That's right, boys, I'm a Feminist...

So, with this whole current issue involving Rush Limbaugh, feminism has been on my mind a lot this week. And lo and behold if it didn't come an important issue in both my classes and my life...

We watched Mad Men in my television class (weirdly, right after I'd had a dream the day before about meeting Jon Hamm, one of the main actors from the show, at some sort of celebrity event. Why the hell I was there, I haven't a clue. Why I dreamed about an actor who's show I'd never seen until the next day I also can't explain) and our viewing about some ads used during the airing of Mad Men on AMC led to some discussion of feminism. It got kind of awkward because one guy in my class didn't see an ad as misogynist when many other kids did (just because the misogyny isn't blatant doesn't mean it's any better; in fact I would argue that's the general state of sexism today). Regardless, I had this lingering in the back of my mind and vexing me slightly as I went off to meet up with a girl from two of my classes to study for our midterms.  While in the midst of trying to explain what ethnomusicology was, one of her guy friends dropped by the study lounge where we were. Aside from being distracted from studying, the girl just stopped talking and ignored anything I said about the term at this point. The guy left and we tried to resume studying, during which she said, "Wow, I'm really distracted now." We started going over stuff and then she mentioned, "He's like one of my best friends. And I was embarrassed to sound so nerdy in front of him."

Ahem. Okay, lemme get this straight - you invite me over to study. You really are confused about this stuff. I'm trying to explain it to you, but you don't want to look "nerdy" in front of a friend? You're in the middle of a study session; you're supposed to be studying. It's not being nerdy, it's being a student!

Ignoring the fact that if she didn't want to look nerdy, I must look like a humongous nerd to her (don't care, won't care - am a nerd, will always be a nerd), I wondered exactly what her relationship is with this guy. I can think of only one reason a girl would not want to look "nerdy"/smart in front of a guy - and that's because she likes him. Because, for some explicable reason, many guys in my generation don't like smart girls.

Why? Probably because they're intimated, or don't want to look stupid, or don't want a girl who's clever enough not to take his bullshit, or don't want to argue with her, or - you get the idea. There are a plethora of possible reasons. And usually I wouldn't be so unkind to the male gender, but I'm rather pissed off about this. I mean, considering this might be one of the main reasons why guys want nothing to do with me, it's kind of an big issue. But, girls, here's what you need to know:

http://weasleycansaveanything.tumblr.com/post/18737413970

There you go. Right there. I can put it no better than that. If a guy doesn't like you for being smart, than he doesn't really like you or respect you. And thus he's not worth your time.

This, of course, makes me a feminist. Because I want to be treated like an equal, not an accessory. If you don't want a smart girl, TS, boys, TS. We don't want a guy dumb enough to say he DOESN'T want a smart girl. Because they're clearly operating from some previous state of being where they don't want a woman who's clever and can speak her mind. And they probably think feminism is something bizarre that only involves bra burning and extreme liberals (they also happen to be the sort of guys who don't understand that lesbians are real, but that's an equally frustrating topic for another time). Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I am a feminist, I am smart, and I will not waste my time dating someone who doesn't respect me for being these things. It's not being picky; it's respecting myself. I don't care if I'm alone for the rest of my life because being this way makes me "undateable" (which has to me a myth; it's totally a myth, right, gentlemen?); I'd rather be alone than be with someone who doesn't like me for me. This doesn't make me a man-hater, or a shrew, or any of that shit. No, all I want is someone to treat me the way I would treat them. I WANT to date a smart man because I want to date someone who is my equal. And that's that. Equality - what a novel thought.

So, girls, stop dumbing yourself down for guys, or anyone, for that matter. And guys - ditto. This whole fear of looking smart or nerdy or whatever is ridiculous. If anything, BE NERDY - as a guy in my Italian class said, "Everyone's a nerd, because everyone's passionate about something." Be passionate, be happy, and be yourself. This has been a PSA announcement from [La Maga].

Stronger

This week has been a busy (and unexpectedly dramatic) week in apartment management. I attended the housing fair (on the correct day this time) and got at least six people to give me their info to schedule a tour. However, [Львица] and I have been trying to find someone to move into our apartment in June so I can move in next door and the girl living there doesn't have to worry about subletting. But it's been hard to find two people who want to sublet so early, so we wondered if it might be easier for Britney, the girl who lives in the apartment I'm planning on moving into next year, to find a short-term subletter.

Except that, suddenly, it's not okay to sublet for less than three months in the building; they look for long-term leasing so they don't have high turnover. Which makes sense... but that was NOT what we were told upon filling out the lease. And that's not what any of the other tenants were told by the previous building manager either. So now we have that tricky little issue.

Our boss and building owner had decided to make an exception in order to let someone lease short-term, but before this [Львица] and I were both certain he alluded to giving me another apartment, not the one I wanted. I was unsure how this would solve any problems, but I'm certain that's what he said on the phone the other night. Not that it matters here; there are some battles I can't win and trying to justify myself and show that I am not in the wrong will solve nothing; it is not the point and it doesn't matter here. Unfortunately for me, I have a long history of hating any situation that makes me feel wronged and blamed when I feel I don't deserve to (something I deeply have in common with the protagonist of Jane Eyre) and it's been hard for me to see this situation clearly. However, this situation came up the other night and our boss took offense and [Львица] had to work herself out of a very awkward situation. Every time I think I've gotten better at communication and I think I'm good at what I'm doing, the stark reality of how much work it takes to attain good communication hits me.

http://www.examiner.com/

But instead of focusing out how far I've got to go, I'd rather commend myself for how far I've come. Yes, I could communicate better with my boss. But this is the first real job I've had, I've never met him or spoken with him face-to-face, and sometimes it's hard to express what [Львица] and I have discussed to our boss with just one of us trying to summarize. And given my history of introversion, slight social anxiety, and loathing of talking on phones (which has all but dissipated this year), I'm pretty goddamn pleased with myself. I have become a stronger person - in words, in actions, in many things. And for that, well, I'm quite happy.

Of course, I still have ways to grow and change (who doesn't?) and I'll harbor regrets about not being afraid to speak up sooner. Maybe it was because of Catholic school, maybe it was just who I was or what I was taught when I was young, but arguing with authority is something I had to learn myself, something I never saw accepted or allowed. If it weren't for [Львица] and, oddly enough, my father's new outspokenness about politics, and the fact that I've allowed myself to get really pissed off about some things, I might have never learned to speak my mind. I regret not doing it more in the past; I'll always wish I had spoken up in my high school Biology class when my teacher said that it was possible for AIDS to be passed through kissing which was SO WRONG, instead of just fuming about it later; I should have stood up and TOLD HIM he was wrong.

But the environment and person I was in high school was far, far different from where I find myself now. In college, there's a sense of freedom that I often take for granted. In college, you can break some of the rules. In high school, rules are the only structure there is to cling to.

Not that college is anywhere near perfect. [Львица]'s English class this semester has exemplified over and over again how easy it is for someone to take away the ability of expression (even when they think they are actually opening doors wider when in actuality they are slamming them shut). But I'm infinitely grateful for those who have allowed and encouraged me to speak out; the only thing I have too keep fighting for is the belief that I have the right to do so and that I deserve it. It's not always an easy feat; but I'm working on it. :)

Cheque, Check

[Львица] and I came to a consensus the other day: men don't know how to write checks. Okay, so not all men, obviously. But a wide variety of twenty-something college boys sure don't.

http://carayowell.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/Abundance-Cheque-Example.jpg

Case and point: last summer, on move-in day, I had to tell the tenant of 103 how to fill out the check for the first month's rent because he'd never written one. Then the other day, [Львица] was watching a guy who was writing a check for the security deposit to rent an apartment in our building next year and he didn't know how to do it.

What is with this? I mean, both [Львица] and I realized that are mothers are the ones who pay the checks in the household and that neither of our fathers write checks very often. Not saying they don't know how, but that it doesn't happen often. Why did the checkbook become a woman's tool? What's with this?

