An Abortion Pirate

My friend, Laurel, sent me the link to this trailer for the film called Vessel. It is a documentary about Rebecca Gomperts, an abortion doctor who provides safe and legal abortions on board a ship for women who live in countries where abortion is illegal by picking them up and going twelve miles out from the shore to international waters. Pretty radical.

I would say more about this but I'm still traveling cross country and after 15 hours in the car the shower is calling my name.

Heavily Influenced by Jazz, Booze, and Buddhism

What better way to cement my status as girl-with-the-early-quarter-life-crisis (because I believe so firmly in being on time that not only am I early for my mid-life crisis, I'm also getting a jump on my quarter-life crisis.) than going on a road trip? I'm down in DC, staying with a friend and visiting all the free museums and monuments our great nation's capitol has to offer. In a couple days another friend will pull up in his car, I'll jump in and we'll be on our way to LA.

I'm about to be just like Jack Kerouac. Except, of course, without the hitch-hiking, the Benzedrine, and the run-on sentences.

"It's Like Looking Hot With a Handicap"

The New York Observer has an article about "Urbane Tomboys" which is apparently what they are calling this new (because women have never worn pants before) look where beautiful, wealthy women dress like dudes. The article, of course, defines dressing like a woman to mean high heels, makeup, and flashy accesories. Dressing like a dude, on the other hand, means sweatpants and hoodies. And no makeup (duh). (This is not very sophisticated thinking is it? "Me girl in pink, you boy in blue" as Tarzan would say. Or actually, I guess Jane would have to say that. I don't remember Tarzan ever dabbling in drag, thought that is one show I would pay good money to see). The article takes pains to emphasize that it's not about not being able to afford feminine clothes, but about choosing not to buy them. Or in other words, these are wealthy women wearing expensive clothes. Just expensive men's clothes. Or, expensive women's clothes that look like inexpensive men's clothes.

Jen Cawley, a 40-something architect with a 13-year-old daughter who lives on the Upper West Side, has a typically urbane tomboy’s relationship to clothing: It can be expensive and designer, sure, so long as it’s utilitarian. “I wear an orange reflector vest when I’m biking, and a helmet,” she said, explaining that she bikes most days to work. “I always wear pants. I had these unbelievably great Prada pants that just wouldn’t wear out! Prada has this fantastic material. I could bike in them endlessly. I’d get soaked in them, they’d dry.”

Now, of course there is nothing wrong with wanting to be comfortable or enjoying quality material (or going for muddy bike rides in Prada). Dressing casually or "down" is something women have been doing forever. But the catch is that often, the more privilege a woman has, the more freedom she has to do so. Which brings me to what makes me so uncomfortable about the article. When Adam Parker Smith, a sculptor from Brooklyn (why the random artist from Brooklyn? I don't know. To prove how underground and legitimate this article about this new trend sweeping the affluent members of New York society truly is? Probably.), is asked his opinion on these women who dress like men, he says:

“Walk down in Soho and I can guarantee that I’ll be attracted to hundreds of women, because they’re all dressed up and wearing high heels. Don’t get me wrong, that stuff is hot. But women who can look good in sweatshirts and jeans are also remarkable. It’s like looking hot with a handicap.”

The point being that you can dress like a dude as long as you are good looking and, in fact, doing so proves just how attractive you truly are. Wait? What happened to comfort? Apparently that is a luxury granted only those who can look hot while feeling comfortable. Meaning, if you are ugly or fat or displaying any other social deviation like not being white or wealthy or straight then you better keep getting up an hour early every morning to put on your makeup and pumps. But you should also feel silly while you do it.

In between glamorous appearances at awards shows, Ms. Silverman and Ms. Page—as well as more mainstream examples like Jessica Biel, Drew Barrymore and Cameron Diaz—seem to revel in sneakered, hoodied androgyny, thereby recasting femininity as something you can take off and put on again: an optional, mildly silly act that certainly seems to excite everyone but that one needn’t always make time for.

Calling "feminity" "an optional, mildly silly act" is problematic for two reasons. First of all, not every woman gets to decide when she is going to present a feminine appearance or a more androgynous one. Many are expected to always be feminine by family and their social setting and plenty more still have enough trouble fitting the socially accepted definition of "feminine" without throwing on a pair of baggy jeans, Prada or not. Second of all, equating an androgynous appearance with being more serious or less superficial only serves to reinforce stereotypes that to be feminine is to somehow be less serious or more superficial. And this is troublesome for even those women who are able to afford to buy, and look amazing in their Prada sweatpants. Because they are still women. And as Ariel Levy writes in her book Female Chauvinist Pigs:

Women who've wanted to be perceived as powerful have long found it more efficient to identify with men than to try and elevate the entire female sex to their level.

But

Even if you are a woman who acheives the ultimate and becomes like a man, you will still always be like a woman. And as long as womanhood is thought of as something to escape from, something less than manhood, you will be thought less of, too.

I'm not saying we all have to wear dresses in order to prove that nail polish and lipstick can go with smarts and a serious work ethic. We already learned that lesson from Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blond. I just wanted to point out that there is no get out-of-the-gender-trap-free card. Whether you dress like a lady lunching in pearls or a sk8ter boi in Marc Jacobs boxers, you will still have to struggle, along with the rest of us, in a society that refuses to acknowledge the whole colorful spectrum of gender behaviors and appearances.

My Very First Post

I "published" my very first post over at SAFER today. Nothing fancy but I'm excited nonetheless. Check it out if you get a chance.

This is Old News

And by 'this' I mean both the clip and Barbara Walters. The interview is one of the many that make up this year's pre-Oscar special that Walters does annually with all the major nominees. I didn't come across it until today. Is it me or does Ellen Page look like she wants to kill Walters? And is it me or do you think Page is totally justified in feeling that way? Walters seems strangely aggressive when scolds "now don't be modest," after asking Page whether she feels she deserves to win in her category. Then she forces Page to play guitar and sing a song that Walters, earlier in the conversation, says she "doesn't get" (and when she says "doesn't get" it sounds like "thinks is garbage"). If Walters' ever wanted to interview me (and we all know that's going to happen any day now) I'd be quick to schedule some routine but complicated surgery and call in sick.

It's Funny Because It's True

Feministing pointed me towards an obnoxious article with a very cute name in today's New York Post. Actually it's more of a book report on what appears to be a truly half-hearted attempt to explain why women are such liars. Not only are they liars, but they are good liars. Dirty, good liars. So watch out because the next time some woman tries to tell you something she'll probably be lying. How do you know a woman is lying? Her lips are moving!

Apparently Susan Shapiro Barash interviewed 500 women who responded to a posting on Craigslist to get some cold, honest (how can we be so sure?) answers straight from the source for her book called "Little White Lies, Deep Dark Secrets: The Truth About Why Women Lie." As it turns out, if her interview subjects are to be trusted, women lie for all kinds of reasons. Some lie to keep together loveless marriages, some lie to hide dissatisfaction with a job, and some lie because they are cheating on their husbands. And then, some even lie to cover up a cold truth in order to protect a loved one.

As shocking as these reasons for deceit might be (she didn't want her kids to know that sometimes she wished she had never left her career to start a family!?), what is even more shocking (though, I guess it really shouldn't be given it's the Post) is how an article about a book about why women lie is called, "Miss-Leading: The Truth About Gals' Serial Fibbing." Hold on a minute. So really, it's a book about how women are compulsive spewers of falsehood? Someone interviews 500 women, asking them why they lie, and The Post wants its readers to interpret the answers as evidence that the female of the species is indeed more manipulative than the male?

I smell some holes in this mismatched bag of logic. Am I mixing my metaphors? Or am I being plain dishonest? Does that even make sense? I just don't know anymore.

In perhaps my favorite section of the article, its author, Susan Edelman, talks about "the lying to yourself" category of lies. She borrows an example from Barash's book and explains that Hillary Clinton's public denial of her husband's infidelity is a prime example of when a woman lies to herself. Hillary Clinton publicly announced that any accusations that Bill might be sneaking around with some woman named Lewinksy were political attacks and nothing more. Later she acknowledged that he had in fact been cheating. What a dirty liar. Enough to make a person sick with righteous indignation. If the way she handled her husband's infidelity doesn't prove that women surpass men as masters of the manipulation and distortion of all that is good and true, then I don't know what will.

At least we are being accused of being better at something, I guess.

What Are You Looking At?

Yesterday, as I exited through the turnstile at the 2nd avenue F stop, on my way to spend way too much on produce at Whole Foods, I made eye contact with a nice enough looking man on his way in to the station. He was walking with his head up, and while he wasn't smiling, he wasn't grimacing or avoiding eye contact like the rest of New York City does on a regular basis, either. I was encouraged by his demeanor, warmed a little by it, even. It's not often that one shares a moment of camaraderie with a stranger, especially in a New York City subway station, but these are moments are truly make all the daily struggle and anonymity worthwhile.

