It always astounds me that, in relationships, there's such a breadth of experience. No two couples are the same: some are homebodies, some go ziplining. Some bond over veganism, while others could chat for hours about the Western novels of Cormac McCarthy. Some folks are closest in the bedroom, while others are best as a dynamic political powerhouse. As a woman, but also a human, I'm fascinated by other people's experience in their coupling and uncoupling. I've been with my fella for about six months, a length of time that is, startlingly for a 27-year-old, one of my longest relationships. Most of my friends, on the other hand, have been paired with their significant other for about five years - a half decade of experience that I won't get until my thirties have started. I've been privy to their stories, though, and I've been taking notes.
One of my favourite things about being with someone is the chance to do something nice for someone you care about. I remember when I was going through my Horrible First Break-Up, I biked down to Cherry Beach with a girlfriend and she asked me what, exactly, was so great about being with this guy; what did I miss? I answered truthfully that I would miss being sweet to someone, being sweet to him, specifically. Because isn't that part of what love is? Being nice and taking care of someone, trying to make their days and nights a little more fun?
Which brings me to the topic of gifts. I have been blessed with some truly splendid love tokens: mix CDs so perfectly assembled I listened to them on repeat for months, and books that opened me up to new ways of feeling. I recently got David Foster Wallace's new book from my boyfriend before it was even released, a coup that landed him big-time love from me for both the sweet thought and the knowledge of a thing I like. My Big Ex was a great gift-giver, but ultimately a lousy boyfriend, and frankly? I'd rather have a good boyfriend who muffs it on the gifts but gets it everywhere else, than a scumbag who once bought me a really great hoodie. I seem to have hit the jackpot, though: my now-boyfriend is generous and pays attention, resulting in gifts that range from books to music to concert tickets to burritos made just the way I like 'em.
Women everywhere - and men, too - can identify with the longing for great gifts from their partner. Gifts speak to an understanding of who the other person is: some folks really want a custom-made fork for their fixie, while others jones for jewelry, and yet other are most enthralled by audiobooks. It's the reason gift guides exist, and magazines and websites put together elaborate guides to purchasing that "perfect gift" for the other person.
The going theory is that getting a gift "right" sets in motion a mutual understanding of each other's cores and souls, or something. This wedding blog I read (confidential to boyfriend: for no reason) regularly addresses ring angst: fiancees freaking out about engagement rings that are too expensive, big, tacky, small, or just not to a bride's taste. If he can't get the ring right, they fret, how will we ever work as a couple? Cue the dramatic flinging of one's self onto one's duvet and sobbing while the hapless groom stands to one side, helplessly. Consider the birthday gift - how to say, "I love you despite the fact that we are getting older and more decrepit, and your natal anniversary reminds me of my own aging process, jerk?" Or the anniversary gift, conveniently laid out in terms of gift requirements, but leaving open the dangerous possibility that some clueless girl will get for her honey a can of peas one year to celebrate their love.
When I was younger, I used to feel such stress when it came time for my birthday or Christmas - not because I hated getting gifts, but because I felt (and still feel) like dropping hints about wanting specific things is tacky, and therefore worried about not getting stuff I liked and having to fake pleasure. I always got at least one thing I loved, like nature books, and one thing I didn't really care for, like Land's End sweatshirts. In my old age, I've come to terms with the fact that sometimes, people nail it (like when my sister brought me sequined Minnie Mouse ears from Disneyworld a few months ago), and sometimes, they don't. I love them anyway.
Boyfriends get the same pass. Sometimes, the burrito gets too much hot sauce or the dress is in the wrong size, but it's the thoughtful gesture that counts more. There's nothing wrong with a little hint-dropping, and nothing wrong with graciously accepting a token of someone's affection even if the token makes you look like a lumpy elementary school teacher. In the end, the thoughtful gift is less about the money you spend or the occasion you're celebrating, but the understanding that love, friendship, and respect are actually kind of the best gifts of all.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
It's The Femme'd Of The World
I'm not what you might call a girly-girl. I don't read Cosmopolitan or Vogue, I feel like an impostor in lipstick, I can barely walk in heels, and I haven't read Eat Pray Love or Pride and Predjudice. I've never owned a Jewel album. I don't diet. I just bought a pair of mechanic's coveralls and am in love with them. I own, and know how to use, an extensive tool kit. I prefer a juicy burger to a veggie wrap, don't wear anything pink, hate fruit smoothies, and have no concept of how to blowdry my hair straight.
And yet. My USB stick is sparkly. I live in skirts. I ride a cruiser instead of a hipster road bike, and get my cleavage out at every opportunity. I love dance music about ex-girlfriends. I am the master of the smoky eye. I have enormous, glorious hair that was the bane of my existence in high school, but is now an unbrushed, wild-woman lioness' mane that will get into a knife fight with flat-haired girls and win.
