuns are feminazis, Democrats are feminazis, the secretary who asks him please not to call her “dollface” is a feminazi. It goes without saying that I am a feminazi. He finds uses for the word in all sorts of situations. If he were alone in the wilderness and a cougar
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