So first of all, I'm sorry I totally blow at blogging lately. I'm going to make it up to the four of you with a special summer edition of OWWWP. It's a nice little smorgasbord this summer from Cosmo--ways to hate yourself, ways to be passive aggressive with your man, ways to "pamper" yourself that mostly involve glopping food on your face...really a little of everything. Here we go:
Numbers don't lie, ladies don't get laid According to a "recent survey" which I can only hope was conducted by Cosmo, they found that in exchange for a perfect body, 85% of women would give up Facebook (okay) and 69% would give up booze (uhhh). They say that 82% responded "no" when asked whether they'd give up sex for a perfect body...which means that 18% of women in this survey were totally okay with giving up sex in exchange for a perfect body, which they would not able to use to have sex. So we know that 18% of Cosmo readers actually aspire to be frigid trophy wives, which honestly seems a little low.
Mix it up August has a family-friendly little feature called "What Your (and His) Secret Fantasies Mean." It's pretty much copy and pasted from every other issue of Cosmo ever with slightly different graphics, but it does include this little peach: "It's all about role playing...if you want to get edgier, have him don a playful mask--the novelty will fuel both of your libidos." And now you are thinking about a couple banging in Richard Nixon masks. Sorry.
Wake n' bake "I love cooking for my fiance, but I feel like I'm being taken for granted. Last weekend, I tried an experiment where I asked him to cook breakfast--he kept putting it off and we didn't eat until 3 p.m.! How can I get him to do more? For starters, don't conduct anymore experiments. For only did yours make you annoyed, it failed to get the point across. He may have procrastinated because he felt nagged. Plus guys can get distracted from eating--by the game, his iPad, a car wash at the sorority house across the street--so he might have actually did what you asked. Either way you didn't solve anything."
First of all, I have to set aside the fact that I would actually murder any guy who made me wait until 3 p.m. for my breakfast. (I'm not a murderous person in general, just really susceptible to low blood sugar.) But what the fuck kind of advice columnist is this? You basically told this doofus that her boyfriend's assholishness can all be chalked up to the fact that he's a dude and then didn't even answer her question. And let me tell you something else: any guy who can't manage to make you a fried egg sandwich before 3 in the afternoon definitely can't afford an iPad.
Feel like a million bucks for $1.75 The 25 Ways to Pamper Your Body feature from August includes this gem, which doesn't even need commentary: "#24: Give yourself goosebumps by sweeping a new, clean toothbrush over the curves of your neck and collarbone."
Remember when you were a little kid and they told you could be anything you want when you grow up? That was so nice. "They" of course is Sesame Street, or whatever show those of you who grew up with cable were watching. No, I will not catch most of your references to "Hey Arnold." Sad, I know. But Sesame Street had Spanish lessons and I speak Spanish now, so really, who wins? (The Hey Arnold kids totally win).
Anyway. It was such a lovely idea that you could be anything. A ballerina, an astronaut, a doctor...really anything with a recognizable outfit and an explanation five year olds can grasp. They keep up this farce right through high school and even into college. Remember those motivational posters stuck on the walls of the gym? If you can dream it, you can do it! Really, the idea that you can become anything you want runs deep in American culture. All it takes to achieve the American dream is some elbow grease, bootstraps, grindstones and some other metaphors I'm sure Sarah Palin would be happy to provide. If you can dream it, you can do it.
The worst part, to my mind, is that once you go to college and declare a liberal arts major they keep going with this notion that you can be anything. A liberal arts education prepares you for a huge number of professions, they love telling you. Here, you will learn to write, research, argue, think critically, and here you will become an Educated Person. Well, great. There was a time when that was all you needed to get a job, but it's not anymore--and no one ever sits you down and says, "Okay, let's talk about how you're going to take this degree in philosophy and turn it into something that will eventually cut you a paycheck."
For the record, I believe a liberal arts education is a really valuable thing. The world needs people like us, because otherwise all we'd have is numbers and data and brushed stainless steel. (I guess my world without the liberal arts looks like "I, Robot" with Will Smith? I don't know.) I don't disavow my decision to major in English. I feel like an educated person. But, in one area, I feel like my education has already failed me in a big way. Writing is what I'm good at, but I'm staring down the barrel of the gun that is the real world and nobody's offered me even an inkling of how I'm supposed to take what I'm good at and turn it into a job.