When I was a little girl, I used to dread going to dance classes, because I was so tortured by my sturdy little legs and my protruding belly. Ballerinas and modern dancers were supposed to be supple, long-limbed, graceful and skinny: I was short, curvaceous, and moved with the elegance of an overweight wildebeest. I quit after a few years, because the shame of not getting it right - not being girly enough, in either movement or appearance - outweighed any pleasure I might have felt in moving my body or dancing in my world. I sort of regret that, although when I think back to dancing to "It's Raining Men" in a neon-yellow satin raincoat and whore's makeup, I'm not totally sure that "jazz dancing" was the best fit for my tastes. But, and even though I can't tell if it's a lack of talent or a fear of trying, the graceful-lady dance look is well beyond my grasp.
There's this weird gray area between butch and femme that I just love: Japanese anime characters with enormous guns and little-girl eyes. Rosie the Riveter. When it gets too gray - lady bodybuilders, for instance - there be dragons...but for the most part, there's nothing that feminizes an aesthetic more than adding a touch of hardness to it. Lara Croft got it right. So did the babes from Suckerpunch. Even though that movie was pure dreck, the look of it - huge swords nestled against a thigh clad in a school-skirt - was very appealing. So much of traditional femininity is trite and predictable - the pink, the short skirts, the submissive attitude or the one that's supplanted it, the bitch/diva/goddess persona that has somehow transformed getting a brazilian wax into an act of empowerment. The butch femme complicates that by taking elements of masculine looks and sounds - gunshots, dirt, track and field events, high technology, blood, gore, drums, bass, and a dash of ballsiness that's unmatched by a subscription to Elle.
Lest you think I'm hating on the ladies (which, like, no), I think that masculinity is more interesting when it's threaded with elements of "feminine" behaviour. Vulnerability, honesty, and emotional self-awareness are all "girl" traits, but let's be honest: they make for better humans. By the same token, "manly" traits like self-reliance, assertiveness and a get-'er-done attitude can help transform a girl into a woman.
In any case, I'm into the whole tough-girl look/feeling. Makes me feel good, like a woman who knows what she wants, even part of me is still that self-conscious failed ballerina. What's the expression? Fake 'til you make it? Fake nails and real blood in this case.
And yet. My USB stick is sparkly. I live in skirts. I ride a cruiser instead of a hipster road bike, and get my cleavage out at every opportunity. I love dance music about ex-girlfriends. I am the master of the smoky eye. I have enormous, glorious hair that was the bane of my existence in high school, but is now an unbrushed, wild-woman lioness' mane that will get into a knife fight with flat-haired girls and win.
When I was a little girl, I used to dread going to dance classes, because I was so tortured by my sturdy little legs and my protruding belly. Ballerinas and modern dancers were supposed to be supple, long-limbed, graceful and skinny: I was short, curvaceous, and moved with the elegance of an overweight wildebeest. I quit after a few years, because the shame of not getting it right - not being girly enough, in either movement or appearance - outweighed any pleasure I might have felt in moving my body or dancing in my world. I sort of regret that, although when I think back to dancing to "It's Raining Men" in a neon-yellow satin raincoat and whore's makeup, I'm not totally sure that "jazz dancing" was the best fit for my tastes. But, and even though I can't tell if it's a lack of talent or a fear of trying, the graceful-lady dance look is well beyond my grasp.
There's this weird gray area between butch and femme that I just love: Japanese anime characters with enormous guns and little-girl eyes. Rosie the Riveter. When it gets too gray - lady bodybuilders, for instance - there be dragons...but for the most part, there's nothing that feminizes an aesthetic more than adding a touch of hardness to it. Lara Croft got it right. So did the babes from Suckerpunch. Even though that movie was pure dreck, the look of it - huge swords nestled against a thigh clad in a school-skirt - was very appealing. So much of traditional femininity is trite and predictable - the pink, the short skirts, the submissive attitude or the one that's supplanted it, the bitch/diva/goddess persona that has somehow transformed getting a brazilian wax into an act of empowerment. The butch femme complicates that by taking elements of masculine looks and sounds - gunshots, dirt, track and field events, high technology, blood, gore, drums, bass, and a dash of ballsiness that's unmatched by a subscription to Elle.
Lest you think I'm hating on the ladies (which, like, no), I think that masculinity is more interesting when it's threaded with elements of "feminine" behaviour. Vulnerability, honesty, and emotional self-awareness are all "girl" traits, but let's be honest: they make for better humans. By the same token, "manly" traits like self-reliance, assertiveness and a get-'er-done attitude can help transform a girl into a woman.
