I've recently become obsessed with this website, The Hairpin, which posts the best articles. They have the Ask A series, which features an anonymous, rotating panel of experts: Dude, Married Dude, Clean Person, Queer Chick. They suggest ways you can fritter your paycheck away. They gave an online tutorial on how to install feather extensions. In short, if The Hairpin was an actual living woman, it that friend of yours that always seems to be up on awesome shit: the broad who was rocking a glitter eyeliner in middle school; who smoked cloves until she realized that smoking is boring, who went and did a degree in urban planning or web-based journalism three years before anyone else got the memo, and who also knows just what to do when one of her besties knocks a tooth out during a tequila-fueled tumble off her road bike.
While the writing is usually conspiratorially casual - there are posted entitles "Why I am an abortion provider" and they offer tips on surviving Jamaican dance clubs - sometimes they totally knock it out of the park. They recently posted a piece on one woman's period, written as though the period was a bullying fremeny who coerced the hapless menstruater into sucking down caloric Orange Julius and buying insane sequined hot pants.
I loooove this idea. My period makes me cry at commercials and throw a total hairy eyeball at my boyfriend, often without me even knowing it's the hormones. I hate the sneak-attack element of menses. My period turns me into a nut: I once cried because I ate half a freezer pizza in one sitting. I will pick fights about stupid shit ("You know I only like the yogurt with 18 grams of protein! The other stuff is for weenies!"). I cry. I bloat. I refuse to brush my hair (okay, that's normal). I will throw tantrums and become a demanding asshole who could kill Howdy Doody's will to live. Then I get the flow, and I snap right out of it. Sure, I'm crampy and sore, but at least I stop hating myself and everyone around me.
That I even get a period is a bit of a miracle, given that some of my lady parts were lost in a fire (kidding! I had an ovary surgically removed last summer), but it's one of those miracles I resent. I feel like a lot of pregnant ladies who don't necessarily buy into the whole earth-mama, Birkies-and-flowy skirts, expensive-stroller ethos of modern childbearing might feel about their pregnancies the way I do about about my menstrual cycle: it's fine, but like...do I have to twirl around in a field to do it? Like, have you seen tampon commercials? I know I'm required by Woman Law to wear white pants and have a rictus-grin on face for those magical five to seven days, but hot damn, I don't feel like it.
What I actually feel like doing is crouching like a feral dog in the food court of the Eaton's Center, murdering overly peppy H&M employees and eating honey-garlic chicken wings. I want to sit in a pair of dirty overalls and drink cheap beer and belch a lot. I want to make post-feminist punk music, where the bass player is a robot and the audience listens with their hands over their ears. I want rage. I want defiance. I feel positively mutinous when I menstruate, and it's only made worse by the fact that my period is like Ke$ha after her morning ablutions crossed with Courtney Love.
Why can't I just get gnarly when I get my period? Oh, sure, the hormonal tide often skews towards the sadder side, but I'm so over the idea of feeling like I have to hide it. "I'm crampy" is one of those man-repeller phrases like "I'm really into crystal healing" and "I love collecting Gund stuffed animals" that make people go, "Whoa." But it's a gross process: messy, squishy, smelly (like pennies!), and pretending it's some wellspring of womanly awesomeness is a little like pretending testicles are adorable, or that knuckle hair is sexy: sometimes, bodies do unappealing, weird-ass shit. In the case of women, our bodies do that stuff every month.
I think the next time my period shows up at my door, I'll indulge her a little. We''ll get day-drunk and go bake banana bread in a tube top, and then watch The Iron Giant and cry unattractively for twenty minutes. We'll try yoga for ten minutes and then get bored and switch to watching makeup tutorials on YouTube. We'll make out with our boyfriends, despite the fact that the boob tenderness is really out of control. We'll take a hot bath and put all our hair on top of our head in a lazy-girl approximation of a ballerina bun that will make us look as though we were styled by a deranged person. And the running thread, throughout this whole experiment, will be radical self-acceptance: loving the whole gross, bloated, sobbing mess.