Now, I'm figuring it out on my own, and I've got my fingers crossed that everything will look better in a year. But does UNH actually think that my courses in the Post Colonial Novel and Shakespeare and drawing and art history have actually made me a competitive candidate for a real job? (Technically I'll have a degree in journalism and be qualified to write for newspapers, but these days that's like majoring in physics and banking on becoming an astronaut.) Are the university bigwigs so out of touch that they don't realize that in today's market their students aren't qualified for anything, or do they not care?
Salon recently ran an article called "Is is time to kill the liberal arts degree?." Now, I'm resoundingly against killing the liberal arts degree, but I do wish somebody would recognize that liberal arts students need a little more of a plan than engineers, and that it might be nice if our university could throw us a little guidance. Some personal finance, some computer skills, some basic understanding of business, a little career counseling. Hell, it could be a whole class. No, it's not romantic. It's not living on coffee and cigarettes and scribbling the great American novel in your vermin-infested apartment. It's not grappling with philosophical conundrums. But it's goddamn common sense. Until academia realizes that liberal arts majors need to live and work in today's crazy-ass job market the same as everybody else, all we're going to have is a lot of Latin-speaking bag boys and dishwashers quoting Kafka.
They think they're hotter than everyone else (but they like talking about how they just like wearing jeans and t-shirts) they like sports (but not as much as they like telling guys how much they like sports) and they just don't get why they don't have any female friends (although what they really love is saying that girls are bitches and they don't want to be friends with them anyway). They're not just girls who are friends with guys, they're girls who proclaim that they can't stand other girls, only want to have guy friends and simply will not shut the fuck up about it.
They are the worst girls.
The worst girls shine in their Facebook pages; where they post statuses about how glad they are that all their friends are guys because girls are awful, and tons of boozy photo albums called things like "my boys <3." Don't get me wrong, it's great that you have boys. I believe that guys and girls can be platonic friends, sometimes. But sorry, if you're a girl who hangs out solely with guys, probably about 50% of them harbor feelings for you or at least a vague sense that they might want to make out with you sometime when everyone's drunk, 45% of them want to sleep with your roommate/sister/mom, and maybe 5% of them want to actually be your friend.
A lot of actresses also suck in this regard. (Megan Fox, I'm looking at you). They're champs at saying things like "Women are just so jealous, I really just prefer guy friends" and "I'm really just a guy's girl, I love football!" (I'm sure you do, January Jones). These factoids--especially the sports (because imagine! A woman who likes to watch sports!)--are constantly trotted out in profiles of actresses like they somehow make them more interesting. So, ladies of Hollywood (because I know you're reading this) it's quite possible that the reason you don't have girlfriends isn't because they're all jealous of your hotness--it might be because you're just really annoying.
Now, I shave my legs and everything but what the hell ever happened to sisterhood? This is simply not cool. If you do this, you are not fooling anyone. We all know that "girls are so jealous" means "I think I'm hot shit, you should too," and that "I just get along better with guys" means "I think all girls except me are bitches." We all get it. But if girls don't like you, you need to a.) take a look at the girls you're hanging out with and b.) take a long, hard look at yourself. Because somebody's acting like an asshole and it might be you.
So ladies, here's the takeaway: stop trashing other girls as a way to inflate your ego, because it sucks. It does not make you remotely interesting or unique that you like football. It just makes you one of millions of other people who like football. (And dudes: I know a girl who can hold her liquor and talk intelligently about sports is hot--not that I can speak from experience--but think twice about dating a chick with no girlfriends. Just...think twice). Most people couldn't care less if you want to have friends of the opposite sex and watch sports and drink whiskey and do whatever other crap "guys girls" supposedly do, so you can stop talking about it now. Sorry, but those are just things that people do sometimes. You're going to need a new schtick, cupcake.