I don't have the answers... seriously, I don't. I'm just mindlessly musing because it's late and that's what I'm good at.

Confessions of a Self-Depreciating Fangirl, Part 2

As I was saying, something happened the other day. I became suddenly aware - and obsessed - with a new celebrity.

In case you haven't noticed by his sudden appearance/mention on this blog, it's Benedict Cumberbatch.

Yes, poor Benedict Cumberbatch, poor, poor Benedict Cumberbatch, who has girls declaring themselves to be his future wife because he, unlike so many celebrities fangirls pine over, IS UNMARRIED.

Not that it stops fangirls from obsessing over married celebrities but, you know, the potentiality of this situation not ending tears is slightly less from the fangirl perspective. Here's how it reads to them:

He's not married! He's so talented! He's so handsome - and those cheekbones! And that voice!* If I could meet him - it'd be perfect!

*They always mention his cheekbones. And his voice. Yes, I did bring up his voice before - he sounds like he could be related to Alan Rickman and it's fucking brilliant. But the repetition of the cheekbones thing... yes, he has a very nice facial structure. But talking about slicing tomatoes with his cheekbones... too far, girls. Way too far... 

I had some variation of this thought the other day (minus the cheekbone bit). Part of it ended up in my Sherlock post, as you might have noticed. Which was nothing abnormal - I talk about celebrities. A LOT (and dammit, he DOES have a fabulous name). But I found myself realizing I'd latched on to this fangirl idea of getting married to a celeb. And I freaked.

Okay, a brief history of me as a tween. I began my earliest fangirling when The Lord of the Rings movies came out (Aragorn all the way, baby). And I went pretty hardcore when Gerard Butler played Erik in The Phantom of the Opera. However, I was fourteen, and had absolutely no interest in dating anyone, no matter how wonderful and famous they were. Because I was fourteen and really yet unaware about life in general. Point is, I was not like other teenage girls who were buying shirts that said, "Mrs. Pitt" and "Mrs. Affleck" from Claire's and convinced that somehow, despite the thousands of girls who were wearing those shirts, they were all going to end up married to said celebrities. Even at the age of fourteen, I thought this was baloney.

So somehow, between the ages of fourteen and twenty-one, I've regressed immensely, to a prior state I was never actually at (well, there was a sort of similar instance where for a few days I thought I might actually get an acceptance letter to Hogwarts, but that didn't last too long for me. I wasn't feeling too secure about my studious nature at the time).

Here's probably how it happened: I'm on Tumblr, ensconced amongst all these photos of celebrities, and suddenly I start seeing all these posts about peeps being fanatic about their favorite celebrities. It starts to look normal to me, and I find myself slipping in and doing the same thing. I found who Benedict Cumberbatch was in part BECAUSE OF Tumblr. But here's where it went different, where it didn't morph into a previous favorite actor obsession: the first thing that really caught my attention wasn't just a photo; it was a quote from some article where Cumberbatch - according to a Tumblr user quoting the article ("I saw it on the internet, it's definitely true.") - said that his biggest regret was not having kids by the age of 32.

Whomp. Just like that I was suddenly, emotionally attached to a man I've never met. This is not unusual - this has happened a bajillion times. What WAS different was how I reacted to it, that I didn't just care that he was attractive and intelligent and talented; no, I also cared about his emotional well-being on a level I can honestly say I've never reached before for a person I've never met, never seen in person, never in lived in the same country as. That was warning sign number 1.

Warning sign number 2 was spending more time on Tumblr than on anything else - even my fictional writing. Not because I talk to people on there (I really don't; I don't get how that works with just an ask box and a bunch of photos). No, it was because I wanted to see all of these new photos of my new favorite actor and share in the experience of people knowing who he is. And slowly, I realized I was getting jealous of the other people out there who I once sympathized with; where once I felt we bonded, I suddenly felt jealous of; as if they were trying to prove themselves a better fan than me. Big old warning sign number 3.

And then yesterday, I was on Tumblr and I saw this gif set I'd seen before: Cumberbatch dancing to "Thriller" at a party. Only there were a bunch of comments talking about how it had been stolen from a Facebook profile and that it was not meant to be shown to the public. Tumblr people were asking for it to be deleted and not reblogged and to address whoever had originally posted it it. But it was too late. I was incredibly creeped out.

I began wondering... How may of these other photos out there are NOT supposed to be released to the Internet? And not just for Cumberbatch - for Michael Fassbender, David Tennant, etc. etc. etc. What do these guys actually think of their fans? I mean, I want to be a famous writer - how would I feel if people posted this sort of stuff about me? (Freaked. Totally freaked. I'd appreciate it at first but then once I started seeing stuff about me everywhere, I'd totally flip out.) So why would we treat actors any different than we'd treat ourselves?

Because we idolize them. Honestly, if I met one of the actors I've mentioned, I have no idea how I'd react. I can't truly imagine it. Well, I mean I do imagine it but it's not authentic. In my mind, I'm all cool and collected. In reality, I'd probably be having a fit and pass out or just be too nervous to even say anything.

So there's this conundrum here - the want to treat actors like you would anyone else (because, after all, that's probably what they want and if you want hang out with an actor, you don't want to be the crazy one who's built a shrine out of printer paper and teacups in your room), but also the need to respect them, to express your admiration (which then gets totally carried away here). And you get stuck in fangirling.

So why do we do this to ourselves? Well, fangirling is easier than some other options. Let me explain:

1) As I've mentioned before, it's less riskier than actually getting involved in relationships. Here, the only person who can break your heart is reality - and even that can be eluded for an extended period of time.You keep telling yourself that anything is possible and that you could totally wind up marrying someone famous someday. And you keep those voices in your head telling you you're just being silly silent a while longer.

2) It's easier to let it go than fight it, especially if you're in school. I mean, I sat through 30 plus minutes today in a lecture, discussing the flaws in an experiment. 70% of the things students said were confounds WEREN'T and we spent forever discussing why so. Unfortunately for me, I get this stuff within the first five minutes. And for some inexplicable reason, even as a junior, college is boring for me. So I spend the rest of class bored out of my mind and daydreaming, wishing for an escape. It's no wonder that I want to be swept off my feet by some dashing actor.

3) In relation to the first point, there's this predominate feeling that a lot of these fangirls don't have boyfriends and can't get boyfriends, for whatever reasons. Boys ignore them, they get "friend zoned," they just have bad luck... you get the idea. You know my story. So, it's like this decision that since they can't get a normal guy, they might as well reach for the stars and dream of something impossible.

This all sounds rather sad and disturbing and disheartening, I know. I'm sure all fangirls aren't this way, but the more time I spend on Tumblr, the more I see girls like this. It makes me realize that this part of myself - this repression of obsessing with actors, inability to get a normal boyfriend, dreaming of perfection - isn't as abnormal as I'd thought. But now this powerful, potent release is no longer comforting. It's terrifying. I'm no longer alone, but I still feel the urge to run away from myself. I hate myself for acting this way. But I just feel more insecure, more trapped by my own life - trapped by school, trapped by circumstances, trapped by things I have to do but don't want to - and I'm back to wanting to escape as I was before.

And as much as daydreaming can be fun and wonderful, it can also be dangerous. You've got a good picture of why. My friend [X] once said that most of her life is lived in her head, which I found profoundly sad. Not having actual actions, just dreaming out what you want to do rather than actually being able to do it. While the importance of imagination is great, its power can go too far.

Perhaps my want for action is what made this situation different. I had the sudden urge to meet Mister Cumberbatch. Okay, obviously fan girls want to meet all of their favorite celebrities. I want to meet John Barrowman, but more out of a "wow, we'd be great friends; I feel like I already know him" vein. This current case is markedly different. This is more like, "Hey, I know nothing about him, but I feel like I understand him better than anyone else." Which is totally weird. And probably what 80% of other fan girls feel. So tough shit for me.

However, also in combination with this is the whole issue with photos and videos being released that aren't supposed to be, in which I feel the desire to prove that not all fans are not so incredibly creepy. Which is impossible to do while feeling like a creep. So of course I found myself trying to not be creepy, to try to be a fan without being totally mental about it - an elegant, mature adult who just happens to fancy an actor. While all the time, in the back of my mind, I'm trying to figure out how I could get to London and "stumble across" Cumberbatch during the Olympics or something as equally absurd (because, you know, out of 7 million people there plus however many millions will attend the Olympics, I'm going to be able to find ANYONE). It's a like a constant battle, trying to not feel like a tween about this (it's interesting that all the imagery about fangirling comes from young girls. But that's a topic for another time). And now all this self-reflection, and reflecting upon reflection, is a bit much. I've just got a whole lot of words on a page and no clear idea of where to go from here. All I know is that I want to be recognized for who I am, not a mindless, faceless fanatic. So I'm limiting my time on Tumblr, reminding myself that actors or people to (unlike what Max Bialystok might say in The Producers), and that I am young and naive and very good at being both things and that I might as well accept that I'm going to do stupid stuff. But the least I can do is limit the embarrassment I cause for myself and for others. Because these actors I adore so much deserve better than... whatever this attempt at explanation and apologizing this is. Sorry, great thespians, and, while I won't pretend that you're reading this, I extend an apologia for this league of fangirls. And an extra expression of regret to the fine Mr. Cumberbatch as the unknowing example in this RIDICULOUSLY LONG post (many apologies, dear sir... you've been dragged into the realm of cultural theorizing.). And since this really is an on-going tale and I've no idea how to close this, I'm just going to stop... right... here.

Confessions of a Self-Depreciating Fangirl

I am in denial that this semester is happening. Really. I just remembered today that I have an essay due in my Comedy class (which sounds like a lot more fun than it actually is) next Thursday. And I have a test on Monday in Research Methods. And I have to find research articles for my Research Methods paper. And I have to accept myself that I'm back in school and that, yes, once again, I have found myself swamped with work and sick and living half of my life in mental fantasies that will never, ever happen - this week's includes John Barrowman singing Cole Porter and Benedict Cumberbatch reading great English literature to me while I curl up all warm and cozy on the couch, sneezing (elegantly and lady-like, as if such sort of sneezing was possible) and drinking Earl Grey tea. Like I said, totally impossible. The best I can do is hole up in Espresso Royale between classes and drink Spanish Lattes and read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Charlotte Bronte and try not to panic over having absolutely no control over this semester. And life in general.

I mean, where the hell is this year going? It just started and already we're in the first full week of February! I'm sitting here, with a watch around my neck, and time's all just ticking by me. It's kind of unnerving.

Oh, and I think I got Mo, [Львица]'s cat, sick. I know that diseases aren't supposed to transfer from human to cat, but Mo slept on my bed last night and it was fantastic and comforting, but now she's sneezing. I just feel like everything I'm trying to do to make things easier for myself backfires.

Like writing this blog. I should totally be doing some homework, or essay writing, or research planning, or internship hunting. But I just can't make myself care about those things right now. I need to stop working for a few minutes, to breathe and relax and tell myself I'm not going to break down (and all in the back of my head, I'm thinking about all the stuff we're talking about in my classes, about how the Industrial Revolution has made us all machine-like and it's freaking me out). I go on Tumblr to chill out and see fun pix of my favorite shows and movies, but instead I just get visually attacked by totally beautiful European men - okay, okay British and a couple Irish men, you win, [Львица] - (Barrowman, Cumberbatch, David Tennant, Ewan McGregor, Michael Fassbender, Colin Firth, Martin Freeman, James McAvoy, the list continues and seems to grow everyday...) and I feel stalker-ish and, well, for lack of a better word, weird.

Let me set this up for you: I have this absurd desire to be famous. Wow, okay, who doesn't, right? Actually, I never used to care about that sort of thing (well, maybe I did, but I'd convinced myself otherwise). Then something happened - A) I realized that 75% of the people I knew in high school didn't know who I was,* B) I wasn't going to be able to me a music teacher and change lives in a small, sweet way like Mr. Holland, and C) If I couldn't do what I originally planned, then dammit I might was well go big and become the next big American writer. Or some shit like that. And people were finally going to appreciate me and care and it didn't matter that most of my teachers couldn't remember my name and I never got asked to Homecoming or Prom and that one little asshole in my AP Psych class insinuated that I'd never get married. No, none of that would matter when I could roll up to our high school reunion as a fucking millionaire and a best-selling author. And that the fact that they never thought I was cool was an utterly moot point. This is not original. I know. But it's how I've felt since graduation, and it's how I still feel now.

* I'll never forget the time [Broadway Baby] was trying to convince me that people liked me and he asked this guy named Sam who was walking by, "Hey, Sam, do you like [La Maga]?" To which he replied, "Who's [La Maga]?" I'm pretty sure this was a common reaction for most people. Even in my graduating class (which had around 400 people, mind you. My school had 2000 students, so maybe I should stop whining and be glad anyone knew me at all).

So I have an obsession with fame. How American. In turn, I have an obsession with famous people (which I have discussed multitudes of times and will continue to discuss, because I'm a CSCL major and that's what we do. And I just have a lot of feelings). I also have an unfortunate trend of thinking that actors who happen to play my favorite characters or characters I grow to love, who are very handsome/charming/dashing, and say something that I happen to agree with are suddenly the EXACT MAN I AM LOOKING FOR IN MY LIFE. I am not alone in this happening - I see it all across Tumblr. Which is a great sort of, "Hey, look, I'm not alone!" tool - which is nice for the first few weeks. But then you - okay, I - started to get creeped out. Because it's just SO MUCH FANGIRLING.

I can understand a little bit. Okay, John Barrowman is one gorgeous man - I have stated that far too much on this blog. In fact, I had a page in which to try to focus some of the fangirling so as not to make a bunch of nonsense posts. But then I looked at it today and thought it was creepy. So sadly, it is no more. You're welcome, John Barrowman. Not that you read this. Unless you do...

See? See what I did there? FANGIRLS THINK THIS ALL THE TIME. They think that their favorite celebrity is secretly reading their blogs. They think that for some reason, Mr. Famous Talented Handsome Celebrity will swoop down from his very busy, hectic life into their very dull, mundane ones and sweep them off their feet to some exquisite life full of roses and awards shows and awesomeness. I am not making fun of fangirls out of spite. Because I find myself wishing for these same things.

And you know another thing that's stupid? Oscar Season and Valentine's Day - two things that should NOT be this close together. For the sake of the fangirls, it's very, very dangerous. I was wondering if anyone's ever tried to crash the Oscars in order to see their favorite actor (probably yes. I feel like it'd be pretty easy - get a nice dress, tell them you're a Baldwin, you're in). Also, Valentine's Day produces a deep melancholia for most people who are of the single state. Which only doubles the power of the fangirl obsession.

I could very easily let myself continue down this path of constantly blogging photos of celebrities I have crushes on and flipping out over them and being totally obsessive, like a little kid watching a puppy in a shop window (wow, nice self-depreciating imagery there, right? Demeaning actors into puppy-like images. I can't decide if that's truthful or too harsh a way of describing this phenomenon). But the other day, something happened. Maybe it's because I'm tired of feeling stuck between the ages of fifteen and thirty. Maybe it's because my mind is being enlightened because of my On Television class. Maybe it's because my fangirling went to a whole new level.

Regardless, this the longest blog I've written this year. But it's a bit too long. So I'm going to continue this in part two. Readers beware.

The Trouble with Bright Girls

http://legosneggos.files.wordpress.com/

[Львица] came across this article the other day and I had one of those instances where I wanted to attach a big giant "this" photo to it to express how much I agree with the author is saying. You can read the whole thing here but I'm going to post the first two paragraphs to segue into it:

Successful women know only too well that in any male-dominated profession, we often find ourselves at a distinct disadvantage. We are routinely underestimated, underutilized and even underpaid. Studies show that women need to perform at extraordinarily high levels, just to appear moderately competent compared to our male coworkers.

But in my experience, smart and talented women rarely realize that one of the toughest hurdles they'll have to overcome to be successful lies within. Compared with our male colleagues, we judge our own abilities not only more harshly but fundamentally differently. Understanding why we do it is the first step to righting a terrible wrong. And to do that, we need to take a step back in time.

Perhaps I find this so timely because it just occurred to me over break that all the really terrible things that combat me (my weight, my appearance, my grades, my future, my attitude, my relationships) have rarely been outwardly criticized by anyone. No, in fact the thoughts that hurt me most come from ME. I think I won't succeed at something or that I'll fail or something or that I'm bad person and it hurts me and I see it as true just because I THOUGHT IT. I remember this really taking off around fifth grade, all these negative self-thoughts, and that's when I first remember having blue days and feeling incompetent and disliking myself. And woe and behold, at what age does the author say little clever girls suddenly feel less confident? FIFTH GRADE.

Girls see things as innate and unchangeable; boys see through effort and practice, they can get better at things. Why this is... well, I'm sure I could come up with a lot of hypothesis. But it seems so true. I mean, it's certainly been a hurdle I've been trying to overcome in a lot of things - music, math, social skills, you name it. Part of me wants to get all feminist and freak about this and get pissed off that this difference in learning exists. Part of me just wants to sit back and think this through and find a way to overcome it. Another part of me just wants to go out and hug every girl this has happened to.

Sometimes, life just isn't fair. I think about how people sometimes treat me, being an assistant building manager, acting like because I'm a girl I can't handle working with hardware and plumbing and other assorted home improvement things. This hasn't happened often and it hadn't blatantly been expressed but it's just a feeling I've gotten from some of the people (okay, men) who've come out to the apartment to do repairs. As if just because I'm a woman, I can't learn how to do repair stuff.

Yeah, and you came out of the womb knowing everything you ever needed to know about home repair. Right.

Fortunately for me, around the time I started getting serious about music, I started trying to believe that things are not innate and unchangeable, that I could learn flute and kick ass at it (okay, so I didn't get into music school, but I do kick ass at it). I could do math if I really put my mind to it (but I found myself having more fun writing and doing psych stuff). I can freaking light a pilot light and re-attach a shower head to the wall. I CAN LEARN SHIT.

So, girls: you can do it. Whatever it is. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And boys: share the love. We can both do it - and screw insecurity.

This has dissolved into a fluffy, poorly written pep talk. Sorry, but in my defense, today's the first day of spring semester and my brain is rather exhausted. So maybe I should call it quits for the night and let all you philosophizing pseudo-feminists do whatever it is when you're not reading my blog. Not that philosophizing pseudo-feminists read my blog but... never mind. You know what I mean.

How To Insult Everyone At Once

So between writing about [uber gay] and writing about the Saloon, I ran into a term that I'd heard before but never in context. After coming across a website that defined it, I got kind of upset. So this post is going to be all about "fag hags."

Here's one of the Urban Dictionary definitions just so we've really got it down: 

You Are A True Fag Hag If...

-You are a straight girl who has a best friend who is gay and spends a lot of time together
-You would rather go to a gay club than a straight club
-Your fag gave you your own drag name
-You know all the gay guys at the local gay bar
-Your fag takes you shopping for mac makeup and then puts it on you
-Your hair and makeup are always flawless
-You dress up in his drag gear on saturday night or dress in drag together
-You even dance with all the fags on stage when Britney Spears comes on
-You learned to vouge from watching your fag
-You fall in love with your fag (which is a bad thing)
-You try to convert your fag (this will only ruin your relationship with him)
And lastly... you find your self not being able to live without him because you have so much fun with him.

Or, for simplicity's sake:

A woman who likes the company of gay men. It can be affectionate or offensive, depending on the usage. 

Poor Grace... she has no idea what she's wrought.

 Sometimes I hate culture. Really I do.

I mean, how do you even BEGIN to deal with this? For one, I LOATHE the word fag. Mostly because when I was younger, I rarely heard it come out of someone's mouth who wasn't being offensive. Perhaps since then there has a been a "reclamation" of the term and thus has gained a non-offensive connotation. But I still hate it.

Also, I'm going to be an uber feminist for a moment and express how much I hate the word hag. While the history of the word is a mix of connotations between friendly witches and creepy, nightmarish women, the latter meaning has stuck more. So as funny as the two words sound together, it still pisses me off. And "queer deer" or "fruit fly" aren't too complementary either.

The problem is, I'm sure there are some pretty legit reasons for wanting to call someone a "fag hag." Trying to convert a gay man into a straight man smacks of such misunderstanding of sexuality that it makes me want to scream. But creating such a name doesn't sound so great either. Not to mention calling every girl who has a close gay friend a "fag hag" is ridiculous - that's like half the women I know. Plus who said the girl had to be straight? What, lesbians can't be friends with gay men? And referring to a person's friend who happens to be gay as "your fag" creates this whole weird ownership thing. Which is degrading, to say the least.

OK, seriously, I know this is just Urban Dictionary and not the authority on modern lexicon, but who wrote this entry? Who said all gay men like going shopping? Who said a girl with flawless makeup and hair MUST be BFFs with only gay men? Better yet, WHO STILL LISTENS TO BRITNEY SPEARS? Ok, that's harsh, she has made quite a comeback.

I should probably just let this slide and accept that this term is what is. I've done that. But sometimes, I just need to complain.

My point is, generalizing works in some situations. THIS IS NOT ONE OF THOSE SITUATIONS. You can just sum up everyone with a cute little term - culture is WAY more complex than this. Please, for the sake of humanity, stop assuming that every girl who has a friend who is gay is exactly the same. Please stop assuming that all gay men act the same way. Please try to stop being so stereotypical without being obsessively politically correct and then we can all just relax and enjoy life and the Doctor can dance and EVERYBODY LIVES.

Yes, that was a Doctor Who reference. Sue me. I need something to fall back on so I don't go on a total feminist rant. I'll save that for later.

Doubt, Blogging, and Life

Sometimes I don't know why I write this blog. Here lately I've begun to wonder if it's just a waste of time. It's not academic, nobody really wants to hear me talking about my life, how great I think Torchwood is, how I'm obsessed with British culture and Byronic heroes. Sometimes I wonder why I thought this was a good idea in the first place.

This, of course, comes up because I'm terrified that I'm doing things wrong. My whole life, I've worked for I don't know what... and it's terrifying to recognize that. I'm here in school, basically marking time now until I graduate and trying to find things that set me up and make me look distinctive for an internship that I, until recently, have only dreamed about getting. Well, am still dreaming about getting. I can see it in my own reality... it just seems too fantastic. I think of it as the impossible dream for a reason. But I don't know what I'm doing. If things don't work out, what am I left with? Is blogging really every going to pay off? What if I never finish writing any of the countless things I've started? What if I don't get any internships and graduate with no idea of what I want to do in life?

These questions really start to bog me down, especially after the event I just experienced. I was supposed to let the roofer into the apartment building to do some maintenance, I couldn't find him anywhere. I couldn't call him back because I didn't have his number and, when I did get his number, it was an hour after I was supposed to meet him and I'd already spent a half an hour walking around the outside of the building looking for him. Apparently he was there for about five minutes and left so it totally wasn't my fault. BUT I WAS PISSED. It made me feel so small, so powerless. This job is already rough sometimes because every once in a while, I get the feeling that people don't believe we can actually do this job because we're women. And then I feel like I just can't do this job because I'm 20 years old and I don't exactly look like a manager. And then I just feel like shit. So basically I was just pissed off about being treated like shit. And suddenly, all the things that had made my day good seemed unimportant and trivial. So what if Jules, my CSCL advisor, said that there's absolutely no reason not to try for the Late Late Show internship? So what if I overcame the bystander affect we were talking about in psych class and didn't assume that someone was going to return the key I found in the bathroom and instead returned said key to a very grateful woman in the writing center? So what if I feel like I'm actually going to have an interesting (if totally embarrassing) Nanowrimo story this year? So what if I totally have a celebrity crush on John Barrowman and dream about working for Craig Ferguson and want to be a famous writer? None of that matters because I suck at my job and no one respects me and no one cares about me and I fail at life. At least that's how I felt until I had a little cry, vented to [Львица] and listened to the title song from the musical "Sunset Boulevard" because it's been stuck in my head all day (again, showtunes invading my mind...)

Clearly, I don't suck at my job, people respect me, people care about me and I don't fail at life. But it's hard to think about and appreciate all the things I've accomplished when so many things I want are just... so lofty. I don't think I'm an egotist, I just think I ask a lot out of life. But when am I asking too much? But I so, so so much want to believe this:

Why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I be allowed to dream crazy dreams? Why shouldn't I be allowed to try for something incredible? The real trick to all this is keeping my hopes up without getting to overconfident and then totally destroying and disappointing myself. But why shouldn't I at least dream about interviewing, getting the internship, meeting celebrities, just a little bit? It keeps me motivated. It keeps me positive. It keeps me sane.

Sometimes I feel like I should be doing more than what I am to prepare myself - working at some job half the time or leading some student government position or something. But some of those things aren't who I am. And there is only so much I can do in the time that has been given to me. Which is a frightening, staggering thought on many levels... though it's got a nice Lord of the Rings vibe to it. Yes, I don't have much time left before I graduate, before that deadline for the internship is due, before I have to decided what I'm going to do with my life before I kick the bucket and accept that mortality is a fact of life. Unless you're Jack Harkness, of course. But on that plus side, I shouldn't make myself do things I don't really want to do or give up things that truly matter to me. I'm going to run out and overwork myself and let my grades suffer just to impress someone. I'm not going to get involved with something I don't really care about. I'm not going to give up blogging just because I don't have that many followers or I feel like no one cares what I think or because Blogger will never recommend it to anyone and pretends this page doesn't exist.  I don't blog for anyone, exactly - I blog because I can. I blog because I enjoy it. I blog for me.

Because when things get rough, it's nice to know that I have this thing, this creation of mine to fall back on. It's a nice comfort. Not to mention I'm finally happy with how the layout looks.

Now, if you don't mind, I'm to stop blogging for a while and go write the worst romance novel ever written and stop being such a gloomy schmuck. Ridiculous sappy storyline - Go!

Another British TV show for the win

So due to my sudden interest in La Cage Aux Folles (and my attempts to find Youtube videos of John Barrowman in a revival of it) I came across these videos. At first I thought it was John Barrowman talking about loose women. And then I realized I'm an idiot and "Loose Women" is the name of a TV show in Britain. Take a look:

 

I guess this show is comparable to the US's The View. Except that I don't think The View has ever been this fun... not that they couldn't be, with a few tweaks. Maybe they should change their name to something subtly controversial - that might be a good start. Loose Women certainly has a nice ring to it. :)

La Cage Aux Folles

I finally saw La Cage Aux Folles at the State Theater last night.

OH. MY. GOD. I LOVED IT. LOVED LOVED LOVED LOVED LOVED IT.

There's a trick to going to Broadway shows, I've learned. - walk in there knowing the bare minimum about the show. That makes it SO much more exciting. Like Cabaret, which was my favorite musical (up until now) - I knew very little about it walking in. I didn't connect that, even thought it was Berlin in the 1930s, there would be Nazis in it. So when they showed up, I was like, "Holy shit." The plot twists are also a lot more spectacular without knowing the whole show. Which just makes it fun in general.

So I walked into La Cage Aux Folles knowing that it was about a gay couple in the 1960s, one of who owns a nightclub where men perform dressed as women. And that my most favorite Broadway song of all time is in it (which I'll post below, even thought it's elsewhere on this blog. But this version is sung by John Barrowman, so naturally I could post it a thousand times and never grow sick of it):

What I didn't know is that IT'S THE BEST BROADWAY SHOW I'VE EVER SEEN. Seriously. It is. Albin is the cutest, most wonderful, most interesting character I've seen onstage ever. And the actor who played him, Christopher Sieber, was PHENOMENAL. And he's from Minnesota. So yeah, win-win. Plus the storyline is just so... emotional. And kind of personal. Like, I didn't realize that "I am what I am" was sung right after Albin is told by Georges that who he is isn't what their son Jean-Michel wants around to meet his to-be in-laws. I cannot even fathom how painful that must be. I'm generally moved to tears by the performance of this song, but I definitely teared up big-time last night seeing it live. And kudos to me for sending it to [uber gay] when his family told him to change himself around relatives and he was totally upset. I made the perfect connection without even realizing it.

This show is just so.... feel-good. Much more so than Cabaret, which is probably why La Cage has now replaced it as my favorite (sorry, Cabaret, you're wonderful, but you're just kind of a downer). I mean, I walked out of there feeling on top of the world, feeling great about myself and feeling great about entire world and just wanted to run out and start volunteering for the HRC or the No H8 campaign or something (I would be already, except a little something called school has gotten in the way). But now I have serious motivation to do so. I mean, four... okay, five, because FINALLY we learned that one of our friends from high school, [save the panzer], is gay - so five of my closest friends are gay. So it's kind of a personal topic for me. And I'm beginning wonder if I can't identify as a gay man in a straight woman's body (okay, queer theorists of the world, is this possible? I seem to have a thing for gay men, but I'm a straight woman? Or am I just a straight woman with unlucky taste? How exactly would I discern if I act somewhat like a gay man? How would you know? How would anyone know? What if all women are just gay men in women's bodies? Whoa, that's going a tad bit too far... And this is one hell of a tangent...).

Barrowman... heels... sparkles... I am both envious and a little turned on. What the hell does that mean?!

Meanwhile, back at the ranch... As a perfect way to end the evening, we went to The Saloon, a popular gay bar in the area. Despite the fact that it got some bad reviews from the people we went to the Gay 90s with last year, it was nicer than the 90s. And they played sweet music. And had some nice Halloween decorating. And damn, boy - [save the panzer] can dance. And I realized I LIKE CLUBBING. At least at gay bars. Well, it was great until a strange man older than my father asked me if I wanted to dance. Then it got a bit weird.  Otherwise, a great way to end the night.

I just can't get over how good this show was. Like, I went out to dinner tonight with my parents and it was all I could to keep from talking about it the entire time. Why did I like it so damn much? A brief analysis:

1) IT WAS AMAZING. Fantastic costumes, choreography, comedy, romance - it tour de force of Broadway excellence. No matter what Star Tribune said: screw you guys. I hate your website anyway. Although you were right about George Hamilton.

2) It made me proud to be a woman. Yes, a show about gay men made me proud to be a woman. Why? Well, when I was younger, I was terrified to be girly. I didn't think it fit my personality, I felt like people judged me for wanting to be girly - like they just thought I'd be another dumb appearance-absorbed chick (not to mention I was friends with some girls who either didn't care about how they looked. At least they pretended to not care), and I didn't think a lot of feminine clothes would fit my not super-skinny, somewhat-boyish frame. Somewhere between high school and college I decided, "Fuck that shit," and went all out for girly clothes. Like dresses. And heels. OH MY GOD. Do I love wearing heels, no matter what [X] or anyone else says. Heels make you feel like the shit. Ones you can walk in and still look hot? They rule. They make you feel like you can kick total ass. Anyway, my point is, seeing men wear heels and having them totally understand that it takes a bit of still to stay afloat in those babies makes you feel... well, understood. Seeing men totally rocking sequins and feathers and sparkles and all the things women are supposed to like but often get made fun of for liking - well, it was damn nice to see men looking great in them, relating to women, and being their own person, being so comfortable with their own bodies. It made me feel glad to have worn heels and made me feel way less self-conscious dancing at The Saloon later. I could go into a bunch of theories as why this might be, but I don't need theories right now. I'm just glad it had that effect.

3) I found this on another Youtube video: I am what I am - George Hearn, a comment from "peerkbh":

One of the reasons why this IS a gay anthem is the fact that it helped give us a sense of pride in the eighties at a time when thousands and thousands of our friends and lovers were being wiped away by AIDS. Half of the original Broadway cast of La Cage had died before the show ended its run in 1987. And the composer Jerry Herman himself found out that he was infected as well. This is 'lump in the throat' music for me and always will be. Thank you George, thank you Jerry. Thank you so much.

This is mind-blowing to me. Half of the original cast DIED?! That is so terribly, terribly sad. I guess you could say the effect of this show was like the Rent of the 1980s. And now I feel like it wouldn't be a bad time for people my age to see this show, especially given the bullying directed towards GLBT youth. Especially since it's so upbeat. An "It Gets Better" campaign before "It Gets Better" campaigns? For the win, La Cage, for the win.

So, anyway, the take home message: see the show. But enough of me talking about the show - why not have John Barrowman, who starred in one of the revivals, tell you about it? (Trust me, it's worth it :D)

Daydreamer

I'm feeling a bit inspired by another post I came across today: Footwear as Political Salve and [Львица]'s post on Zachary Quinto. So I feel like talking about daydreaming myself. Especially since today's daydreaming consisted of meeting a hot celebrity (which is generally how my ludicrous daydreams seem to go).

I seriously spent like half of today thinking about meeting this guy:

*smolder* I'm John Barrowman.*smolder*

Yep. Thank you, Torchwood, for making me a John Barrowman fan girl. I am now way too emotionally attached to a TV show few people in this country has heard of, photo-stalking celebrities once more, and have fallen again for a taken gay man. I'm sure Barrowman would be just thrilled to know he has a crazy, single straight white girl blogging about him (hey, crazy single straight white girl wouldn't be a bad title for a book...)

Anyway... God, I can't think with this picture on screen. It's terribly distracting. I don't even remember why I wrote this post anymore. Oh yeah, I remember why...

This is from barrowmanilove, a Tumblr page discovered by [Львица]. This conversation,  posted under one of the millions of pictures on the blog, is between barrowmanilove and another Tumblr fan/follower:

barrowmanilove: Sigh… I wanna passionately make out with John Barrowman…….*pout*

phantomjoy: You and me both darlin’ ..you and me both. *sighs*

barrowmanilove: He has been known to kiss a couple ladies to see them blush. ;) 

phantomjoy: yeah, and i wish i were one of those ladies!!

Thanks, barrowmanilove, for putting that idea in my head for the rest of the day. I don't obsess over celebrities to the extend of barrowmanilove... but that doesn't mean I don't obsess at all. I'm blogging about it, goddammit. Clearly it's occupying my thoughts a lot more than other things today. (And a brief note and a tangent; I'm incredibly easily embarrassed. You want to see a lady blush, John Barrowman? All you'd have to do is stand there and I'd be turning redder than a sunburned ginger {my apologies to [Львица] and all other gingers. I couldn't think of any other similes. My brain isn't working so well today if you haven't noticed}.)

Glasses... kilt... puppy in a sweater! Now I think he's just doing this on purpose..

Because I have an overly critical sense of introspection, I of course feel like some sort of pervert for having celebrity crushes. But we've already done this song and dance (see Starstruck). So I won't harp on it again. However, I will awkwardly describe an issue I seem to have. It's called the need to continually be daydreaming about a guy.

See, I've been pretty good about not obsessing over celebrities a ton for a while there. I went through a Paul Bettany obsession after I got back from Scotland, but that was it. It helped me get through the worst of whatever happened between [No-Mr-Darcy] and me. But I swore to myself, no more of the endless needing/clinging to the feeling of crushes, wanting to be in love, etc. I was going to be totally single in my mind and be totally fine with it.

Fail. Total fail.

Not just because I started watching Torchwood. I would have crushed on someone eventually - another actor, a classmate, who knows. But Barrowman is a much better alternative. And he's incredibly good-looking. And I just totally suck at not thinking about being single. I mean, it's like trying not to think of a pink elephant - because then you totally do.

I think this stupid funk I've been in has been greatly due to the fact that I haven't allowed myself stupid daydreams like this. I'm trying to pretend that I'm 100% happy being single when I'm not. And even though it's stupid to compensate with something false, I did feel 200 times better today than I have in quite a while. Less like I'm becoming numb. More like a good old Romantic me and less like a cynical nihilist.

Of course, I'm still not satisfied with that answer. I mean, I still feel like a creep. Lemme put it this way - would you like being in a serious relationship and having people say they want to make out with you all the time? Weird, right?

But considering what I just saw on Facebook like five seconds ago, I'm suddenly really really glad that today was the day I caved in to the hotness that is John Barrowman, as much as it might give me some sort of cognitive dissonance or morality issues. Because I just found out [No-Mr-Darcy] has a girlfriend. Actually I think he got back together with his ex. How about them apples. You know how I feel about that? Relieved. She deserved a second chance. And I could tell just from Facebook that she really f-ing likes him. More than I did. Good for you, girl. I'm glad this saga is done with.

Of course, I'm trapped in another celebrity crush. But what the fuck. Maybe I deserve a little stupid girly fan-girl rampaging. I am my own woman - I know that. So why not kick back and be a bit daft for now? And randomly use British slang...

And THAT..., Part II

Just as I was leaving for band practice tonight, the doorknob to our apartment came off in my hand. [Львица] attempted to fix it after she had ALREADY fixed it before. See, when we moved in, the previous tenants had gotten locked out of their apartment on the their last night on the building. So after we moved in, [Львица] got the new knob and figured out how to fix it.

Except that [blue-eyed Mr. Fix-it] and his assistant [the other one] weren't convinced that [Львица] had done it properly. So they tweaked it.

Now note that it doesn't work. It was fine before they messed around with it. SEE, MEN, YOU DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING.

So now I am currently locked in my apartment, as I cannot get the door open with the knob off. If there are any other disasters tonight, they'd better be solvable without needing me on the other side of that door...

Friday Night Paint Fight

A NOTE TO [Львица]: Sorry that there's random shit in here I didn't tell you about as to why I was uncomfortable. It didn't hit me until I was thinking it out. I'm not trying to cover up stuff, I just didn't realize that THAT'S why something was bugging me.

Anyway, continuing for on for the rest of you...

So [Львица], [The Question] and I went to a "paint party" called Dayglo at a joint called Epic on Friday night. I really had no idea what to expect - I must confess, other than a little trip to the Gay 90s on an empty Thursday night last year, I've never been clubbing. At all.

I'd say this event totally made up for it. I spent half of Friday  trying to figure out what to wear. The dress code was supposed to be white shirt, all white if possible, but blue jeans were okay. It's incredible how little white I have in my wardrobe - I actually had to borrow a shirt from [Львица] as all of mine were dress shirts and thus not paintable. The club wasn't strict about the rule but everyone was mostly in white. This was to allow for the full affect of the paint to take hold. See, what happens is everyone gathers on the dance floor and the DJ plays music and, after like an hour and a half of being in the club, you get paint squirted at you, in this weird meshing of several different art forms. It's pretty cool and it was a major life tile experience. Except for one, little tiny problem...

See how dedicated I am? Blogging while still covered in paint :D

Okay, two. Or three. I'm such a schmuck, making something as epic as this sounds grounded in my reality. But you want my take? Here it is. I like dancing - I'm not the best at it, but I do like it. However, I'm not a fan of how in clubs, you never have room to move without being on the edges and then it's just awkward. This was that to the extreme. At the beginning it was totally fine, we had lots of room. Then, as more people came in and pushed forward, we were slowly being squeezed in a vice-like fashion to the front. I escaped to the back for some fresh air, ran into [The Question] and regrouped with [Львица] Then it was back to the dance floor for the same process - more vice-like squeezing, this time with some guy trying to dance with me, which I was cool with at first. DISCLAIMER: I HAVE NEVER ACTUALLY DANCED WITH A GUY BEFORE. Unless you would count the uber gay guy who attacked me at a Halloween dance last year. And that was more dancing around each other.  I guess I should mention that little fact since I didn't realize it until just now. Well, another life experience made. And what follows is definitely an experience.

This guy starts dancing with me and I'm fine with it until all of the sudden he leans forwards, sniffs my hair or something, then licks the back of my neck. I realize now that, even if he'd been someone I knew, even if I'd know what he looked like, even if I HAD wanted him to do that, I probably still would have been freaked out. I just don't like people touching my neck - unless I really, REALLY trust them. God knows why; I tend to forget until people touch me my neck without asking and then I flip out (like a friend of mine from high school, [uber gay] used to pretend to strangle me - don't ask - and one day I just tweaked out). Great little imbedded phobia there. So, needless to say, having a random stranger repeatedly lick my neck was not cool. I started to push his hands away and then he grabbed on - hard - and tried to do the same thing again. So then I shoved his hands away and tried to flee, positioning myself near [Львица] and [The Question]. That worked at least. Until another guy came along later and aggressively tried to dance with me, but by this time I was sick of people touching me and I moved away. I realize that this is partly due to the fact that  "Aunt Flo is visiting" and any touching below the waist is totally unwanted. And I had a really unsettling dream the night before to put that sort of thing in a bad light (I won't make you suffer the details; it was creepy, moving on). But also, there is a difference between putting your hands on my waist and putting your hands on that area where my legs meet my torso (whatever the anatomical word might be). Yeah. So, my feeling that men are pig right now is not totally without reason (obviously not true, but I'm worn a bit thin, so bear with me).

Then the REALLY intense mosh pit began, where I fell and got pulled up by my some very kind girls, got my face squished between two bros' shoulder blades (dude, there were a lot of bros there. There were so many bros that they had to dance with each other, I swear) and lost an earring (the second one in a week. Damn it!) Then I got the weight of at least two quarterbacks forced on me as people swayed backwards and forwards in this... well, mob, basically. A big, sweaty, music-obsessed mob. A big sweaty mob that carried a man dressed as an alien in a plastic ball across the crowd (that was pretty incredible; the ball went right over my head). Then I got splattered with paint - which was SWEET - the wet, gluey-kindergardeny smell of the paint sweeping across my face in bold neon pinks and blues as music thundered in my ears and people cheered. Then I fell over and got crushed by people which was NOT SWEET as I had to scream at them until they got up off of me. But I did get the proud honor of walking through downtown Minneapolis with paint smeared across my face, watching the cops slug a guy who was harassing them, studying the long lines of people filing into clubs and seeing [Львица] get mistaken for Kate Winslet (by a possibly drunk man, but nonetheless, an easy mistake to be made :D). Go to paint parties - people will mistake you as someone famous. It can happen.

I fought aliens with Kate Winslet. Win!

Now my body is aching, I can feel the parts in my back that got twisted in weird directions and had weight forced upon them that I couldn't support. I still smell the faint scent of paint lingering in my nose. It wasn't an AWESOME party - it needed WAY MORE PAINT. And more space. Then it would have been fricken amazing. I did have fun and it was definitely and experience. I guess going to events like that just makes me feel like a freak, because I'm not really into clubbing, I'm not into huge parties. I'm not that sort of college kid, and I guess some people think I'm not really experiencing college if I don't go and do that shit. Well, I went and did it. But it's just not... ME. I totally support the people who can whip out on the dance floor and tear the place up. It isn't that I don't feel secure enough with my body to dance, it's that I don't feel RIGHT dancing there. It's like my body wasn't built for those sort of moves - I don't have super curves, my arms hate getting involved, I'm super short. I'm just stubbornly old school - I like swing, tango, waltz - ballroom dancing. I swear I got time warped out of the 1940s or something. I also don't know how to deal with guys like those at the club. I want guys to take the lead, but not to force their tongue on the back of my neck. At least I'm strong enough to push them away - but how someone could put up with that if they didn't want it is beyond me. It was DISGUSTING - and the dude totally needed to shave. In short, I guess I don't feel like myself there. Which makes me feel bad. [Львица] really likes clubbing and she doesn't know anyone who she'd feel comfortable going with. But I feel like I don't know anyone who doesn't want to go clubbing. That's the "college" thing to do - where girls meet guys, where you stay up on hip pop culture stuff. And by not going to that, I feel like I'm missing out on so much.

But college isn't the same for everyone. It's can't be. We were just talking about in my psychology class how we overestimate things, like how many of our peers drink or how many people do certain things. I suppose the people who go to clubs are just more talkative about it than the people who maybe go swing dancing or just go for a pint at the bar. Or maybe it just sounds more exciting and so the clubbing people are more apt to share it than the people who just had a night dancing to big band. I don't know. All I know is that I shouldn't feel like a freak for having these opinions, and yet I still kind of do. Alas, my own weirdness confounds me. But there were elements to clubbing that I liked - the feeling of the bass reverberating in the toes of my shoes, the synchronous movements as everyone on the dance floor moved in the same way, the appearance that I had just fought aliens as I walked home with paint smeared across my face. There are parts of it there that I like, but too much of it feels... not accessible or understandable to me. But that's culture - there's parts I'll understand, and parts I won't. And the parts that don't fascinate me in their own way.

Every 4th week

This pretty much says it all. And it's cute.

A fight for realism?

"Hollywood always wanted me to be pretty, but I fought for realism." ~ Bette Davis

It seems like talking about British culture has become today's theme. But then again, I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Mainly because I've been watching a lot of British television and missing bits about Scotland (the rain every day, the beer, the feeling of everything being foreign and yet so similar...)

Among those things, another sort of thing has enchanted me about British media, something I've noticed in novels and on TV shows. There seems to be a sort of trend of using female leads that aren't your traditional Hollywood types. They seem to appear in mysteries series or sci-fi genres (the ones I'm thinking of are the books The Eyre Affair, The Dead Lie Down, The Likeness and, you knew this was coming, the TV show Torchwood). They feature quirky, not-traditionally beautiful women who aren't afraid to speak their minds and do what needs to be done, even though they may not want to. They make mistakes. They're compassionate while still strong and not overly sexual. But they're still sensual and feminine - just not over the top. Over the top like how in CSI, Catherine Willows is always running around in tanktops and all the guys are in their full investigation gear.

Catharine Willows, CSI

Gwen Cooper, Torchwood

See the difference?

This is even a more glammed up version of Gwen, I feel like. I mean, the first time we meet her on the show, she's in full police gear with her hair all tucked up under her hat. No Catharine-like waves in sight.

Of course, I have to remind myself that England was also the country that gave us Twiggy. And thus in association, pants that will never fit women's hips. Of course, I guess the really scary thing is I look at Twiggy and think, "Oh, she's not that skinny." Then I take a closer look at her arms and I'm like, "Fuck yeah, she is." But then I think again, "No, not really - there's girls in my classes who look like that." Then I just feel weird and pissed off.

Twiggy, you're wonderful, but I hate you.

It's true that super skinny women have become WAY more common. Not so much in college, because people have finally realized that you can't walk a mile to class each day and not eat more to compensate. But high school totally sucked because it seemed like what like 50% of the girls (but was probably more like 10%) were frightfully skinny. And I, of course, was not. Example of what some of the girls at my school were like. One of my classmates got treated for bulimia and when she came back to school from rehab, the first thing one of her so-called-friends said was, I kid you not, "She looks so fat." And people wonder why kids hate going to school.

So, to say the least, it's certainly nice to see women like Gwen Cooper on TV, who are beautiful not because they're scantily clad or because they're super skinny or shit like that. It's nice that Gwen has imperfect teeth and seems to be of normalish body weight. Girls need to see more of this on TV, in books, everywhere. Why can't women be the way they look in real life? There's a difference between creating an imagined world and representing one person's idea of a utopia. Besides, beauty isn't the same think to everyone. Perhaps we're looking for it in all the wrong places. Maybe it's something simpler, more in line with this:

“The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman is seen in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides. True beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It's the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows and the beauty of a woman only grows with passing years.” ~ Audrey Hepburn

It's not that appearance doesn't matter; it clearly does. But it's all about belief, confidence and your eyes. If YOU believe that you are beautiful, if you truly TRULY LOVE yourself, it will show. Of course, this is all easier said than done. But I believe it to be true. There is no one definition of beauty, and if there was, all of the people we consider to be beautiful would all look the same. And people like Paris Hilton would be more popular than Angelina Joli. But I think Audrey Hepburn's idea of beauty if more spot on and more of what these British female characters are beginning to show more of. So work on this, American TV. I'm a little out of touch with some of your shows, so maybe you've gotten better about this. But then again, we've still got this goddamn show:

In Sickeness and In Health

I came across this article this morning while scanning the headlines on Google New: Pat Robertson Says Divorcing Spouse with Alzheimer's is OK.

Now, from the beginning, I should admit that I already have great dislike for this televangelist. He's way too focused on Armageddon. He condemns feminism, homosexuality, and liberal college professors. He describes feminism as a "socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians." He states that acceptance of homosexuality could result in natural disasters like hurricanes, earthquakes, tornadoes and other threats like terrorist attacks. Apparently Robertson thinks Scotland is a "dark land overrun by homosexuals" (this cracks me up actually. I'm not even offended by this one, it's so ridiculous). Don't even get me started on what he said about the earthquake in Haiti. (I admit that I got most of this info from Wikipedia - from Pat Robertson and Pat Robertson controversies - but I still stand by the fact that Wikipedia has good source links. Besides, it's less biased than this post is going to be).

Now that I've admitted I'm biased while subtly trying to persuade you to side with me, back to the thing about Alzheimer's. First off, he does say that he would guilt trip people for doing this. But why say it's okay in the first place then? He states that Alzheimer's is a "kind of death."

This leaves me kind of speechless. Yes, Alzheimer's is a terrible disease. Yes, it is incredibly hard for spouses to go through. But it isn't the only terrible disease out there. Once you say it's okay to divorce someone with Alzheimer's, it it okay to divorce someone because they have have cancer? Because they have lupus? Because they have depression? After stating that one disease is grounds to divorce someone, how can you keep this from snowballing into something uncontrollable.

And Robertson, who condemns abortion, who seems like the sort who could condemn taking someone off of life support or any sort of assisted suicide, has blatantly labeled this disease as a form of death. How is this different from euthanasia? Yes, you're not actually killing the person but you're already labeling them as dead. I simply don't understand how this sort of cognitive dissonance can exist.

And all of this coming from a man who belongs to the front crying that if homosexuals were allowed to get married, the institution of marriage would be destroyed. However, I think Robertson completely misunderstands the institution of marriage overall. Especially the little bit "in sickness and in health." Marriage is supposed to overcome all obstacles - that's what strong, eternal love is supposed to do. Of course, this isn't always the case - sometimes divorce is better for both people. Everyone's relationships are different, after all. But I feel like there's extreme differences between both people wanting divorce for the betterment of each other or one person or a couple needing divorce because their relationship is unhealthy, and one person wanting to divorce their spouse because they don't want to deal with their sick partner. Aside from what God says on the topic (there's plenty and I'm not going to try to paraphrase it here) Robertson's words weakens marriage by implying it CAN'T overcome something like this. Really, Robertson, you won't let two men or two women who love each other let their relationship get legitimized but someone who doesn't want to deal with their sick spouse can get divorced? Maybe I have a totally romantic, idealist idea of love. But somehow, I feel like I'm right on this one. Sickness is terrible, love is not easy, life is hard - but life and love will endure. Isn't the idea of marriage itself proof of that?

Teeth, Part II

So this morning I was reading this article my dad sent about killer tricks to use on an Apple operating system. Then this came up at the end of the article for suggested reading: Self-Defense Gadgets. And this was the first thing I saw:

It's a a Tampon Taser. It's a "serious electric weapon built into a feminine-hygiene product." So just in case you're afraid of someone finding your stun gun in your purse, but less afraid of tampons falling out, this is the weapon for you.

There were some pretty interesting gadgets in the article (I personally like the shotgun built into a flashlight) but the "pink stinger" stood out the most to me. A nice flashback to the movie Teeth where vaginas are armed and dangerous. Just think, this gadget could be used in the sequel.

To the douchebag who broke Adele's heart

Dear Dickwad,

I know I'm being a bit harsh, since I don't know you or really anything about you at all. The only thing I do know, actually, is that after you and Adele broke up, you quickly moved on and married some other girl. Low, dude. Low. Nothing says, "I really didn't care about you" than doing something like that. I have to ask - what does your new girl think of this? Does she know? If I were her, I would feel totally awkward about this... but I digress. Truly, I don't care if you're actually the nicest person alive - this makes you sound like a righteous asshole. Of course, I'm not exactly the best person to have judging your actions - I'm not particularly forgiving of men doing stupid things. Also, Adele is pretty much my favorite female vocalist alive (tied with Sara Bareilles, FYI). So you breaking her heart totally did not help your image for me. Tough shit, man.

However, even though I pretty much hate your guts for what you did and making the male gender look damn awful, there is one thing I have to thank you for. You were the inspiration for the lyrics of one of the greatest albums I've ever heard. And even though I'd probably punch you if I knew who you were, you twistedly helped create some of the best, most beautiful, most heartbreaking music I've ever listened to. If anything, that should be inspiration to women - and men, because I know that there are some real bitches out there - that beautiful things can come from misfortune. So thanks for that. Even though I wouldn't be too proud of it - I mean, a Grammy-Award winning singer just immortalized you as the biggest fucking douchebag since Carly Simon sang, "You're So Vain." And you're not going to be escaping this expression any time soon:

So, maybe do some self-reflecting, send some flowers, do some apologizing if you're feeling that your relationships with people aren't quite the same for some reason or other now.  I might hate you, but you sir, are human. Humans make mistake. Learn from yours.

Sincerely,
a pensive feminist

Nine o'clock feminist

So I'm all moved in to my apartment (well, temporary apartment; we're right next door to the actual one) and I'm sitting here on [Львица]'s bed on Facebook and I see this from [manly metro]:

Seeing this, I don't know whether to agree or to be offended. Yeah, men and women should be equals. But asking out guys DOESN'T WORK. I tried it. I DON'T actually want a guy to show me his abs. I don't like video games OR shopping. It didn't help while watching this that I recalled [X] saying that [no-Mr-Darcy] didn't like feminists.Thus I was not surprised when he "liked" this video that his friend posted. But something bothered me about this (other than the "should I be offended?" vibe I got from this video. Something much more self-centered and ego-centric (yes, I know that means the same thing. It's called emphasis. Duh).

What if [no-Mr-Darcy] has found my blog? What if he has discovered all the crazy things I've been saying? What if he's found out that I've insulted him beyond measure? It's a risk I knew I was taking, but still...

What if, more accurately I'm sure, he probably doesn't give a shit, so this is all needless worrying. But if he has - if you have found this (and you know who you are) tell me, 'kay? Because I'm upset for good reason. And if you don't understand why, maybe we should talk about it. Because even though things are totally done on this front, maybe next time around you can be better prepared. Yes, you may think me a callous bitch, but you know what? I'm not the only one who's going to think this way and at least I didn't intentionally hurt you by blogging about this - I wrote it because I want men to understand that women are not just emotional flakes. We're not playing with you. We're just as nervous as you and if we don't get the support we need, we're going to freak out, just as you would (but probably not in the same way). I'm not trying to be a bitch. I'm being me. And if you don't like - well, too bad.

New rule, along with the no self-depreciating stuff. No more about this whole debacle, unless it really drives home a cultural point. No more words on the topic, for his sake and mine. I've made a clean start of my living quarters; let's make a clean start for my heart and mind.