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emmanation

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Archive for the ‘it's all about me’ Category

two more days

Monday, November 28th, 2016

Crockett is still in New York. While we were there over the holiday (oh you didn’t know? That’s cause I wrote and scheduled last Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday’s posts ahead of time because I knew I’d be traveling for 21 out of those 72 hours, cause I a smarty.) two of our nieces got very sick. Like, very physically stomach-wise unwell in the middle of the night sick. One recovered by morning and was down for toast and eggs, but the other was down with … something? Something bad and fevery.

So this afternoon I”m talking to Crockett, and he’s telling me he doesn’t feel super.

And now I don’t feel super.

I knew I didn’t feel good before, but I thought it was from eating stuffing and turkey and no vegetables that weren’t sautéed in some kind of animal fat for a week. Oh, and pie. I ate a lot of pie.

One time I ate yogurt! With cranberry sauce stirred in.

The yogurt was not enough, obviously.

Now I’m confused. Do I not feel super for the reasons I thought, or do we both not feel super because we’re sick? Or is he sick and I’m just holiday’d out? Are neither of us sick and I’m just a hypochondriac? Is it Zika?

So many choices.

Two more days. After this. 30 days in a row is a lot of days to write down things you think, you guys.

who has everything

Wednesday, November 23rd, 2016

Did you know that Gwyneth Paltrow thinks that anything under $100 is a stocking stuffer?

See, she’s published her Goop Gift Guides.

God I love her.

Like, a tiny notebook for $8 that’s meant for only good things? That is damn adorable. Actually, basically EVERYTHING in the Stocking Stuffer guide is something I’m kind of into.

Here we go. Top three from each category, for any reason. (Unless I get tired and decide to add the rest to tomorrow because this is nablopomo. No need to overburn my candles.)

Stocking Stuffers:

  • Who the fuck knows what a toothbrush stand even is?? It looks like your toothbrush inherited Peter Pan’s shadow, sort of. Plus, why is it dark grey? You know what isn’t dark grey? Any and all toothpaste. (Except for those people who brush with actual charcoal … wait. Obviously GPal brushes her teeth with charcoal. Mystery = solved.)
  • Koi you … draw with? Why do I not understand anything on this list?
  • THIS IS AMAZING. It’s a flask that … changes? Is my use of ellipses going to just get more aggressive as we move into the wackier parts of this list? (Although “something called hydroforming” is sort of insulting, GPal. Hydroforming literally means formed by liquid and also now that I remember the long forgotten part of me that got a bachelors in metallurgical engineering I’m like 99% sure she means each flask is different, not that your flask changes. That’s not how metal works. Thanks, CSM metallurgy department!)

The Cook Gift Guide

Under 18 Gift Guide

  • I have questions for this child’s father. If you make your kid wear a shirt proclaiming your status as a feminist, your wokeness is in question.
  • Do you buy this expensive Salinger box set if you already suspect a kid is going to assassinate someone, or if you’re hoping to nudge them in that direction?
  • I don’t understand this $1500 Flinstone’s contraption, but that might be me being an old? Plus, does anyone else want them to have called a plank with a wheel in the middle something more original than OneWheel? WE CAN COUNT.

Health Nut Gift Guide (<- ‘nut’ is insensitive, GPAL)

  • I mean, would I take a $700 juicer that promises no cleanup because you also order the juice packs from them and they just squeeze everything out? Of COURSE I would. But then I’d find out my beloved Spicy Greens packs (Spicy Greens would be my fav in this theoretical world where this happens) are $7 a pack, and I’d realize it’s cheaper to buy juice from the store. So not only would the juicer not be paying for itself, it would actually be increasing my juice debt every time I used it. Juice debt. Something I would never have considered if not for GPal.
  • OH, this tiny bag of crystals. My inner goth teenager wants it super bad, but also it’s nine rocks for $85. You can get a rock polisher for $65! With rocks! CALM DOWN INNER GOTH TEENAGER.

There are ten categories. TEN. I’m doing one more and then calling it a night.