Sorry that it's been a long time since I've blogged, but my laptop was in London for about two weeks. You know, just chillin. Hanging out with my Kindle and the other thousand pieces of lost luggage at Heathrow. It was good. I think we both grew as people.
I left my laptop in a bin at security in Heathrow. They make you go through again because they're serious as hell about security in Britain and security in Spain is a joke--you leave your shoes on, don't take out your electronics and you can get almost any liquids you want through as long as no one actually sees them. The flight was late getting in because no one in Spain understands the concept of places to be and people to see, and I had like forty-five minutes to make my connection in London. Which if you been to Heathrow you know isn't even enough time to physically get to your gate, let alone eat a sandwich or pee. I was running to the gate, but safely got on the bus out to the plane, and then realized that my backpack was feeling kind of light.
No MacBook.
No Kindle.
Shit.
I thought about trying to go back, but I wasn't prepared to miss my flight. By this point I wanted to go home way more than I wanted my stuff back. So I got on board, hyperventilated for like half an hour about all the files that I might have lost forever, then for another fifteen minutes I berated myself for never backing things up. That got boring so I had an Advil PM and two of those mini plastic bottles of Pinot Grigio, put on The King's Speech and slept like the dead for the rest of the flight. Helpful tips!
The thing is, though, it didn't ruin anything about coming home. My boyfriend was waiting for me with irises and a Dunkin Donuts iced coffee. Here's pretty much how it went:
8:00 pm I wheel my luggage through the exit, see Cam. 8:00:05 Random lady: There's a smiley girl! 8:00:07 Other random lady makes connection between me and Cam: AWW! 8:00: 10 Me: Hi. 8:00:12 Cam: Hi! 8:00:125 We're making out, random ladies are applauding, and oh em gee this is just like Love Actually you guys! 8:12 Random ladies start getting veeery uncomfortable. It had been like three months, okay?
My family was at home waiting for me, and my little brother and cousins had painted a big Welcome Home sign. And it was pretty much as awesome and warm and fuzzy as I thought it was going to be. It was totally possible that my computer was lost for good--although luckily it's not--but when I'm not blogging about random shit I occasionally write some serious pieces, a few of which I thought were starting to be kind of not terrible. There was some stuff on there that I really didn't want to lose. Thankfully it's all back now, after a lot of abusive emails and for some reason multiple faxes...I won't get into that shit though, you're welcome.
But bizarrely, there was a huge sense of calm that came over me somewhere in the middle of my second airplane bottle of Pinot Grigio. (And I might have utilized the red balloon trick a couple dozen times). Especially for someone who a.) sometimes pretends to be a real writer and b.) never backs anything up because she is really unbelievably DUMB, losing a computer is kind of a big fucking deal. But even though everything I'd ever written was quite possibly gone, I had a weird moment where I just decided it was going to be okay. I was finally on my way home, and it was all going to be okay.
I think maybe the universe is trying to tell me that it's time to get out of Spain. A group of about ten of us went hiking in the Sierra Nevada this weekend, which was stunningly beautiful and should have been a pretty much perfect day--except that I took one of the more epic and embarrassing wipeouts of my life. I'll explain.
I was really excited to get out of the city for a little while. Although I think I could definitely be a "city person" someday, city life has been getting me down a little. They're building the new Metro system right near my house, so every weekday I wake up to power saws screaming as they cut through cement, which is fun; and I'm also really allergic to whatever probably toxic dust all that excavation is kicking up. Then on Thursday my roommate and I walked a corner right near our house to find a morbidly obese guy beating off in the alleyway. I needed some fresh air.
The Sierra Nevada is absolutely gorgeous, and so totally different from any other mountains I've ever seen. (It's been awhile since I was a six-year-old geologist toting a L.L. Bean backpack of rocks, but I still have an appreciation for a good glacial formation). It was a gorgeous day, and everyone was in a good mood because our finals are mostly done and we don't have much to do except enjoy our last few days in Spain.
