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emmanation

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

If Dean Winchester Were Your Boyfriend

Monday, July 31st, 2017

Pouring one out for The Toast.

  1. If Dean Winchester were your boyfriend, his shirts would be your shirts, whether he liked it or not. “Babe, we haven’t hit a laundromat in weeks”, he’d say as you wrapped yourself up in one of his flannels. “You smell great,” you’d tell him and mean it.
  2. If Dean Winchester were your boyfriend, most of your meals would be eaten on the road. For your health, your brother-in-dating Sam would constantly watch what you ate. If you ordered a burger and milkshake, he’d detour to the kitchen and make sure the shake ended up with a few handfuls of spinach in it. When you found out, he’d ask how you thought Dean made it to 40 while never willingly ingesting a vegetable.
  3. If Dean Winchester were your boyfriend, you’d teach him the names of older musicians he’d never heard of so he could use them as fake names when he ran out of 80s musicians. He’d pretend to just take the information as handy, but later you’d catch him listening to Dead Man’s Curve on youtube.
  4. If Dean Winchester were your boyfriend, he would tell you that you never had to worry about being attacked by demons or witches. Every time you bought a new purse, though, you’d find almost immediately that a knife had been sewn into the lining and an anti-hex hex bag had been tied to the handle.
  5. If Dean Winchester were your boyfriend, you’d get the kind of attention in bars that you’d previously thought was a myth. The two of you would walk into anywhere and every server in the room would see him and be available all night for your every need. He’d tell you he thought you were teasing him when you told him most of the world didn’t get that kind of treatment, but then he’d wink at you and do a shimmy to whatever song was playing on the jukebox.
  6. If Dean Winchester were your boyfriend, the first time you got a panic attack because you met an angel he’d bring you a beer and a quarter of Xanax and tell you to play checkers with Cass. “You can’t be scared of angels once you see they have no sense of humor,” he’d tell you, and then he’d punch you in the shoulder and mouth ‘be yourself’ to Cass behind your back.
  7. If Dean Winchester were your boyfriend, he’d use his hunter network to set up an elaborate birthday surprise for you. Every place you stopped on a road trip would have a booth reserved and a different colored balloon tied to your seat. You’d suspect it was partially Sam’s idea, but that wouldn’t matter because Dean would grin every time he saw your huge smile.
  8. If Dean Winchester were your boyfriend, his mom would try to make you tough and Dean would get mad at her every time. “She doesn’t need to know what it feels like to slice her palm for a blood sigil, Mary,” he’d say. “I’ll always be around.”
  9. If Dean Winchester were your boyfriend, he’d learn what ‘woke’ and ‘kyriarchy’ mean and you’d sometimes hear him explaining them to other people. Afterwards he’d tell you dejectedly that he wasn’t sure he’d overcome his buddy’s idea that women make less money because they don’t know how to ask, and you’d kiss his neck and take him out for a piece of pie.
  10. If Dean Winchester were your boyfriend, the world probably would have ended by now. If it did, though, he would have been thinking about you while he did something insane to try to save it.

 

instagram

Wednesday, June 21st, 2017

Instagram vs Snapchat.

One of my very bestest friends is an avid snapper, and I was trying to put my finger on why I don’t snap now but I am all over insta like a … a … well, someone who posts a lot on insta.

I do post a lot, especially lately. I mean, I don’t know what a LOT a lot is, but I post two or three times a day most days. Is that a lot (she asks as if she wants reassurance but she really doesn’t)?

I guess I think of insta like a diary. Facebook used to be a diary. For example, six years ago today on Facebook I posted the status ‘iPad, check. Toothbrush, check. Camera… SHIT.’ Obviously I was going somewhere (sailing I think), and I forgot my camera! That’s a fun tiny blurb, yes? No? Yes. But Facebook is mostly for pictures and sharing political links now (and it’s dead, right? Let’s all agree. It’s basically dead. Our grandparents are on it and we are parents of people who are also on it. It’s Main St USA and no one actually thinks it’s cool to be on Main St.)