The Traveler Gift Guide:

  • Full disclosure. I own two James Perse dresses and find them worth the $100+ dollars for a jersey dress, that that’s something I didn’t see coming until I actually tried one on. That being said: a James Perse $995 blanket. Do I want it? YES. Would I EVER take it on an airplane where other people could touch it and germs could get on it and it would get worn out and eyeballs themselves would wear it out? Are you fucking kidding me, it’s a thousand dollars. It would live in a closet where I would read books and no one but me and my books and occasionally white (NEVER red) wine would be allowed. And La Croix, I guess, but still. This is not a reasonable gift.
  • This says ‘hello handsome’ in it. It is not only reasonable but fantastic. Let’s ALL buy this dop kit for our favorite boys.
  • No. Bad. Everlane, guys. I have the Everlane Weekender and to be fair mine is a stripey mustard one that was the best and apparently you can’t buy it anymore? But still don’t give GPal $400 for this bag. Don’t. So many bags in the world.

Next time on ‘inside Goop’ (Friday, I think), gift guides for lovers, hostesses, people who like things that are personalized (true), thinkers, and ‘the ridiculous but awesome’ guide. That one has a yurt. A YURT.

 

 

fake nails and new hair

Monday, November 21st, 2016

I have both of those things, and as soon as I realized it I felt kind of weird about it.

The nails are the press on kind – Kiss French Tip Petite, if you must know. I just superglued them to my real nails, which sounds really dubious, right? Pieces of plastic shaped like nails are covering my real nails.

I don’t have a good reason. I could say it’s because my nails are trashed from improper removal of the shellac I got for our wedding, and that would be true. Of course, the improper removal was on me, because you gotta dissolve that attachment in a serious paint thinner type way and I went the mechanical-force-due-to-boredom way. I could also point out that I’m going to see Crockett’s family in a couple of days, but there’s no one in that family that would respect fake nails more than crappy real short nails.

Mostly they just make me feel pretty.

I have a new wedding ring, and I type all day. I look at my hands, and I like how they look with uniform, shiny, white tipped nails. That’s on me just as much as ruining my natural nails.

My hair is in a shaggy shag shagalious thing, now. I’ve been growing it out for quite some time, and my mom took a pic yesterday during our family thanksgiving. It was long, and voluminous, but not interesting. I wanted more of this, and today I saw my stylist in my last chance before she goes on maternity leave and I got it. I didn’t NEED a haircut, but I paid her a well deserved $87 (including tip) anyway, basically just to make me feel prettier.

I feel guilty and angry and angry about feeling guilty and guilty about feeling angry about both of these things.

I very much want to not succumb to the trappings of the patriarchal definition of beauty. I also don’t want to deny myself something I enjoy because I have doubts about its origin. My desire for pretty nails and hair likely has its roots in man-catchin’, right? But since I’ve internalized that ideal to an extent that I now want it for myself, what’s the right thing to do? I’m not using it for man catching. Crockett finds my fingernail painting and faking and shellacing …. well, I don’t think he finds it much of anything. He probably would think of it as a hobby, if he was forced to classify the piles of tiny bottles and glues. The state of my nails isn’t important to him, for sure.

He probably does care about my hair, but he’s so carefully complimentary that I’m not entirely sure what hair he likes more than other hair. (He’s vocally anti-bang, but I think mostly the beauty that is bangs are appreciated by women.) So technically my hair isn’t for him any more than my nails.

The point is, when you’re this aware of what your choices mean, there are only a few ways to go.

  1. Do what I want, beauty wise, and ignore the kyriarchical implications.
  2. Do what I want, beauty wise, but be fully aware of the roots of those rituals that exist in sexism and oppression.
  3. Stop any kind of beauty routine, because fuck male idiots for thinking that occasionally shaving less than a square foot of face is the equivalent of shaving six+ square feet of skin, moisturizing, blow drying, and making up. Or worse, those that think that women should work harder on their appearance because beauty is what they’re good for.
  4. Maintain the bare minimum level of grooming expected by a woman in 2016 America and seethe every day about not getting to wear fake nails OR let my armpit hair grow loud and proud.