In any case, I'm into the whole tough-girl look/feeling. Makes me feel good, like a woman who knows what she wants, even part of me is still that self-conscious failed ballerina. What's the expression? Fake 'til you make it? Fake nails and real blood in this case.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
I Heart Maxi Dresses
Spring fashion is not traditionally a thing I give a shit about, but this year's glut of maxi dresses, urban safari looks and wide-legged pants has me all excited about spending money. I went into the Gap today and sussed out a weird, Japanese-looking dress that got my heart all a flutter. I love silhouettes that remind me of experimental Asian fashion from the 1980s, and this piece was a primo example of such a phenomenon. Bring on the square dresses and the headscarves! I love them!
Spring fashion also allows for a certain amount of sartorial rebirth - the unswaddling of the winter layers means that my butterfly is emerging, and this year, the butterfly is all about the legging/Blundstone/long tank combo. It also allows for fashion patterns to come to light: for the last three years, I've gone out and gotten my hands on a pair of egregiously unflattering capri pants and then worn then daily until the snow flies. This year's iteration has pleats and pegged ankles; they're just off-the-charts disgusting. I adore them. They are hideous. And next year, I'll likely be getting a pair that make my unsheddable winter weight even more prominent that these bad boys! I can hardly wait.
I wear basically the same thing every day in the winter: black tights, a skirt, some kind of tank top and then a sweater. Summer allows a little more freedom. Some light scarves, or cute-but-confounding tank top/dress thingies? Sold. A maxi skirt with flip-flops and a shawl? I look like the mother of the bride at a California hippie wedding, but also: YES. A tube top and linen capris that make me look like a pottery teacher in 1984? OBVIOUSLY. Give me more!
Dressing my age has never been my strong suit - I either look twelve or sixty-five - and I've yet to master the shoe (I would wear fashion runners with everything, given half a chance), but damn, I know what I like when it comes to fashion. I feel like, along with planning weddings and raising kids, everyone has highly defined logic behind the way they choose to dress, if only someone would ask them. One of my pals defines her aesthetic as "lesbian gym teacher," a look that involves a lot of technical fabrics and cycling safety gear, while her husband might be best described as "highly, unquestionably, undeniably Canadian," featuring plaids upon plaids, toques and jeans. My boyfriend wears band tees and tight jeans 100% of the time, which I find sexy and he finds practical, since he owns pretty much every band tee every produced.
Others hew to a more fashionable line, following trends in hemlines and patterns, but keeping it personal when it comes to silhouettes and colours. Even though they seem to be everywhere this summer, one of my gal-pals flat-out refuses to attempt a maxi dress - given that they add weight to non-lithe frames, I should avoid them too, but I don't really care. I balance my long skirts with booty shorts and tube tops; I end up varying wildly between looking like a sex worker and looking like an Orthodox Jew. It's madness, but so satisfying.
In any case, the best thing about the spring shop is getting all the little pieces together for the upcoming heat, assembling tiny scraps of fabric that will become outfits fit for heat waves, putting together more substantial ensembles for rainy days and Mondays. Office wear needs to be considered, since some buildings overcompensate for the shimmering sidewalks outside to a point where you need a cardigan or you'll shiver. Cycling commuters need to take mid-afternoon thunderstorms into account, and we all need transitions from the schwarma joint to the CD store to beers on the patio to the dancefloor. The spring shop is essential to reset the mind from winter to summer, from bare trees to leaves, from shoveling the walk to mowing the lawn. Fashion is all about what's between your ears instead of what's going on below your collarbone, and spring is such a fun time to think critically about the way we clothe ourselves. Have fun in the boutiques, and don't forget to accessorize!
Spring fashion also allows for a certain amount of sartorial rebirth - the unswaddling of the winter layers means that my butterfly is emerging, and this year, the butterfly is all about the legging/Blundstone/long tank combo. It also allows for fashion patterns to come to light: for the last three years, I've gone out and gotten my hands on a pair of egregiously unflattering capri pants and then worn then daily until the snow flies. This year's iteration has pleats and pegged ankles; they're just off-the-charts disgusting. I adore them. They are hideous. And next year, I'll likely be getting a pair that make my unsheddable winter weight even more prominent that these bad boys! I can hardly wait.
I wear basically the same thing every day in the winter: black tights, a skirt, some kind of tank top and then a sweater. Summer allows a little more freedom. Some light scarves, or cute-but-confounding tank top/dress thingies? Sold. A maxi skirt with flip-flops and a shawl? I look like the mother of the bride at a California hippie wedding, but also: YES. A tube top and linen capris that make me look like a pottery teacher in 1984? OBVIOUSLY. Give me more!
Dressing my age has never been my strong suit - I either look twelve or sixty-five - and I've yet to master the shoe (I would wear fashion runners with everything, given half a chance), but damn, I know what I like when it comes to fashion. I feel like, along with planning weddings and raising kids, everyone has highly defined logic behind the way they choose to dress, if only someone would ask them. One of my pals defines her aesthetic as "lesbian gym teacher," a look that involves a lot of technical fabrics and cycling safety gear, while her husband might be best described as "highly, unquestionably, undeniably Canadian," featuring plaids upon plaids, toques and jeans. My boyfriend wears band tees and tight jeans 100% of the time, which I find sexy and he finds practical, since he owns pretty much every band tee every produced.