Let me interject here and mention that the rest of New York City doesn't make eye contact, and instead maintains a general look of disgust or indifference in regard to the mass of strangers around them because it works. I mean, every time you look remotely pleasant or like you might not immediately yell "fuck you" at any sort of attempt at an interaction by another stranger, you run the risk of experiencing something unpleasant. People in New York are horrible. They can be aggressive and malicious. Often they want something from you, like your money or your dignity. And New Yorkers know that. So they eliminate any chance that they might be exposed to the horrible people of New York by looking and acting as mean as possible at all times.

On the other hand, sometimes New Yorkers are quite lovely. A couple months ago I met a old woman who takes care of cats for a living. She was wearing a shirt with a huge cat-face design on the front and bejeweled cat-face earrings. She told me that she still misses her siamese cat that died fifteen years ago but that she knows he is in heaven and that eventually she will meet him there. Apparently they used to play hide-and-go-seek in her apartment when he was alive. Disappearing into the mean, faceless crowd of train-riders, and pedestrians means you won't get to meet the lovely people, either.

But back to yesterday and the F train station. I was making a rare, and rather unintentional but also not unwelcome, eye contact with a seemingly harmless fellow New Yorker when, just as we were passing each other, my fellow New Yorker thrust his pelvis towards me and did his best sleazy imitation of Eddie Murphy imitating James Brown. He "uhhhh-ed" at me and followed it with an aggressive and non-too-complimentary, "daaaaaamn!"

I know I shouldn't have been surprised. But I was shocked. I looked quickly away and then back at him as I kept moving out of the station. He was still looking at me and when he caught my eye the second time he yelled "where you're boyfriend at?" Though, what it really sounded like was "I'm going to make you feel as uncomfortable and self-conscious as possible, right now. Also, stupid. How could you be dumb enough to make eye contact with me?"

"Fuck you" I said. But not very loudly and certainly not very convincingly. I'm sure he didn't even hear me. There is nothing worse than feeling angry and intimidated all at the same time. And in my case it was especially aggravating because I had so thoroughly let my guard down and so felt so thoroughly betrayed. He didn't want to talk about cats. He didn't want to ask me for directions. And he certainly didn't want to let my moment of naive vulnerability go by without punishment.

And so, at least for a little while, I'm back to a safer commuting posture: head up but focus down, shoulder's hunched and brow furrowed. I'm avoiding eye-contact and looking as mean as possible. So if you happen to bump into me on the street in the next few weeks and I refuse to acknowledge you or even look up, you'll know why and understand.

"Dumb Blonde"

I was recently re-introduced to Dolly Parton. A couple Saturdays ago I went over to a friend's apartment around 8:00pm. We had plans to go out but when I opened her front door I found her nowhere near ready to go and seated with a bottle of white wine, riveted by a live concert of Dolly Parton she had rented from Netflix. I couldn't help laughing out loud. We are in Brooklyn, not some small town in Tennessee, shouldn't she be ironically watching an MTV reality show or, at least, some old footage of David Bowie and the Spiders From Mars? But soon enough, with a glass of wine of my own, I was seated next to Laura and making enthusiastic excuses for why we should postpone our evening plans in order to keep watching Dolly. Because Dolly is amazing! Seriously.

Five Reasons Why Dolly is a Personal Hero:

1. She wrote the song "I Will Always Love You" for Porter Wagoner, the man who discovered her, when, after years of doing duets with him, she defied critics and doubters and decided to go solo without him. She went on to have 25 hit singles and 41 top ten country albums (according to Wikipedia.)

2. She was in the movie 9-5 with Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin. And she sang that kick-ass song. You know, the one that Jessica Simpson was supposed to sing at the Dolly Parton tribute concert except she forgot the words and ran off stage.

3. When asked about her back pain, the reason she recently had to cancel some tour dates (including New York, damn it), she replied: "Hey, you try wagging these puppies around a while and see if you don't have back problems."

4. She has her own theme park in Tennessee called Dollywood.

5. Her live performances are like comfortable, intimate dinner parties and we are all invited. BYOB, of course (but not in front of the kids.) And she wears those white, bejeweled clam-diggers on stage.


Dolly Pardon performs Jolene live for your listening pleasure (glass of white wine not included):