And Toblerone. Obviously.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Storm Clouds
If you think your parents are wacko, count your blessings that you aren't Storm, the genderless baby being raised by a Toronto family. Storm isn't intersexed or two-spirited; Storm is an infant whose parents have not shared his/her gender with the world. Keeping mum on the subject - only a few people immediate family members know - has enraged some, befuddled others, and thrilled and confused from coast to coast.
I had a long conversation with some girlfriends on Friday night about Storm, and parenting, and gender politics, and I have to say, maybe it was the beers or maybe I'm just close-minded, but I don't think I fared very well. Being a good little liberal-arts grad, I understand that gender is constructed. I know that by giving a girl a pink pony, you're telling her how girls act, and are supposed to act, and how she had better act if she wants to be like other little girls. I also know two brothers whose parents, in the anti-violent, dolls-for-boys late 1980s, confiscated their play firearms. The boys, in a fit of creative desperation, chewed their toast into the shape of guns and continued on undeterred.
The article that prompted the debate originally ran in the Toronto Star, whose editorial tone was somewhat ambivalent. Storm is clearly being raised by thoughtful and engaged parents, but the writers made the point that by being, not boy, not girl, nor "or," but "none of the above," the parents were creating a hitherto unknown category they referred to as "other than other." "Other than other" seems like dangerous waters for a society that decriminalized homosexuality not so long ago, and that struggles, still, with a myriad of differences. God forbid Storm is a fat, awkward, mixed-raced shy kid with glasses, horrible teeth and no gender. That kid is fucked. Within the closed familial loop, most people are free to be something other than their gender - a great painter; a fan, as the family's eldest boy is, of pink feather boas; a weeping mess at bathtime, or some other permutation of the self that isn't penis/vagina.
But outside the family/friends circle, gender is indisputably one of the markers we use to identify people. Much like race, age, and accent, gender comes to us without thinking about it critically. It's only when we're faced with a little uncertainty that we get nervous. If someone is mixed-race, like my fabulous friend Kelli, they often get pegged as one or the other; her recent musings about trying to be multi in a world that often prefers you to check one box was an insightful look at passing, and resenting the pass that comes at the expense of her more honest and interesting background. Likewise, Storm, at least as a baby, will be able to pass as one of two genders, but eventually, kindergarten will happen, and bathroom breaks, and changing for swim club. Genderlessness is a gift given to the very young and will eventually erode as the child makes choices.
Do I applaud Storm's family? Well, as my friend Suzanne pointed out, it expands the realm of the possible in exciting ways. She said, "You just know some other family is thinking about doing the same thing now, because they know it can be done." Which is true: the debate about whether or not it should be done comes because, like it or not, it is being done.
But I said on Friday, and will stand by it, that parenting in this way is an activist, political act that isn't about the child, but rather about the parents. I dislike parenting as activism; if Storm's parents wanted to explore what it's like to live without gender, they should have done that experiment on themselves, not on their young child. This is the same part of my brain that shudders at vegan children and elementary school kids who attend anti-abortion rallies. Even though I understand that this education strives for more openness and examination of what is possible, the reality is that it's happening to someone young and presumably without the critical thinking skills that would benefit, say, someone who attended university for equity studies. Being told "You have no gender unless you choose one" takes away a certain type of self-definition that children often learn through.
Their older son wrote a book about "The Gender Explorer," presumably because the parents needed to address the gender questions for their long-haired, pink-loving boy. But this baby doesn't need to be some kind of science experience for social-norm spelunkers. There's a very real chance that Storm will resent his or her early-years ambiguity, even though it saved on a heap of pink or blue baby accessories. Who wants to grow up to be "that baby whose parents were all, 'this baby has no gender!'?"I have no beef with Storm's parents and siblings teaching the kid that gender can be, and should be, fluid - that it's okay to love horsies, pink, dump trucks or climbing trees no matter what you were born as, or grow up to be however femme or butch you want - but opting out of the system entirely seems like it may cause more grief than it's worth.