Others hew to a more fashionable line, following trends in hemlines and patterns, but keeping it personal when it comes to silhouettes and colours. Even though they seem to be everywhere this summer, one of my gal-pals flat-out refuses to attempt a maxi dress - given that they add weight to non-lithe frames, I should avoid them too, but I don't really care. I balance my long skirts with booty shorts and tube tops; I end up varying wildly between looking like a sex worker and looking like an Orthodox Jew. It's madness, but so satisfying.
In any case, the best thing about the spring shop is getting all the little pieces together for the upcoming heat, assembling tiny scraps of fabric that will become outfits fit for heat waves, putting together more substantial ensembles for rainy days and Mondays. Office wear needs to be considered, since some buildings overcompensate for the shimmering sidewalks outside to a point where you need a cardigan or you'll shiver. Cycling commuters need to take mid-afternoon thunderstorms into account, and we all need transitions from the schwarma joint to the CD store to beers on the patio to the dancefloor. The spring shop is essential to reset the mind from winter to summer, from bare trees to leaves, from shoveling the walk to mowing the lawn. Fashion is all about what's between your ears instead of what's going on below your collarbone, and spring is such a fun time to think critically about the way we clothe ourselves. Have fun in the boutiques, and don't forget to accessorize!
Monday, May 2, 2011
Vote Mob
It's Election Day! Are you wearing your special election bonnet? Mine has purple ribbons all over it, which gives me a jaunty non-partisan air as I approach the polling stations tonight. I'm also carrying my special election ID (the only ID I have with my current address on it, a hospital card from when I had the grapefruit removed) and eating my special election snack (just kidding, it's an apple, regular-styles). I'm excited!
Actually, smarminess aside, I am pretty excited about this election. Maybe it's the orange wave or the non-starter massage "scandal," but Jumpin' Jack has been swinging a big stick this campaign, and it's fun to watch. I voted Green - hey, I live in Olivia Chow's riding, and it'll be a cakewalk for her, so I figure I'll throw some funding over to a party that believes in solar farms instead of prisons. I'm sure my grandpa is rolling his eyes at my youthful stupidity, but hey...what's that saying? If you're not young and liberal, you're hard-hearted, and if you're old without being conservative, you're soft-headed? Anyway, I'm part of the much-discussed youth vote (am I still a youth at 27? I hope so!) and as such, can vote as far left as I want.
Elections aren't exactly fun, per se, but voting gives me that satisfied citizen feeling that you can also get by shopping at organic grocery stores, but for free. I enjoy snarking on the candidates, watching my Facebook feed blow up with exhortations to vote, and get interested as the results come in. I feel Canadian when I vote - I can just show up and they let me pick! Unlike in other, more contested parts of the world, my country has decent elections that are fair and transparent. We are lucky! And that deserves respect, best shown by taking advantage of the opportunity to vote and doing it.
I'm not going to spoil this entry by telling folks how to vote - the Globe and Mail already lost a large part of my respect when they officially endorsed Harper's Conservatives, a party that has almost nothing in common with the way I live my life. Other papers have picked other parties, a practice I'm perplexed by. I'll just say that I hope you find a party or a representative who aligns with the way you prioritize your life: money, family, jobs, the environment, civic duty, transportation, foreign aid, urban development, rural funding, education, health care, food, human rights, taxes, death, and all the other glorious moving parts that make up this country. And if you can't find a party who can do all that, at least you have the option of voting for a man who will eventually get into the Mustache Hall of Fame.
Vote early, vote often, and vote well, friends: the next few months of this country depends on it.
Actually, smarminess aside, I am pretty excited about this election. Maybe it's the orange wave or the non-starter massage "scandal," but Jumpin' Jack has been swinging a big stick this campaign, and it's fun to watch. I voted Green - hey, I live in Olivia Chow's riding, and it'll be a cakewalk for her, so I figure I'll throw some funding over to a party that believes in solar farms instead of prisons. I'm sure my grandpa is rolling his eyes at my youthful stupidity, but hey...what's that saying? If you're not young and liberal, you're hard-hearted, and if you're old without being conservative, you're soft-headed? Anyway, I'm part of the much-discussed youth vote (am I still a youth at 27? I hope so!) and as such, can vote as far left as I want.
Elections aren't exactly fun, per se, but voting gives me that satisfied citizen feeling that you can also get by shopping at organic grocery stores, but for free. I enjoy snarking on the candidates, watching my Facebook feed blow up with exhortations to vote, and get interested as the results come in. I feel Canadian when I vote - I can just show up and they let me pick! Unlike in other, more contested parts of the world, my country has decent elections that are fair and transparent. We are lucky! And that deserves respect, best shown by taking advantage of the opportunity to vote and doing it.
