My topic today is inspired by a friend who has recently found herself on the front lines of the war for human decency, and I"m referring specifically to the battle for some sex etiquette in our 20s. A friend of this glorious gal slept with her ex-boyfriend whom she had only met because my friend was helping her ex find some friends in his new city, and this is after my friend explicitly asked both of them to cool it on the touchy-feely-flirtation situation. I can't imagine it was easy to acquiesce while he was inside her. Just a hunch.
Now I know Gretchen Weiners would be outraged. And I know that everyone informed of this tragically non a-typical scenario is equally disgusted by the ex and the ex-friend. Except that it's not equal. Except that by some sort of deranged instinct we claw at the girl's face and throat, rip out her beating heart by running through the abomination-bitch-cunts of vicious rhetoric designed to make her seem less than us and subsequently make our friend feel better.
Why?
Seriously, when did we learn to do that? I mean it's easy for me to imagine a cavewoman knocking over a neighboring woman's pile of pelts upon learning that her husband hadn't been coming straight home after hunting. And I know that the salons of Europe in the 19th century must have been chock full of judgmental sideways glances at the women who wore necklines that showed off the girls. And I KNOW that in any high school lunch room in the country there as many conversations about ho bag, slut faced, skanky, boyfriend stealing peers as there are tables. But the idea that this is some sort of natural evolution from the more passive (or passive-aggressive in the case of the cavewoman) demonstrations of feminine strength is bullshit.
Ms. Norbury said that calling each other sluts and whores just makes it OK for guys to call us sluts and whores, which is true, but is not the whole story by a long shot. Not only do these instinct demean women but they demean us. There's a two fold implication when I hear a woman call another woman any of the aforementioned slurs:
1. I lack the proper education or depth of vocabulary to be more eloquent, descriptive, or intelligent
2. I am defined by the way men see me relative to other women
Hell to the NO.
Over the course of history we have given pardons to SO many men who have slept their way through life in favor of remembering how they helped, changed, or impacted the world. Who cares how many women JFK slept with, his wife was still epicly fabulous and he inspired and challenged a generation of Americans to dream bigger and follow suit with their actions. But we continue to define women by their numbers: by the number of people they've slept with, the number of times they've been married, their height, shoe size, hip-waist-bust measurements. Because apparently, despite believing that our sisters and daughters and mothers and friends are destined for greatness despite of their monthly periods, we are not actually convinced that in the general sense women are capable of much of anything besides stealing a man.
And there are exceptions, but so often to admit greatness we must deny femininity, as if the two are mutually exclusive, despite the rainbow of masculinity that manifests in great men the world wide.
What I'm saying is what we've known: that women define themselves by men and destory themselves and each other with the slightest provocation. And I don't have the slightest idea how to fix that. Because honestly, it doesn't really seem to be getting better over time. As we get older, as generations cycle, nothing stops women from being vindictive and cruel.
As a lover of well crafted language there are few things I love more than a good put down. Whether it's on TV or in a book or a movie or some witty retort in a column my heart races and my lips curl at the encounter with a person intelligent enough to find the weak spot and plunge the sword into the evil enemy's hide. It's the same instinct that popularized Pamplona's bulls and the Coliseum's gladiators. But I worry. Because in these scenarios, women against women, women against men, there doesn't seem to be a clear enemy. The enemy is only the weakest link, the easiest kill. And the only effect that pattern seems to have is to make us feel terrible once we realized we've killed someone in our uniform. So maybe in the battle of the sexes, which at present seems to be a battle within the sexes more and more, we need to take our outstretched bitch slap, extend a hand, and pull someone up to the high ground.
We're clearly not all on the same side in the fight for a nicer world, but I say let's take it one battle at a time. And I think that not performing intimate acts at the disrequest of friends with people who are deeply emotionally linked to them for the pleasure of inducing pain is as good a place to start as any.
Showing posts with label Be Nice or Leave. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Be Nice or Leave. Show all posts
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Dear Adults...shut the fuck up
1. For all intensive purposes it's still Wednesday. Don't Shoot.
2. The two pronged reason that a reminder didn't grace your inbox upon waking this morning (still not getting those? Just drop your e-mail in the "I'm Kind of a Can't Miss" box to the right) is that I started studying for the GREs last night and then proceeded to have what I can only assume was a casual panic attack about the impending mediocrity of my life.
3. The fact that I felt as if I was swimming in Jello comprised of my failures and wasted potential is of little to no consequence to y'all, and by y'all I mean the full time employed.
I'm taking the liberty to offer this rant to the gods of employment and misery (who I assume are at least twins if not the same person) on behalf of all those out there who are looking for a job, working at a dead end job, unhappy with the direction of their professional life or who are cleverly staving off these inevitable options by continuing their education. If you don't agree, I don't really care, and here's a secret for you: those gods don't really exist...
Dear Advice Offering, Know it Alls of the realm of full time employment,
Shut the fuck up. I know with certainty that your life is not perfect. That you have not figured it all out. That with the slightest examination you could honestly say you have no regrets or doubts about the way your life has unfolded. If you say I'm wrong I say take a lie detector test and talk to me then.
And I know that pretending like you have all the answers to the defenseless hoards of recent grads is comforting and reassuring to you, but it's also rude. And pretentious. And often hurtful. Please, point to the moment when you figured your whole life out and got all the answers straight?
What's that?
You're still not at that point?
Then as good as your intentions are do me a favor and share your benevolent wisdom with a sea tortoise because I really don't want to waste any more of my precious time listening to all the things I'm doing wrong and have done wrong and should do differently.
I cite my older and wiser sister's insight to point out that when your fellow adults fall on times of unemployment you avoid that topic like the plague. And it's not because your wisdom is any less useful to the previously gainfully employed, it's because it's rude. So why, seriously, someone explain to me, why it suddenly becomes socially acceptable to Salem-Witch-Trial the class of 2013 (and 2012 and 2011 and 2014) on all their admittedly uninformed thoughts and plans and aspirations? Who decided that was OK?
I concede that these unintentionally malicious figures may have something valuable to offer, some shred of experience or wisdom that while it may not offer employment may at least offer comfort in whatever stage you are at now. But I cannot pretend that this possibility is worth being accused by friends and strangers alike as lazy or unintelligent or unskilled or whatever their diagnosis of my unemployment is.
Let's put it this way: your advice hasn't gotten me hired yet, and unless you're the real Salem witch I don't see that changing. And I'm not even looking for a career path job! And yet your narrow minded inability to listen to or value anything that comes out of my mouth stops you from understanding my plan and permits you to correct it. That's so funny, I don't remember handing you a red pen.
So save the criticism for someone who's listening. I'm off seeking advice from people whom I actually respect. Like my friends Mr. Merlot and Ms. Malbec.
With Thoughts of Avoxes Dancing Through My Head,
The Modernist
2. The two pronged reason that a reminder didn't grace your inbox upon waking this morning (still not getting those? Just drop your e-mail in the "I'm Kind of a Can't Miss" box to the right) is that I started studying for the GREs last night and then proceeded to have what I can only assume was a casual panic attack about the impending mediocrity of my life.
3. The fact that I felt as if I was swimming in Jello comprised of my failures and wasted potential is of little to no consequence to y'all, and by y'all I mean the full time employed.
I'm taking the liberty to offer this rant to the gods of employment and misery (who I assume are at least twins if not the same person) on behalf of all those out there who are looking for a job, working at a dead end job, unhappy with the direction of their professional life or who are cleverly staving off these inevitable options by continuing their education. If you don't agree, I don't really care, and here's a secret for you: those gods don't really exist...
Dear Advice Offering, Know it Alls of the realm of full time employment,
Shut the fuck up. I know with certainty that your life is not perfect. That you have not figured it all out. That with the slightest examination you could honestly say you have no regrets or doubts about the way your life has unfolded. If you say I'm wrong I say take a lie detector test and talk to me then.
And I know that pretending like you have all the answers to the defenseless hoards of recent grads is comforting and reassuring to you, but it's also rude. And pretentious. And often hurtful. Please, point to the moment when you figured your whole life out and got all the answers straight?
What's that?
You're still not at that point?
Then as good as your intentions are do me a favor and share your benevolent wisdom with a sea tortoise because I really don't want to waste any more of my precious time listening to all the things I'm doing wrong and have done wrong and should do differently.
I cite my older and wiser sister's insight to point out that when your fellow adults fall on times of unemployment you avoid that topic like the plague. And it's not because your wisdom is any less useful to the previously gainfully employed, it's because it's rude. So why, seriously, someone explain to me, why it suddenly becomes socially acceptable to Salem-Witch-Trial the class of 2013 (and 2012 and 2011 and 2014) on all their admittedly uninformed thoughts and plans and aspirations? Who decided that was OK?
I concede that these unintentionally malicious figures may have something valuable to offer, some shred of experience or wisdom that while it may not offer employment may at least offer comfort in whatever stage you are at now. But I cannot pretend that this possibility is worth being accused by friends and strangers alike as lazy or unintelligent or unskilled or whatever their diagnosis of my unemployment is.
Let's put it this way: your advice hasn't gotten me hired yet, and unless you're the real Salem witch I don't see that changing. And I'm not even looking for a career path job! And yet your narrow minded inability to listen to or value anything that comes out of my mouth stops you from understanding my plan and permits you to correct it. That's so funny, I don't remember handing you a red pen.
So save the criticism for someone who's listening. I'm off seeking advice from people whom I actually respect. Like my friends Mr. Merlot and Ms. Malbec.
With Thoughts of Avoxes Dancing Through My Head,
The Modernist
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Bitch, Please
Over Spring Break I went home and spent the week seeing friends and lounging around my house writing my thesis. There was also a fair amount of Dunkin Donuts Coffee. (literally, my biggest problem with Los Angeles). On Friday night I accompanied my dad to temple as he had his mother's first yahrtzeit (which my computer just tried to correct to "yahtzee," what, is google a secret front for a 1950s country club?). Our Rabbi, who I don't care for in the least, I find him devoid of inspiration, intelligence, and social skills, insisted on a traveler's prayer which dear old dad sold me down the river for. Really, how far is 3K miles? It's a plane. Not the Oregon Trail. Soon after we released from the chamber of rambling a new addition to our synagogue approached me demanding that I clarify where I was going that I had required a blessing, and I replied, begrudgingly, that I was returning for my last semester at USC.
Let me clarify, my begrudgement was not a reflection of dissapointment in it being the end of college. That's an idea that I've pretty much come around to. I was not thrilled with the prospect of the conversation that would inevitably occur between me and this poorly dressed stranger. And despite my greatest efforts at California charm the exchange ended with me saying "And for the year I hope to get a job in writing" to which she, full of the confidence and poise that accompanies a dress sewn in a country that no longer exists in the eyes of the U.S. government with an even more dated haircut, responded "Well. Good luck with that."
I cock my head. Squint my eyes. And walk away. Who does she think she is? Excuse me, I've never met you. It's clear why you're speaking to me and not someone who could recognize you from past social trauma. Lock it up. You wouldn't say that to someone you knew, so why would you let it stand as a first impression?
I was genuinely taken aback. And it could've been my pre-temple blood orange cosmo (#delicious), but it also could have been the fact that I had become unaccustomed to people being so frankly rude. I took a few things away from the encounter:
1. Never be like that woman
2. ...no, i guess that was it
If you don't get what I'm doing, that's fine. But let me be. It's not your place to offer judgement on my life, just like it's not my place to offer judgement on yours. If you're not on my team, you're not welcome in the stadium. This is practice. Let me figure my shit out before you start offering unsolicited advice. Because just like you're much more than the answer to one deceptively ambiguous question (When was the last time you went shopping?), so am I.
Good Day. I said Good Day!
Let me clarify, my begrudgement was not a reflection of dissapointment in it being the end of college. That's an idea that I've pretty much come around to. I was not thrilled with the prospect of the conversation that would inevitably occur between me and this poorly dressed stranger. And despite my greatest efforts at California charm the exchange ended with me saying "And for the year I hope to get a job in writing" to which she, full of the confidence and poise that accompanies a dress sewn in a country that no longer exists in the eyes of the U.S. government with an even more dated haircut, responded "Well. Good luck with that."
I cock my head. Squint my eyes. And walk away. Who does she think she is? Excuse me, I've never met you. It's clear why you're speaking to me and not someone who could recognize you from past social trauma. Lock it up. You wouldn't say that to someone you knew, so why would you let it stand as a first impression?