Part of me hopes Storm becomes the very definition of gender normativity - a little girl who can't get enough dolls, or a boy who loves karate and catching frogs. I wonder if Storm's gender-exploring parents would be as excited about a child who refused to participate in the gender debate, who loved his or her pink-wearing brother without wanting to follow him down that particular yellow brick road. Parents everywhere will intone that as long as the child is healthy and happy, it doesn't matter how their kids express their gender. The Witterick-Stocker family are devoted to their children, and to raising them in an nurturing and supportive environment. But teaching them that "gender" is an option, rather than "my gender" is a choice, walks an unpalatable line between reality, and a constructed world that applies only to this family.
I had a long conversation with some girlfriends on Friday night about Storm, and parenting, and gender politics, and I have to say, maybe it was the beers or maybe I'm just close-minded, but I don't think I fared very well. Being a good little liberal-arts grad, I understand that gender is constructed. I know that by giving a girl a pink pony, you're telling her how girls act, and are supposed to act, and how she had better act if she wants to be like other little girls. I also know two brothers whose parents, in the anti-violent, dolls-for-boys late 1980s, confiscated their play firearms. The boys, in a fit of creative desperation, chewed their toast into the shape of guns and continued on undeterred.
The article that prompted the debate originally ran in the Toronto Star, whose editorial tone was somewhat ambivalent. Storm is clearly being raised by thoughtful and engaged parents, but the writers made the point that by being, not boy, not girl, nor "or," but "none of the above," the parents were creating a hitherto unknown category they referred to as "other than other." "Other than other" seems like dangerous waters for a society that decriminalized homosexuality not so long ago, and that struggles, still, with a myriad of differences. God forbid Storm is a fat, awkward, mixed-raced shy kid with glasses, horrible teeth and no gender. That kid is fucked. Within the closed familial loop, most people are free to be something other than their gender - a great painter; a fan, as the family's eldest boy is, of pink feather boas; a weeping mess at bathtime, or some other permutation of the self that isn't penis/vagina.
But outside the family/friends circle, gender is indisputably one of the markers we use to identify people. Much like race, age, and accent, gender comes to us without thinking about it critically. It's only when we're faced with a little uncertainty that we get nervous. If someone is mixed-race, like my fabulous friend Kelli, they often get pegged as one or the other; her recent musings about trying to be multi in a world that often prefers you to check one box was an insightful look at passing, and resenting the pass that comes at the expense of her more honest and interesting background. Likewise, Storm, at least as a baby, will be able to pass as one of two genders, but eventually, kindergarten will happen, and bathroom breaks, and changing for swim club. Genderlessness is a gift given to the very young and will eventually erode as the child makes choices.
Do I applaud Storm's family? Well, as my friend Suzanne pointed out, it expands the realm of the possible in exciting ways. She said, "You just know some other family is thinking about doing the same thing now, because they know it can be done." Which is true: the debate about whether or not it should be done comes because, like it or not, it is being done.
But I said on Friday, and will stand by it, that parenting in this way is an activist, political act that isn't about the child, but rather about the parents. I dislike parenting as activism; if Storm's parents wanted to explore what it's like to live without gender, they should have done that experiment on themselves, not on their young child. This is the same part of my brain that shudders at vegan children and elementary school kids who attend anti-abortion rallies. Even though I understand that this education strives for more openness and examination of what is possible, the reality is that it's happening to someone young and presumably without the critical thinking skills that would benefit, say, someone who attended university for equity studies. Being told "You have no gender unless you choose one" takes away a certain type of self-definition that children often learn through.
Their older son wrote a book about "The Gender Explorer," presumably because the parents needed to address the gender questions for their long-haired, pink-loving boy. But this baby doesn't need to be some kind of science experience for social-norm spelunkers. There's a very real chance that Storm will resent his or her early-years ambiguity, even though it saved on a heap of pink or blue baby accessories. Who wants to grow up to be "that baby whose parents were all, 'this baby has no gender!'?"I have no beef with Storm's parents and siblings teaching the kid that gender can be, and should be, fluid - that it's okay to love horsies, pink, dump trucks or climbing trees no matter what you were born as, or grow up to be however femme or butch you want - but opting out of the system entirely seems like it may cause more grief than it's worth.
Part of me hopes Storm becomes the very definition of gender normativity - a little girl who can't get enough dolls, or a boy who loves karate and catching frogs. I wonder if Storm's gender-exploring parents would be as excited about a child who refused to participate in the gender debate, who loved his or her pink-wearing brother without wanting to follow him down that particular yellow brick road. Parents everywhere will intone that as long as the child is healthy and happy, it doesn't matter how their kids express their gender. The Witterick-Stocker family are devoted to their children, and to raising them in an nurturing and supportive environment. But teaching them that "gender" is an option, rather than "my gender" is a choice, walks an unpalatable line between reality, and a constructed world that applies only to this family.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Why The Long-Weekend Face?
The Globe's Focus piece this weekend was about the so-called leisure gap between how much we should work - not much, given how much technology we have at our disposal - and how much we do work - all the time. It made the case for the standard three-day weekend, a luxury that had me breaking out in goosebumps: since starting my job a few months ago, I've been asked to give up two Saturdays a month in the name of work. It's a sacrifice that shouldn't be that big a deal, but instead has turned me into a enraged, stressed-out asshole. One-day weekends are just horrible. But three-day weekends! They're amazing.
The article, which seems to run under different guises in national newspapers every few months as "breaking news" but in reality is one of the hoariest old saws in a journalist's notebook, is how technological and societal advances should be leaving us with more leisure time. Time for the kids, time for the stack of novels on my bedside table yet to be cracked. More time for home-cooked meals and gardening. More time for working on hobbies, making art, making the world a better place. Less time has to be spent running around in cars, staring at a computer screen, picking up meals-in-a-bowl to snarf during the lunch (half-)hour, and commuting.
The articles always argue that, by cutting the workweek down, people are healthier, more in tuned with their families, less stressed, and more productive when they are at their desks. Even doing 40 hours in four days - working nine to seven, say - gives people more time. It's hard to argue with that; if I'm commuting 45 minutes each way on transit or on the highway, cutting one day of commuting out gives me an hour and a half each week to do other it things. Not to mention that whole other day of not working. It gives me a day to go to the doctor, or talk to my landlord, or attend volunteer meetings, or cook for the week.
At this point, I am like, obsessed with the idea of a part-time job. I'm not really a frugal person - I spend too much on frozen yogurt and second-hand clothes for that kind of thing - but I'm also not terribly expensive in my tastes. I want a nice little 25/30 hour a week gig; somewhere were I still I have a desk, but I'm not chained to it. I don't want to make tacos or make beggy phonecalls to patrons of the Harbourfront Festival or fold clothes at American Apparel, but I thrive when I'm in a professional situation that allows for freedom. Like most people, I chafe under too much work and too many demands, and I can only imagine that, as I get older and my responsibilities increase, I'll be even more horrible if I also have to hold down a full-time gig. Some people like to work. They claim to go a little nuts without it. I'm the opposite. Without metric tons of down time, I become a twitchy, bitchy bag of neuroses, temper tantrums and meaningless fights with my boyfriend (sorry, baby!).
In any case. The Victoria Day long weekend is stuffed with barbeques and bike rides, a few rainy bursts, and a chance to scrub my apartment from top to bottom. I've also read a book, done my laundry, and eaten a grape leaf sandwich. In other words, it has afforded me with leisure time that is remarkable only it its uninterrupted amount. Next weekend promises a Saturday of work and then a Sunday for alltheotherstuffIneedtodo, so this three-day block of time is a luxury of time and happiness that knows few bounds. I feel refreshed, recharged, and ready for another full week of - sigh - work.
The article, which seems to run under different guises in national newspapers every few months as "breaking news" but in reality is one of the hoariest old saws in a journalist's notebook, is how technological and societal advances should be leaving us with more leisure time. Time for the kids, time for the stack of novels on my bedside table yet to be cracked. More time for home-cooked meals and gardening. More time for working on hobbies, making art, making the world a better place. Less time has to be spent running around in cars, staring at a computer screen, picking up meals-in-a-bowl to snarf during the lunch (half-)hour, and commuting.
The articles always argue that, by cutting the workweek down, people are healthier, more in tuned with their families, less stressed, and more productive when they are at their desks. Even doing 40 hours in four days - working nine to seven, say - gives people more time. It's hard to argue with that; if I'm commuting 45 minutes each way on transit or on the highway, cutting one day of commuting out gives me an hour and a half each week to do other it things. Not to mention that whole other day of not working. It gives me a day to go to the doctor, or talk to my landlord, or attend volunteer meetings, or cook for the week.
At this point, I am like, obsessed with the idea of a part-time job. I'm not really a frugal person - I spend too much on frozen yogurt and second-hand clothes for that kind of thing - but I'm also not terribly expensive in my tastes. I want a nice little 25/30 hour a week gig; somewhere were I still I have a desk, but I'm not chained to it. I don't want to make tacos or make beggy phonecalls to patrons of the Harbourfront Festival or fold clothes at American Apparel, but I thrive when I'm in a professional situation that allows for freedom. Like most people, I chafe under too much work and too many demands, and I can only imagine that, as I get older and my responsibilities increase, I'll be even more horrible if I also have to hold down a full-time gig. Some people like to work. They claim to go a little nuts without it. I'm the opposite. Without metric tons of down time, I become a twitchy, bitchy bag of neuroses, temper tantrums and meaningless fights with my boyfriend (sorry, baby!).
In any case. The Victoria Day long weekend is stuffed with barbeques and bike rides, a few rainy bursts, and a chance to scrub my apartment from top to bottom. I've also read a book, done my laundry, and eaten a grape leaf sandwich. In other words, it has afforded me with leisure time that is remarkable only it its uninterrupted amount. Next weekend promises a Saturday of work and then a Sunday for alltheotherstuffIneedtodo, so this three-day block of time is a luxury of time and happiness that knows few bounds. I feel refreshed, recharged, and ready for another full week of - sigh - work.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Work Attire(d)
Since starting work in an office, I've become hyperaware of what "conservative dress" really means. Let me tell you: this is a minefield. "Business casual" seems to mean different things to different people: one person's slutty tank top is another's Thursday morning outfit. The dudes have it easy. All they have to do is throw on a sweater that isn't covered in reindeer, pants that aren't dungarees, and get a half-way decent haircut, and they look professional. Women, on the other hand, have a range of styles to befuddle us. Pants? Skirts? Tights? Bare legs? Cover the shoulders? Are tee shirts okay? Cleavage? Accessories? And what about hairdos? Princess Leia buns, a staple of my civilian hair repertoire, tends to get disapproving looks from my supervisors. What is a girl to do?!
I can't vouch for any of y'all, but I never thought I'd fuck it up so badly. Oh, sure, I jam the photocopier on the regular and make idiotic mistakes with people's files, but I never feel quite as bad as when I get dinged for dressing inappropriately. During my first couple weeks on the job, I was pulled aside and told to bring my look up to a corporate standard; my boss acknowledged that I was fresh out of school and therefore might not have a wealth of office-ready clothes to fall back on, but it made me feel like I had been slapped. Criticisms of clothes, like comments on body or age, feel deeply personal. I felt as though she had dismissed me entirely based on the way I looked, not how I was doing my job or settling into the company.