I'm not going to spoil this entry by telling folks how to vote - the Globe and Mail already lost a large part of my respect when they officially endorsed Harper's Conservatives, a party that has almost nothing in common with the way I live my life. Other papers have picked other parties, a practice I'm perplexed by. I'll just say that I hope you find a party or a representative who aligns with the way you prioritize your life: money, family, jobs, the environment, civic duty, transportation, foreign aid, urban development, rural funding, education, health care, food, human rights, taxes, death, and all the other glorious moving parts that make up this country. And if you can't find a party who can do all that, at least you have the option of voting for a man who will eventually get into the Mustache Hall of Fame.
Vote early, vote often, and vote well, friends: the next few months of this country depends on it.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
The Short Weekend
This is my sixth day of work in a row, and I'm tirrrred. I know that I deserve zero sympathy - after all, there are jobs like forest fire spotter and nursing that require you to basically be on call around the clock, and I get a nice cushy evening window in which to unwind from my job. But the one-day weekend is basically the psychic opposite of the long weekend: rushed, emotionally cramped, and tiring. I need a nap, y'all.
There's a difference between good-tired and bad-tired. Good-tired stems from a job well done: a weekend camping trip, a hectic night of dancing, a great run, a game of frisbee with the kids. Or a mentally taxing day, like when you're able to sit down and strike out that last item on your to-do list? That's a satisfying feeling. But bad-tired is when you're up late drinking, or there are too many work days in a row, or you get a bad sunburn, not to mention some wicked blisters, when you're out biking and woefully unprepared for your new case of heatstroke. Good-tired makes you sleep well, whereas bad-tired makes you wake up in the middle of the night, freaking out about the day ahead.
I guess what it boils down to is stress. Human being like stress, to a certain point. We like roller coasters and having interesting high-pressure jobs (some of us: I feel like if I was an air traffic controller or a Bay Street chick, my hair would start falling out in clumps about halfway through my first shift), and we often choose to put ourselves in those positions. But there are other, less pleasurable kinds of stress; the exhaustion of new parents springs to mind, or the worries that come from a scary diagnosis, or the chronic anxiety of a really crappy job. Those kinds of stressors aren't manageable without the help of some Ativan or a really reliable shrink. Less roller coaster, more "stress leave brought on by years of callous, callow treatment at the hands of co-workers/bosses."
The necessity of downtime can't really be overstated. I know some people are like, "I only sleep four hours a night, and I run the Boston Marathon for fun, and I'm showing at MOCCA next month, plus I just delivered twins!" and they look perky and can make whole entire sentences without using the words "Oh God help me" even once. But like the rest of us civilians, I need some time off. Sometimes I use my time productively, to read or cook, or hang with my friends. Other times, I'm too zonked to do anything but lie on the floor and count the dust bunnies under my couch. Sometimes hanging with the dust bunnies is good for the soul.
The moral of this story, besides "weekends are baller" is that it's important to know when your particular stress wave is riding a little too high. My friend Liz hooked me up with an awesome document based around the idea of "moral distress" - when a situation makes us feel stressed or uncomfortable, but we somehow lack the ability to act immediately. When faced with these stressful situations, there's a method to assess the risks of acting (and not acting). This handy information is starting to shape how I feel about the stressors in my life - work, relationships, money - and what the emotional carrying cost of the status quo really is.
So I guess the real moral story is, when your stress can't be undone by your weekend, either because your weekend is too short or your stress is too intense? It's time to make some changes.
There's a difference between good-tired and bad-tired. Good-tired stems from a job well done: a weekend camping trip, a hectic night of dancing, a great run, a game of frisbee with the kids. Or a mentally taxing day, like when you're able to sit down and strike out that last item on your to-do list? That's a satisfying feeling. But bad-tired is when you're up late drinking, or there are too many work days in a row, or you get a bad sunburn, not to mention some wicked blisters, when you're out biking and woefully unprepared for your new case of heatstroke. Good-tired makes you sleep well, whereas bad-tired makes you wake up in the middle of the night, freaking out about the day ahead.
I guess what it boils down to is stress. Human being like stress, to a certain point. We like roller coasters and having interesting high-pressure jobs (some of us: I feel like if I was an air traffic controller or a Bay Street chick, my hair would start falling out in clumps about halfway through my first shift), and we often choose to put ourselves in those positions. But there are other, less pleasurable kinds of stress; the exhaustion of new parents springs to mind, or the worries that come from a scary diagnosis, or the chronic anxiety of a really crappy job. Those kinds of stressors aren't manageable without the help of some Ativan or a really reliable shrink. Less roller coaster, more "stress leave brought on by years of callous, callow treatment at the hands of co-workers/bosses."