Dunno, guys. I guess I’ve settled into #2 for the mo? But not cozily. I like to feel pretty, I know pretty is primarily a construct meant to keep women secondary, and I can’t resolve the two.

Whatever. It’s Monday! The 21! Eight days left of every day posting, guys. Who knows what gems will surface.

 

oooookabob

Tuesday, November 15th, 2016

I’m sore.

Very sore.

FROM YOGA.

The fact that I’m so surprised says one of two things about me. A) I’ve been dramatically underestimating yoga-ites and the workout they get for quite some time, or B) I’m a gigantic baby with spaghetti for muscles and a minimal pain tolerance.

I’m going again tomorrow night, because either way, it’s a much better workout than I expected.

Yoga clothes are cute, right?

fuck politeness

Monday, November 14th, 2016

(I can’t remember if I’ve written about My Favorite Murder before. Is this why people use real tags instead of half thought out run on ones about the post content?)

There’s this podcast called My Favorite Murder. It’s kind of famous now, but I’ve been listening to it since close to the beginning (tosses artfully unbrushed hair over shoulder and pushes glasses up nose) and I love it. It was the impetus for me and a girlfriend to start our own podcast, actually!

(Our podcast was super famous, you wouldn’t have heard of it … but then my cohost/friend got possessed. She’s got an exorcism scheduled for the week of Thanksgiving, so perhaps at some point the podcast will return and share space with the blog.)

One of the key tenants of the MFM listeners (women, let’s be straight – they’re all women. Men don’t have the constant sense of unease that leads to an obsession with the worst things that can happen that comes with having a vagina. That’s why true crime readers/listeners are almost exclusively women which is a well known fact that I totally have a citation for) is ‘fuck politeness’. See, they have a goal of teaching the women who listen ways to be safer, and they’re fun and useful things like ‘stay sexy, don’t get murdered‘, ‘you’re in a cult, call your dad‘, and ‘stay out of the forest‘.

Also, fuck politeness.

Crockett and I know this guy. He’s a nice guy, we see him out and about in town. Lots of people we know know him, and I’m not sure they all like talking to him but no one actively avoids him.

The core of ‘fuck politeness’ is that women can easily get in trouble because we’re taught to be sweet above all else. Polite above all else. To go with the flow and not be a problem, above all else. The action of ‘fuck politeness’ is that, if something doesn’t feel good, then don’t worry about being good. It’s not our job as women to listen to men who want to carry our groceries to spend a few more minutes with us. It’s not our job to drink a drink someone bought for us without asking.

It’s not our job to be sweet.

This guy we know, he makes me uncomfortable. He’s not done anything aggressive. If anything, he’s more Elmyra Duff than Buffalo Bill (the Silence of the Lambs one, not the cowboy one). He likes me and Crockett, but tonight he saw us out with some friends and came to stand with us. He was too close, and he’s been too close too many times. I feel bad, like I’m overreacting. Everyone I know knows him! And he’s a good guy!

But also. In my head, he sort of feels like a kid who might give a puppy a bath and not understand how long that puppy can stay underwater. Does that make sense? I don’t think he means any harm, but I also don’t trust that he would know what the lines are if he found us in a position where no one else was there to help?

I don’t know, man.

I left, after a little while. I didn’t ask him to step away from me, I just backed out of the conversation.

The problem with ‘fuck politeness’ is that it sounds totally reasonable when you hear someone else explain it. “Oh, he showed up at your house to return something you don’t remember dropping, after you said no to a date? Babe, fuck politeness – say thanks and close the door on his request for a glass of water. Then call your best friend and describe his ass, just in case.” “Oh, he has a map and would really appreciate it if you’d roll down your window so he could ask for directions? Babe, let him ask a car that has someone in it that isn’t a woman alone.” Those seem medium rough, but also totally reasonable.

This guy hasn’t done anything weird. I mean, yes, he’s written a poem about me (tonight) but he thought it was based on a prompt by Crockett and he writes a lot …

I don’t know. I can’t boil this one down. He makes me edgy, and maybe that’s enough. I did say goodbye, but I left. And I might continue to leave if he shows up and stands too close to me.

Fuck politeness.