Since then, I've tried to be more careful. I wear opaque tights and skirts to the knee, flats shoes and shirts than cover the elbow. If there was ever a staff meeting in an Orthodox shul, I could waltz right in and take my place without feeling stupid (I mean, aside from the fact that I've never been inside a synagogue and would, knowing me, knock over the torah or accidentally fall in the mikveh). But I still want to let loose a little. I feel like "business funky" is a look I strive for, like gallery owners and women who run children's clothing shops. Which is ridiculous - it means I'm modeling my style after middle aged gallery owners. Dudes. I am 27 years old. I have a slammin' bod and great hair. There is no reason to hide my light under a pashmina and arty glasses.
But the office mood is one of grave professionalism, so I cover up. My coworkers and I are a pretty bleak bunch; we all gravitate towards gray and black and navy, with nary a sequin in sight. I'm not saying that the business should be conducted in Caribana outfits, but the emphasis on looking professional rather than being professional is a little, well, weird. There is one chica who tries to spice it up, but her bralessness and miniskirts comes off as less "fun!" and more, like, "WTF?" There's a wide gulf between a fun tank top and letting your tatas hang out in the workplace, right? Besides, I'm sure she could work in the nude and still get her job done.
I understand the reason behind office gear: it makes things look clean and nice, even when they're actually harried and hectic. It takes some of the guesswork out of dressing in the a.m. - a suit is almost always appropriate, and women have whole departments dedicated to the art of professional dressing. But when it's used as just one more way to deny employees any sense of fun in the workplace, as another disciplinary measure used to instill a sense of bad-dog shame in the people in the company, then maybe it's time to bust out the protest feathers and sequins and get our work done with some style.
I can't vouch for any of y'all, but I never thought I'd fuck it up so badly. Oh, sure, I jam the photocopier on the regular and make idiotic mistakes with people's files, but I never feel quite as bad as when I get dinged for dressing inappropriately. During my first couple weeks on the job, I was pulled aside and told to bring my look up to a corporate standard; my boss acknowledged that I was fresh out of school and therefore might not have a wealth of office-ready clothes to fall back on, but it made me feel like I had been slapped. Criticisms of clothes, like comments on body or age, feel deeply personal. I felt as though she had dismissed me entirely based on the way I looked, not how I was doing my job or settling into the company.
Since then, I've tried to be more careful. I wear opaque tights and skirts to the knee, flats shoes and shirts than cover the elbow. If there was ever a staff meeting in an Orthodox shul, I could waltz right in and take my place without feeling stupid (I mean, aside from the fact that I've never been inside a synagogue and would, knowing me, knock over the torah or accidentally fall in the mikveh). But I still want to let loose a little. I feel like "business funky" is a look I strive for, like gallery owners and women who run children's clothing shops. Which is ridiculous - it means I'm modeling my style after middle aged gallery owners. Dudes. I am 27 years old. I have a slammin' bod and great hair. There is no reason to hide my light under a pashmina and arty glasses.
But the office mood is one of grave professionalism, so I cover up. My coworkers and I are a pretty bleak bunch; we all gravitate towards gray and black and navy, with nary a sequin in sight. I'm not saying that the business should be conducted in Caribana outfits, but the emphasis on looking professional rather than being professional is a little, well, weird. There is one chica who tries to spice it up, but her bralessness and miniskirts comes off as less "fun!" and more, like, "WTF?" There's a wide gulf between a fun tank top and letting your tatas hang out in the workplace, right? Besides, I'm sure she could work in the nude and still get her job done.
I understand the reason behind office gear: it makes things look clean and nice, even when they're actually harried and hectic. It takes some of the guesswork out of dressing in the a.m. - a suit is almost always appropriate, and women have whole departments dedicated to the art of professional dressing. But when it's used as just one more way to deny employees any sense of fun in the workplace, as another disciplinary measure used to instill a sense of bad-dog shame in the people in the company, then maybe it's time to bust out the protest feathers and sequins and get our work done with some style.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Love Tokens
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.
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.
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!
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