The necessity of downtime can't really be overstated. I know some people are like, "I only sleep four hours a night, and I run the Boston Marathon for fun, and I'm showing at MOCCA next month, plus I just delivered twins!" and they look perky and can make whole entire sentences without using the words "Oh God help me" even once. But like the rest of us civilians, I need some time off. Sometimes I use my time productively, to read or cook, or hang with my friends. Other times, I'm too zonked to do anything but lie on the floor and count the dust bunnies under my couch. Sometimes hanging with the dust bunnies is good for the soul.
The moral of this story, besides "weekends are baller" is that it's important to know when your particular stress wave is riding a little too high. My friend Liz hooked me up with an awesome document based around the idea of "moral distress" - when a situation makes us feel stressed or uncomfortable, but we somehow lack the ability to act immediately. When faced with these stressful situations, there's a method to assess the risks of acting (and not acting). This handy information is starting to shape how I feel about the stressors in my life - work, relationships, money - and what the emotional carrying cost of the status quo really is.
So I guess the real moral story is, when your stress can't be undone by your weekend, either because your weekend is too short or your stress is too intense? It's time to make some changes.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Best of Women: Brava!
Achievement in History: Everyone
The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things....of shoes and shirts, and bikini wax, and sandwiches with wings. Obviously, the walrus was also a bit of a mental patient, but at the end of a three week, six-post series about awesome women, I'm a little tuckered out. Sorry about the mini-vacay from the blog - I had to get my head on straight again, and frankly? I was tired.
Honestly, the concept of "women" isn't all that interesting. I love my sister, mom, aunts and grandmothers, because I know them. Their stories about engineering school and sweet potato casseroles are interesting, if slightly bewildering, because I love them. Likewise, my friends are a bunch of marauding chickies who are destined to either run the world or at least report on it. But. And there is a but. The generalized celebration of women, at this point, feels a little odd. Each of those entries felt a touch forced - not because I don't genuinely admire Helen Mirren or the creative team at Rodarte, but because I think those ladies don't really need my admiration and support. A bunch of white ladies doing well for themselves isn't exactly an anomaly at this point in history. Maybe fifty years ago, it would be an OMG moment for the world to have a lesbian leading Iceland...but as the commercials say, we've come a long way, babies.
There's been on-going debate in the feminist movement about the role of power in the rise of women. Obviously, despite ongoing concerns like wage disparity and Sex and the City, us North American women do okay for ourselves; it's time, some activists say, to widen the focus of the feminist charge to include women in second- and third-world countries. Women who don't have the same freedom to vote, or access to reproductive health care, or really any health care, and who could use us fancy folks agitating on their behalf.
Not so, snorts their opposition. Those ladies don't need our culturally insensitive support. Like, who do we think we are, charging in and being all colonialist in our politics? That's kind the dude's job, right? Maybe women living in circumstances we don't live in ourselves have found their own ways to be feminists - through worship or work, through activism and art. You can wear a burka and still be awesome, yo: don't think that having shiny hair and stirrup pants will save you from abuse or drudgery.
Anyway. What the hell was I talking about? Oh right: women. We're boring. That's not to say that women, in comparison to men, are particularly dull or sparkling. If I had dedicated a whole bunch of posts to terrific men, I'd probably be a little bored of them, too. It's like writing a series on redheads I admire, or tall people, or Nigerians. It's not like being a woman is like overcoming a handicap or obstacle. It's just a facet of who we are, the same way I have comically large breasts and hair that doesn't lie flat. Some girls really need female role models, and it's nice to be able to look out over the crowd and see faces like mine looking back. Especially when we're forming ourselves and our communities, a strong female presence goes a long way in perpetuating the But like I said - celebrating women in this rah-rah kind of way undermines the fact that we're doing just fine.
The caveat to all this is, obviously, I'm riding the crest of fourth-wave feminism where I basically take all the lady-love for granted. I am certainly not shitting on all the trailblazers who came before, clearing the path for today's generations of annoyingly successful ladies. Without Coco Chanel, we probably would never have had the Mulleavies. We needed them. Thank you. Their place in the herstory books is cemented and we'll love them forever. And what's cool is now, we don't all need to be super geniuses to succeed. I'm not going to be Jane Jacobs or Emma Goldman, or Coco, or Indira Gandhi, or Clara Bow, or any of the ladies on my list. I don't have to. I can be own imperfect self, and own that. That's why it's important to have the role models; so we can dance in their footsteps.
The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things....of shoes and shirts, and bikini wax, and sandwiches with wings. Obviously, the walrus was also a bit of a mental patient, but at the end of a three week, six-post series about awesome women, I'm a little tuckered out. Sorry about the mini-vacay from the blog - I had to get my head on straight again, and frankly? I was tired.