I was genuinely taken aback. And it could've been my pre-temple blood orange cosmo (#delicious), but it also could have been the fact that I had become unaccustomed to people being so frankly rude. I took a few things away from the encounter:
1. Never be like that woman
2. ...no, i guess that was it
If you don't get what I'm doing, that's fine. But let me be. It's not your place to offer judgement on my life, just like it's not my place to offer judgement on yours. If you're not on my team, you're not welcome in the stadium. This is practice. Let me figure my shit out before you start offering unsolicited advice. Because just like you're much more than the answer to one deceptively ambiguous question (When was the last time you went shopping?), so am I.
Good Day. I said Good Day!
Monday, February 25, 2013
It's Vegas, Betches!!!
So this weekend I went to Vegas. I go to school in Los Angeles and since I'm graduating in a matter of months (weeks sounds too intense here) I thought it was high time that I see what all the hype was about. My experience was unique because it was for a friend's birthday and her dad got us two suites at the Cosmopolitan, so I was definitely a little spoiled. But here's the good, the bad, and the ugly:
The Good:
Damn. There be some good food. It's expensive and disorientingly large in quantity, but hands down, the best part of my weekend (besides indulgent day drinking) was the food. I had some of the best chicken pot pie that I've ever had the pleasure of consuming, accompanied by a Mambo Italiano, which is a delightfully spiced Bloody Mary. Boom. I had $5 Margs on national margarita day. I indulged in the $50 buffet (line jump and bottomless mimosas included) which gave me a southern comfort course, a breakfast plate, an asian italian fusion (or so I have dubbed the combined plating of garlic bread and cucumber-avacado sushi rolls), and desert tasting. Juicy Fried Chicken. Creamy Mashed Potatoes. Perfectly Flavored Green Beans. Succulent Stuffed french toast. Fresh fruit. Rich Gelatto. Mini pockets of perfect Tiramisu. Mini Pecan Pies. Later on we got street tacos and finished the weekend with some delectable sandwiches. Leave it at this: Gluttony is my favorite of all the sins of sin city.
I should also give a shout out to dancing. Which was incredibly fun, especially at Surrender.
The Bad:
The best advice I could give you about going to Vegas is keeping the group small. I think, depending on your level of closeness, 3 or 4 is perfect. You'll all fit in one room. You can easily break into pairs. You can be really honest about what you want, do that thing, and easily stay in communication with all members of your party. I was there with 8, which is approximately double my recommendation. Keep it small. Keep it easy. Keep it fun. I whole heartedly believe in the "go big or go home" philosophy, but not when it comes to Vegas group size. May you avoid the anger, frustration, and passive aggression that plagued my Vegas adventures.
The Ugly:
People are SOOO mean. I think that everyone has spent a lot of money. To get there. To stay there. To gamble there. To drink there. To eat there. And because humans are apparently incapable of understanding what other people experience, particularly when they're shwasted on 64 oz of margaritas, they act obscenely towards others. I got cut off, pushed, spilled on, yelled at, and called out in just one night more than I have in the rest of my life combined. And it didn't end when I left! There was a white lexus SUV full of girls coming from Vegas (complete with "Party On Board" stickers. vomit.) who were literally ALL texting at a red light. When they looked up to notice that I had started to pull into their lane the driver honked, pursed her lips, and shook her head at me like I was an infant trying to lick a live outlet. Fuck You. Another girl, at the casino, trying to pull her friend away from my friend, shouted, "Come on! Leave the fucking grenades, let's go!" (for those of you who are as unfamiliar with MTV's television stylings as I am, a "grenade is a terrible term pulled from the set of Jersey Shore which means a girl who you would hook up with only to wake up sober and realize that she's hideous and a terrible human being). Great. Really killing it Vegas.
