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emmanation

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Archive for the ‘turns out I'm a feminist’ Category

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.

 

nobody puts yeah

Saturday, November 19th, 2016

Jennifer Grey, babe.

THE HAIR.

We’re watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, cause I let Crockett pick the movie and he’s done really well lately at committing to one movie quick and making it a good choice. Not, like, a totally outside the box choice – more something if you were flipping through channels and realized it was just starting, you’d stick with that channel for at least one ore two commercial breaks. (When do we as a culture really need to start explaining those references? People like Buzzfeed already are, but the concept of channels still 100% exists. And commercials. I guess anyone who uses DVR instead of the Netflix/Hulu/CW/HBO bastard conglomerate we’ve assembled still totally knows.)

I don’t care what Jennifer Grey did to her nose. It was bigger and now it’s not? I heard that it may have affected her career, but suspect that may just be how much ‘we’ hate it when women make choices about their physicality that ‘we’ don’t agree with (wherein said we is a bunch of men usually who probably think they were special for seeing her cuteness when her nose was a little larger than average and are irritated that she changed so that everyone else (who already thought she was cute) also thinks she’s cute, right?)

I do really love her hair. It must be naturally curly, but she makes it look like it’s not crunchy. I think that’s a hard hard thing when you have curly hair, and she’s been nailing it since 1986.

Jennifer Grey = babe.

 

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.

and I think it’s kind of sad

Sunday, November 13th, 2016

(Crazy Ex-Girlfriend season 2 episode 4 spoilers abound.)

Crockett and I were out grabbing dinner earlier, and I remembered something and turned to him and banged on his shoulder.

“Oh oh oh! I forgot to tell you! Paula got an abortion in Crazy Ex-Girlfriend!”

“Oh,” sad face Crockett.

“No, it was good!”

Confused face Crockett.

“See, she’s an adult woman with two teenage kids and she just got into law school, and she thought she couldn’t get an abortion but it also wasn’t a baby she and her (bumbling but cute) husband were trying for, so she did end up doing it! It was the right decision!”

“Ok .. is it a big deal?”

“NO! They made it the B plot even! It was about the same as her law school application process, importance wise!”

I did speak with a lot of exclamation points, I’m not exaggerating. It was a beautiful, realistic, low key representation of a process that millions of families go through.

When Paula was at home in bed afterwards, her husband told her he was going to make her dinner but because he knew his limits he’d order a pizza instead and it was very sweet. See, earlier in the episode he’d tried to feed the family raw chicken. Then when Paula’s best friend (who didn’t know about the pregnancy or it’s end) came over, Paula cried a little and didn’t tell her what had happened, she just said she didn’t feel well. It hurt her, physically and emotionally, there was no doubt about it, so much so that she wasn’t able to talk about it  - it wasn’t brushed off, but it wasn’t a decision that was sanctified either.

It’s not a position I’ve found myself in, but this feels like a home truth real life way this could go down, and it came with literally zero judgement in any way from any character, and it was the B PLOT. I LOVED IT SO MUCH, and I’m sad that I’m so happy it was so meaningful.

Something like 1 in 5 women will have an abortion. That’s virtually half the number of women who will be diagnosed with some form of cancer throughout their lifetime. We talk about cancer ALL THE TIME. Yet the representation of the women who get abortions is almost nil.

Whatever – I loved Crazy Ex-Girlfriend from the first, but it just keeps getting better. Rebecca Bloom FOREVER.

 

admire with me, would you

Wednesday, November 9th, 2016

This dress:

cewooldress

It is black. For mourning.

It’s made of wool and linen. Natural fibers that come from the earth, and probably won’t be available in ten years (a week) because someone doesn’t believe in global warming and wants us to not pass go and go straight to Mad Max land.

It’s got thumb holes for coziness, which is an excellent secret way to feel like one is wrapping oneself up in a blanket on the couch while still being out in the world.

In short, it’s the post-Hillary dress.

The post-Trump outfit OBVIOUSLY looked like this, in case you’re wondering:

burgandysuit

 

Ok, off to drink myself into oblivion.

(Not really, but I have said that several times today. Out loud. And half meant it.)

(Yes, this whole thing was dramatic but not entirely kidding because WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED to a day I was so, so excited about? I can’t write about it, I don’t have anything to say that isn’t being said by wiser minds all over the internet.)