Honestly, the concept of "women" isn't all that interesting. I love my sister, mom, aunts and grandmothers, because I know them. Their stories about engineering school and sweet potato casseroles are interesting, if slightly bewildering, because I love them. Likewise, my friends are a bunch of marauding chickies who are destined to either run the world or at least report on it. But. And there is a but. The generalized celebration of women, at this point, feels a little odd. Each of those entries felt a touch forced - not because I don't genuinely admire Helen Mirren or the creative team at Rodarte, but because I think those ladies don't really need my admiration and support. A bunch of white ladies doing well for themselves isn't exactly an anomaly at this point in history. Maybe fifty years ago, it would be an OMG moment for the world to have a lesbian leading Iceland...but as the commercials say, we've come a long way, babies.
There's been on-going debate in the feminist movement about the role of power in the rise of women. Obviously, despite ongoing concerns like wage disparity and Sex and the City, us North American women do okay for ourselves; it's time, some activists say, to widen the focus of the feminist charge to include women in second- and third-world countries. Women who don't have the same freedom to vote, or access to reproductive health care, or really any health care, and who could use us fancy folks agitating on their behalf.
Not so, snorts their opposition. Those ladies don't need our culturally insensitive support. Like, who do we think we are, charging in and being all colonialist in our politics? That's kind the dude's job, right? Maybe women living in circumstances we don't live in ourselves have found their own ways to be feminists - through worship or work, through activism and art. You can wear a burka and still be awesome, yo: don't think that having shiny hair and stirrup pants will save you from abuse or drudgery.
Anyway. What the hell was I talking about? Oh right: women. We're boring. That's not to say that women, in comparison to men, are particularly dull or sparkling. If I had dedicated a whole bunch of posts to terrific men, I'd probably be a little bored of them, too. It's like writing a series on redheads I admire, or tall people, or Nigerians. It's not like being a woman is like overcoming a handicap or obstacle. It's just a facet of who we are, the same way I have comically large breasts and hair that doesn't lie flat. Some girls really need female role models, and it's nice to be able to look out over the crowd and see faces like mine looking back. Especially when we're forming ourselves and our communities, a strong female presence goes a long way in perpetuating the But like I said - celebrating women in this rah-rah kind of way undermines the fact that we're doing just fine.
The caveat to all this is, obviously, I'm riding the crest of fourth-wave feminism where I basically take all the lady-love for granted. I am certainly not shitting on all the trailblazers who came before, clearing the path for today's generations of annoyingly successful ladies. Without Coco Chanel, we probably would never have had the Mulleavies. We needed them. Thank you. Their place in the herstory books is cemented and we'll love them forever. And what's cool is now, we don't all need to be super geniuses to succeed. I'm not going to be Jane Jacobs or Emma Goldman, or Coco, or Indira Gandhi, or Clara Bow, or any of the ladies on my list. I don't have to. I can be own imperfect self, and own that. That's why it's important to have the role models; so we can dance in their footsteps.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Best of Women: See You In The Internets
Achievement in Comedy - The Internet
So when I started this feminiseries, I had envisioned a landscape of frolicking women, all gently menstruating in unison while we voted and braided each other's hair. It would be like a hipper tampon commercial; if the Diva Cup started running ads on TV, we could all star together - Helen Mirren, Robyn, the Prime Minister of Iceland, and me.
But this land of women would be silent of one thing - laughter. Because, as we all know, women aren't funny. It's been widely documented that comediennes and funny girls are a once-in-a-generation sort of thing. Now that Tina Fey has cemented herself as the top of the pile for hilarity in the 2010s, the rest of us can go back to babbling about relationships, clothes, or the best way to get booze-vomit stains off the wall (sidenote: ew). Because there just isn't enough funny to go around.
SNORE. I am so tired of all the girls-aren't-funny bullcorn that gets tossed around like it's scientific fact. Every few years, we get a new crop of funny dudes (I feel like most recently, it's been the Judd Apatow comedy factory, featuring the Rogen/Segel/Baruchel/etc. bunch, but I'm kind of not really following the scene anymore), but in that whole field of funny, there's usually only one or two female voices. I know that men are awesome, and funny, but the Y chromosome isn't the gene for humour.
A few months ago, Leah McLaren wrote this infuriating column about how women aren't funny because we're the primary child rearers - as such, we spend all our talking time discussing chapped nipples and baby kaka, and forget to crack wise about non-child-related things (is there even such a thing? Please!). McLaren claims that we basically just leak all our funniness when we become mothers - not parents, since daddies are still allowed to be funny! - as though maybe hilarity is leached out through breast milk.
My response to this was basically BITCH PLEASE. While it's possible that, McLaren, as an insufferable cocktail of pretension and attention whoring, has gathered unto her bosom a girl gang made up of acolytes and the kind of girly-girl that wore a tiara to prom and posts ultrasound pictures of her unborn child on Facebook. As the rest of know, these women actually aren't funny. It's hard to have a sense of humour when you're fretting about how big your jean size, or if your boyfriend is cheating/proposing. Wise women have given up on all that, and are basically leaning back in their chairs made of ice cream, smoking fat cigars. And we're cracking jokes. Because that shit does not matter, and there's nothing less funny than worrying about stuff that doesn't compute.