The thing about Instagram is: it stays and pictures are unambiguous. Filtered, yes, but if you were with someone or not with someone or home or in Portland, that’s permanently represented.

The thing about Snapchat is: it goes away.

I get the appeal of that, but I also feel like it’s part of the issue about space women are constantly struggling with. When you snap, you’re putting something into the world that says ‘heeeeeyyyy guys here’s a thing if you wanna look at it but if you don’t don’t worry it’ll be gone pretty soon so don’t worry about it if you don’t want to ’cause …. yeah anyway thanks byyyeeee’.

I could be wrong. It could (always) be my personal awareness of taking up space in the world. I’m a woman who, despite her best intentions, worries endlessly about the effect my very presence has on other people. Am I too loud? Is my skirt too distracting? Am I talking more than I should?  Does my new tree bug my neighbors? Does my new shampoo smell? It’s tiring, and Snapchat is a relaxing way to show people things. It’s easy to think ‘oh no one has to see this if they don’t want to’. However, by that same measure, Snapchat doesn’t tell any kind of story about you or your life.

So Instagram. Insta is the diary-est of all the available diaries.

(Excepting a blog but WHO BLOGS ANYMORE?)

So, Instagram. People can opt into you without you doing the same and vice versa. Everyone loves a sunset and dogs and yoga, which makes it feel like a wonderful place to *also* love all those things. You’re easy to scroll over, but also anyone who cares can roll back through months or years of what you’ve been up to, and you can too.

None of this touches on the overwhelming desire to share in the first place, of course. I’m always aware of what the perception of my pictures might be, and I’m open to it. This blog is over a decade old – I’m a committed sharer and the reasons are between my and my psyche.

I just … want to leave a mark.

God I’m old.

But still cute. You can confirm on my insta.

ice cold I roll my eyes at you boy

Tuesday, June 6th, 2017

Picking songs that other people are going to listen to is VERY STRESSFUL.

Like, I think I have good taste in music, but literally no one doesn’t think that about themselves. If they thought what they liked didn’t show good taste, it would thoroughly undermine the entire concept of good taste and that would be the nucleus from which the end of the world sprouted. (No? Are you sure? Like, double check quantum physics and get back to me. I don’t fully understand quantum physics but I went to an engineering school and am pretty sure someone there told me once you could use them to explain any damn thing you wanted, and this is the quantum-music-taste hill I’m going to die on.)

When I was in Portland with my little brother last weekend we had a whole app based youtube queue set up on his chromecast (<- today in sentences Emma from ten years ago would think were gibberish).  We were all adding, and it was skewing rap heavy because that’s mostly what he and his friends listen to. I could have backed off and let it happen, but I wanted to contribute and also not to listen to rap for four hours.

(I don’t dislike rap but I have a hard time staying engaged when there’s not a through melody. Like, I’m a huge Childish Gambino fan, but my brother hates him… I guess he’s intro rap? Because … of the melody? I know it’s shocking, but this is NOT something we covered in engineering school. All your preconceptions blown, right? Right.)

My approach was either great song or great video. I went retro a couple of times (Leave the Biker), full on pandering at least twice (see Lana del Ray and the Jenny Lewis video with Anne Hathaway and Kristen Stewart (a combo that surprisingly fills the needs of most people who like girls? Can I get an amen?)), and I’m not embarrassed to admit I appealed to my brother with people we’ve seen together.

That is way too much thought.

Literally, what is the worst thing that could have happened? That my brother’s friends didn’t think I was cool? I’m his older sister – they were pretty decided on the coolness of me long before now. (Probably I won some of them over when I looked super fly in a suit as his best man a few years ago.)

These are phases I go through. It’s like I’m scared, sometimes, to take up too much room in the world. To make someone do literally anything that’s not exactly what they had planned.

Probably I need to switch over to some Blondie. Some Tegan and Sarah. Some Tove Lo. Sometimes it’s ok to play your own song.

 

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.