So anyway. Our guide for the day was named Paco, and he was pretty much a typical Spanish man in that he chain smokes and doesn't understand boundaries when there are college girls around. We had a beautiful trek to the top of a fairly small mountain, where we stopped to take some pictures. Paco was taking a picture of the whole group, and was still holding my camera. "Here," he said, to me, pointing to a stone marker--about three and half feet tall, to indicate the summit--"This is a funny picture. Get up on this." So I do it, thinking he wants to take a picture of me standing on this thing, surrounded by the mountains. "Okay," says Paco, "Now, when I say 'ya' you jump, ok?" ("Ya" means "already" but it's kind of an all purpose word that means "Go!" or "Done" or a number of other things). Now, this seems dumb to me--not even necessarily dangerous, just lame--but I think, whatever, isn't going to hurt anything.
Yeah, no.
I jump, and immediately slip on the loose gravel and rocks on the ground and fall forwards on my hands, which would have been fine except that we're on a mountain--so I roll at least another six feet. I scrape pretty much the whole right side of my body, throw out my shoulder and knock the side of my head on a rock. For 1/50th of a second I think about that horrible book about people dying on Mount Washington, but then I get it together enough to form the words "OW!" and "FUCK." My friends all run over to help me up and make sure I'm okay, but Paco kind of ambles over and hands me back my camera. "The picture didn't come out," he says, puffing on his sixth or seventh hand-rolled cigarette of the day. "You're supposed to jump slow."
Dick.
I assess the damage, which truth be told isn't anything too terrible, although I'm a little nervous about the whole head trauma thing. There's some blood and I have a couple of unholy bruises, but nothing much worse than that. Thing is, I'm kind of a baby. I do not play contact sports. I have never broken a bone, or even needed a root canal. (I also occasionally fall down a WebMD wormhole late at night when I'm sick, so I have an active imagination for things like concussions. Although at least this time it's probably not throat cancer. With WebMd it's pretty much always throat cancer.) I'm also kind of pissed, because although I might be a baby about pain, I'm not a baby about hiking. I grew up in goddamn New Hampshire, and this asshole and his precious little hipster cigarettes just made me take a full-on Sandra Bullock wipeout. I look like freaking Legally Blonde-goes-hiking.
The rest of the hike was beautiful, and although I was waiting to faint or throw up or something I didn't. Like I said, low pain threshold/overactive imagination. In the end it was nothing that Advil couldn't handle. Anyway, point is, I feel like it's time to go home. This whole week it's felt like when Spain wasn't grinning at me and jacking off, it was hitting me over the head with rocks.And if that's not a sign I don't know what is.
If you use the Internet, you've probably come across one of these videos titled "Greatest Proposal Ever," or something. Lately it seems like there's about a thousand former graphic design majors who proposed to their Zooey Deschanel lookalike girlfriends in a quirky whimsical video and then titled it something like "WE ARE AWESOME." Which, great. You're happy, you're in love, go for it. Plus I like looking at the faces of the former AV geeks when they realize how extremely laid they're getting tonight.
Then again--and I don't mean to shit on these people's happiness, just point something out-- it doesn't sit right with me. But what's not to like about sweet, young, attractive people getting engaged while some schmaltzy music swells and their friends and families cheer? (Just once I would like to see somebody post a video in which two forty-five-year-old divorcees get quietly engaged a Red Lobster because they can't really see anything better coming down the road and they both like Law and Order and yellow labs).
What's wrong with it in my book is that it's creepy, this constant need for praise via the Internet, a desire for total strangers to affirm your life choices. We're so wired that we don't know how to have a significant moment with our partner that doesn't go up on the Web? So linked in to social media that Big Moments don't feel real until we Tweet them? We won't feel engaged until britneyfan100xox0 has commented to say that we made her believe in love again? Yuck. That big decision you're making can't just be between the two of you, and eventually your family, and your friends--the Internet needs to know too?
I know this is the world we live in. Everyone's Tweeting and updating their status and BBM-ing and using Digg and Reddit and all kinds of other stuff, mostly to construct themselves a nice little online persona that's a smidge cooler, smarter and more attractive than their real selves. (And yeah, I know I do the exact same thing--glass houses, etc.) I know social media can be used for all kinds of useful stuff too--but let's face it, a lot of us like knowing that there's some total strangers out there who think we're cooler than we really are. But you have to go and do that to your proposal, too? What about romance! What about intimacy! All that! Come on!