The whole experience raised one of the not-at-all-timeless conundrums of the twenty something's life style: At what expense am I forcing myself to be young, wild, and free? Because really, at the end of the day, wouldn't I have been happier hitting up an awesome club in LA (a probable small downgrade from Surrender and Marquee) and spending a night watching Arrested Development with my friends? I return to a valuable mantra: You do YOU. Don't try to be someone else. Don't go on trips or do things just because you're supposed to. Because guess what. The worst way to waste your twenties is by being miserable, waiting to do do things you want to do, or waiting for something better to come along. Get the giant margarita, but only if it's what you want. Do things on your terms. Try new things, because there's usually an implicit level of fun in the novelty, but don't force yourself to repeat frustrating things just because there supposed to be fun. If Vegas exists to teach us a lesson it is not a warning against over indulgence, it's a warning against indulging in what we're supposed to want. You do you. The rest will follow.
Peace Out Betches (More posts in the coming days, I promise.)
The Good:
Damn. There be some good food. It's expensive and disorientingly large in quantity, but hands down, the best part of my weekend (besides indulgent day drinking) was the food. I had some of the best chicken pot pie that I've ever had the pleasure of consuming, accompanied by a Mambo Italiano, which is a delightfully spiced Bloody Mary. Boom. I had $5 Margs on national margarita day. I indulged in the $50 buffet (line jump and bottomless mimosas included) which gave me a southern comfort course, a breakfast plate, an asian italian fusion (or so I have dubbed the combined plating of garlic bread and cucumber-avacado sushi rolls), and desert tasting. Juicy Fried Chicken. Creamy Mashed Potatoes. Perfectly Flavored Green Beans. Succulent Stuffed french toast. Fresh fruit. Rich Gelatto. Mini pockets of perfect Tiramisu. Mini Pecan Pies. Later on we got street tacos and finished the weekend with some delectable sandwiches. Leave it at this: Gluttony is my favorite of all the sins of sin city.
I should also give a shout out to dancing. Which was incredibly fun, especially at Surrender.
The Bad:
The best advice I could give you about going to Vegas is keeping the group small. I think, depending on your level of closeness, 3 or 4 is perfect. You'll all fit in one room. You can easily break into pairs. You can be really honest about what you want, do that thing, and easily stay in communication with all members of your party. I was there with 8, which is approximately double my recommendation. Keep it small. Keep it easy. Keep it fun. I whole heartedly believe in the "go big or go home" philosophy, but not when it comes to Vegas group size. May you avoid the anger, frustration, and passive aggression that plagued my Vegas adventures.
The Ugly:
People are SOOO mean. I think that everyone has spent a lot of money. To get there. To stay there. To gamble there. To drink there. To eat there. And because humans are apparently incapable of understanding what other people experience, particularly when they're shwasted on 64 oz of margaritas, they act obscenely towards others. I got cut off, pushed, spilled on, yelled at, and called out in just one night more than I have in the rest of my life combined. And it didn't end when I left! There was a white lexus SUV full of girls coming from Vegas (complete with "Party On Board" stickers. vomit.) who were literally ALL texting at a red light. When they looked up to notice that I had started to pull into their lane the driver honked, pursed her lips, and shook her head at me like I was an infant trying to lick a live outlet. Fuck You. Another girl, at the casino, trying to pull her friend away from my friend, shouted, "Come on! Leave the fucking grenades, let's go!" (for those of you who are as unfamiliar with MTV's television stylings as I am, a "grenade is a terrible term pulled from the set of Jersey Shore which means a girl who you would hook up with only to wake up sober and realize that she's hideous and a terrible human being). Great. Really killing it Vegas.
The whole experience raised one of the not-at-all-timeless conundrums of the twenty something's life style: At what expense am I forcing myself to be young, wild, and free? Because really, at the end of the day, wouldn't I have been happier hitting up an awesome club in LA (a probable small downgrade from Surrender and Marquee) and spending a night watching Arrested Development with my friends? I return to a valuable mantra: You do YOU. Don't try to be someone else. Don't go on trips or do things just because you're supposed to. Because guess what. The worst way to waste your twenties is by being miserable, waiting to do do things you want to do, or waiting for something better to come along. Get the giant margarita, but only if it's what you want. Do things on your terms. Try new things, because there's usually an implicit level of fun in the novelty, but don't force yourself to repeat frustrating things just because there supposed to be fun. If Vegas exists to teach us a lesson it is not a warning against over indulgence, it's a warning against indulging in what we're supposed to want. You do you. The rest will follow.
Peace Out Betches (More posts in the coming days, I promise.)
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