In addition to pornography and procrastination, the internet has transformed the way women are funny. Previously, we had to attempt to break into what was inarguably a boy's club: stand-up comedians and sitcom developers seem to be overwhelmingly male, and they get lots of airtime for being funny on TV and in the movies, where funny women are often relegated to bimbo or slut roles. However, online, girls can skip all that nonsense and just spit out some funny business to the masses directly. What we end up with is sites like Go Fug Yourself and The Hairpin, which are totally femme in their voices...but also hilarious. Sites like mine, with an admittedly low readership, still get good feedback for being funny, and Twitter bon mots are as likely to spring from a mouth ringed in lipstick as one wreathed in a beard.
As in most things, what happens on the internet may not be reality in the rest of the world, but it proves that lazy columns like McLaren's simply aren't true. Our voices may not be heard from network television, but it's absolutely impossible to ignore funny women in all the places we pop up online. I search out great female voices on the internet - not because I'm a feminazi, but because I like relating to what I read and consume. When I get my news from a source that privileges the feminine voice, I do it for the same reason I pop over to BlogTO: because it comes from a place I know. And when I can read funny shit on the internet from a girl's point of view (and not, like, a blog about breastfeeding, Leah), it just all the better.
So when I started this feminiseries, I had envisioned a landscape of frolicking women, all gently menstruating in unison while we voted and braided each other's hair. It would be like a hipper tampon commercial; if the Diva Cup started running ads on TV, we could all star together - Helen Mirren, Robyn, the Prime Minister of Iceland, and me.
But this land of women would be silent of one thing - laughter. Because, as we all know, women aren't funny. It's been widely documented that comediennes and funny girls are a once-in-a-generation sort of thing. Now that Tina Fey has cemented herself as the top of the pile for hilarity in the 2010s, the rest of us can go back to babbling about relationships, clothes, or the best way to get booze-vomit stains off the wall (sidenote: ew). Because there just isn't enough funny to go around.
SNORE. I am so tired of all the girls-aren't-funny bullcorn that gets tossed around like it's scientific fact. Every few years, we get a new crop of funny dudes (I feel like most recently, it's been the Judd Apatow comedy factory, featuring the Rogen/Segel/Baruchel/etc. bunch, but I'm kind of not really following the scene anymore), but in that whole field of funny, there's usually only one or two female voices. I know that men are awesome, and funny, but the Y chromosome isn't the gene for humour.
A few months ago, Leah McLaren wrote this infuriating column about how women aren't funny because we're the primary child rearers - as such, we spend all our talking time discussing chapped nipples and baby kaka, and forget to crack wise about non-child-related things (is there even such a thing? Please!). McLaren claims that we basically just leak all our funniness when we become mothers - not parents, since daddies are still allowed to be funny! - as though maybe hilarity is leached out through breast milk.
My response to this was basically BITCH PLEASE. While it's possible that, McLaren, as an insufferable cocktail of pretension and attention whoring, has gathered unto her bosom a girl gang made up of acolytes and the kind of girly-girl that wore a tiara to prom and posts ultrasound pictures of her unborn child on Facebook. As the rest of know, these women actually aren't funny. It's hard to have a sense of humour when you're fretting about how big your jean size, or if your boyfriend is cheating/proposing. Wise women have given up on all that, and are basically leaning back in their chairs made of ice cream, smoking fat cigars. And we're cracking jokes. Because that shit does not matter, and there's nothing less funny than worrying about stuff that doesn't compute.
In addition to pornography and procrastination, the internet has transformed the way women are funny. Previously, we had to attempt to break into what was inarguably a boy's club: stand-up comedians and sitcom developers seem to be overwhelmingly male, and they get lots of airtime for being funny on TV and in the movies, where funny women are often relegated to bimbo or slut roles. However, online, girls can skip all that nonsense and just spit out some funny business to the masses directly. What we end up with is sites like Go Fug Yourself and The Hairpin, which are totally femme in their voices...but also hilarious. Sites like mine, with an admittedly low readership, still get good feedback for being funny, and Twitter bon mots are as likely to spring from a mouth ringed in lipstick as one wreathed in a beard.
As in most things, what happens on the internet may not be reality in the rest of the world, but it proves that lazy columns like McLaren's simply aren't true. Our voices may not be heard from network television, but it's absolutely impossible to ignore funny women in all the places we pop up online. I search out great female voices on the internet - not because I'm a feminazi, but because I like relating to what I read and consume. When I get my news from a source that privileges the feminine voice, I do it for the same reason I pop over to BlogTO: because it comes from a place I know. And when I can read funny shit on the internet from a girl's point of view (and not, like, a blog about breastfeeding, Leah), it just all the better.
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