Or maybe I'm just a crank, I don't know.
Here's one you'll either love or hate, although if you're still reading this post you'll probably hate it and I appreciate your readership.
AND ONE MORE THING: When did guys go back to asking permission for the "hand" of grown-ass women? I mean, if it's your thing, I guess that's your thing, and in the scheme of gender politics it's a little thing, but...yeah, gross. And at least they negotiated how many goats she's worth off camera, that was tasteful. I'm sorry. I am a bitch.
Neither of my parents have ever been big on giving advice--they've always been lead-by-example types, who dole out capital A Advice pretty sparingly. I honestly think that if you asked me when I was ten or eleven something concrete my mom had taught me about life (besides like, walking) I wouldn't have even been able to articulate something. I've been considerably further around the metaphorical block at this point, though, and I know I owe her an awful lot. So here's some important things I learned from my mom.
1. How to Not Give a Fuck My mom, Katie, homeschooled my siblings and me until I was in the seventh grade, something I don't think I even appreciated all the way until recently. Although homeschooling might be why I was ridiculously shy until I was about 16 (maybe that's just biology, I don't know) I know that being raised that way gave me some of my strongest and best traits as well. Homeschooling taught me to be an independent learner, to follow what you're interested in, and--ready, this is cheesy--to be myself. Because if nothing else, homeschooling teaches you not to give a fuck about what anyone else thinks. I hope I'd have the patience and the courage to do that for my own kids someday, but I honestly don't know if I would--so I have to be pretty in awe of that.
2. How to Like Your Small Boobs When I listen to my friends talk about how fat they're feeling or how they can't wear that top because it makes their legs look weird or how much they hate their nose/hips/elbows/chin/thighs, I send up a little "thanks Mom." Girls put themselves down a lot and I'm convinced that although friends make it worse, it many times--not always--starts with mom. If all you hear is "fat talk" from the time you're eleven, that's going mess you up a little. Now, my mom's approach to all of this is, again, something I didn't even appreciate until recently. Her approach was always to feed us very healthy food, make sure we were active and otherwise, for the most part, leave us alone. I went through a time where I was pretty "sedentary" (her words) and she always pushed me to get out and move, not because I was going to get fat (although obviously I probably would have), but because it's just healthy. And it's not healthy to get fat, either, but my mom placing that constant emphasis on eating well and exercising because it's good for you definitely gave me a healthy outlook on life and --blech--"body image."
So she got the big stuff right, although I don't think anyone ever showed me how to put on makeup, and I know that I didn't learn to tweeze my eyebrows (she did eventually show me that) until at least eighth grade, because there is a class photo of me looking like Frida Kahlo in a polo shirt. But, priorities.
And my mom's final piece of advice about body image: "Don't wish for bigger breasts. It's a pain in the neck when you exercise, and when you get older....well, gravity is a cruel mistress."
3. How to Have a Happy Relationship My boyfriend and I agree that one of the best things our respective parents did for us was a.) stay married and b.) seem genuinely happy to be married. I feel hugely lucky to have my parents as an example of a happy marriage, and I don't underestimate how important that has been in my life (again, I feel like this is the kind of thing you definitely don't appreciate when you're twelve).
4. How to Feel Better Go for a walk.
5. How to Tell Left From Right I have a mole on my left hand. I still refer to this periodically.
6. How to Fake it in Math Class Despite Your Crippled Left Brain Do all your homework. Get A's in English.
7. How Not to Be That Girl Don't drink when you're sad.
8. How to be Polite Put your napkin in your lap and always write thank you notes.
9. How to Let Go (Mom holds out a closed fist) "It's a red balloon..." (opens fist) "Let it go." I'm always embarrassed by how well this works.
So first of all, I'm sorry I totally blow at blogging lately. I'm going to make it up to the four of you with a special summer edition of OWWWP. It's a nice little smorgasbord this summer from Cosmo--ways to hate yourself, ways to be passive aggressive with your man, ways to "pamper" yourself that mostly involve glopping food on your face...really a little of everything. Here we go:
