A couple of days ago an article came out in the NYTimes headined Keeping Romance Alive in the Age of Female Empowerment. A selected quote, “‘Men don’t want successful women, men want to be admired,’ she said. ‘It’s important to them that the woman is full of energy at night and not playing with her BlackBerry in bed.’”
To be fair to the reporter, it ends by pointing out that Miranda from Sex and the City found someone who adored her and was less successful. To point out how full of shit the reporter is, it ends by pointing out that Miranda from Sex and the City found someone who adored her and was less successful. BUT I WANTED TO BE CARRIE.
Another helpful tip - “find your life partner in your 20s, rather than your 30s, before you’ve become too successful.” At this point I contemplated jumping off my balcony at work because I’m always at work because I’m trying to be successful and I don’t know should I chose a warm body next to me at night or cold, frigid, lonely buckets of cash? UNCLE SCROOGE LOOKED LIKE HE HAD SO MUCH FUN SWIMMING IN HIS PILE.
I’ve never dated anyone who had a problem with my success. However, I’ve never dated a misogynistic, insecure skidmark stain so that might be why I haven’t encountered that issue.
I don’t believe this to be a real issue, except among those who find their significant other on a Russian mail order bride site. Mainly because, you know, you pay all that money and then you find out she’s a doctor and isn’t going to s-ur-d and clean house all day? How frustrating!
I have dated my share of misogynistic, insecure skidmark stains, but at the time, I had virtually no success of which to speak. Big shocker there - smart, successful women don’t want to date losers? They aren’t grateful to have finally found a man - any man at all - for whom they can quit their job and cook some delicious dinner? That must come as a complete shock to the men of the world.
this kind of just tells you what my weekend was like
…but really I have December goals too. December seems to be a time when people strive to become better. In both my tumblr life and my real life, people have been listing their goals for improvement before the holiday season, which is interesting, because this weekend, I randomly made some too, because it is really time for some things to change.
Learn the “Single Ladies” dance well enough to perform it competently after being slightly overserved. One of the great tragedies of my life is that, in the privacy of my own home, I could be standing behind Beyonce, donning a black leotard. But stick a couple of drinks in me, and I’ll be clamoring for the dance floor, eager to show off my single lady status, and sadly, I will be unable to.
Stop drinking wine out of mugs. Similarly, stop eating cereal out of serving bowls. I consume too much.
Go to the Abs class every day. I work at a Y. We are given an hour-long lunch break. They offer a twenty minute class that involves doing nothing but listening to exceptional rap hits and doing sit-ups. After doing this for a week, I lost nearly a size, but then I got cocky and stopped going. This is a magic class. I need to do this every day.
Shower daily. I only shower every other day because it’s supposedly better for my hair to wash it every other day, and also, I’m lazy! I’m a little nasty, guys! I must learn to allow my obsession with cleanliness and smelling good to overcome my impressive laziness.
Stop laughing at people in bars who are trying to politely hit on me. I do not want to be single forever, no matter how good I am at the damn dance.
Seriously, my first order of business is learning that “Single Ladies” dance. I can’t tell you how frustrated I get.
“When I picked up my head from sleeping, he [Kanye] was looking at me in the strangest way I’ve ever been looked at by a human being. He pulled his shades down and he looked and said, ‘Oh, she’s sleeping?’ I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.”—Nicki Minaj
It takes more than fucking someone to keep yourself warm.
Well, so it begins. Good thing I’ve added about five pounds of padding in the last week to act as insulation, like bears and squirrils do. I’ve also got those fleece-lined leggings. I know how to keep myself warm, okay?
I hate doing laundry at my apartment. In college, there were a small enough percentage of us doing laundry in our dorm that we could generally guess at whose laundry we were callously shoveling out of the occupied drier of our choice, and either feel bad about it, possibly leave a sufficiently apologetic note, or chuckle as we sprinkled their neon sex thongs on the floor. Or we could alleviate the stress of literally airing our dirty laundry by doing laundry as a group, jamming up the available appliances while hoisting ourselves onto the driers and splitting six-packs. We also shared minimally similar ideas about what passed as acceptable underwear, and even if our underwear didn’t fit in, we accepted a strong enough social hierarchy to realize that this was some sort of failing on our part, and not on the part of others who owned things like clean undergarments, exercise clothes, and things in size small. In my new grown up apartment, it’s not like that. I feel uncomfortable putting my unmentionables in a place where they remain vulnerable to be seen by people whose general cleanliness habits remain a mystery to me. Not only do I want to keep these people as far away from any kind of situation in which they might feel prompted to touch my underwear, I’d also really like to prevent them from thinking about whether or not I wear it at all. I want the whole thing to just stay off their radar, much in the way that I have no need for my grandparents to understand what exactly a NuvaRing does.
Today was scary because it was the first time that one of my greatest group-living fears was realized. I came up from the laundry room to notice that a sock had fallen from my laundry basket and lay, abandoned and alone, in the hallway. I panicked, and rushed about the hallway, the laundry room, and the surrounding stairwells checking for other such unmentionables, and gladly found none. But now I know that after I carry my laundry down to the laundry room and run frantically back to check the hallway, I’m actually just taking necessary precautions.
I didn’t do as thorough of a job blogging about my Thanksgiving, which I blame almost entirely on 4 Loko and the the strange way in which the amount of alcohol I feel the need to drink rises proportionally with the amount of people from my high school I am forced to run into. Despite my own acts of wanton self-indulgence, I so enjoyed reading others’ declarations of thanks that I began to feel a little scroogy about forgoing my own.
There are a lot of things about my life for which I’m not quite as thankful, or for which I’d like to be a little more appreciative, but make no mistake: I am thankful. As disingenuous and saccharin as it sounds, I don’t really think being thankful is a one-day kind of thing. It’s a gradual process to truly understand the many tiny ways in which we’ve all been blessed, and I don’t take it lightly. As much as I wish I had an overflowing, boisterous extended family to fill the silent spaces of every holiday, I’m more thankful to have a nuclear family that I actually like. As much as I wish that I had someone to help me carry my groceries or unclog my sinks or scrub my floor and keep my plants alive, I’m so thankful to be gradually learning the ways in which I am capable of doing these things myself. As much as I wish for other tiny things to cure the momentary laments of my daily life, I don’t ever wish for a different life. And for that, I am the most thankful.
I just reached my hand into the candy bag at work and got a handful of Rollos. Confusingly, I ate them instead of trading them for a more worthwhile addition of calories.
If tonight goes anything like last night, I will end up eating frozen fat-free Cool Whip out of the container and drinking Diet Coke, so at least I have that calorie-free aspartame explosion to look forward to if this day ever ends.
For a long time, I have been one of Milwaukee’s biggest cheerleaders. In college, I was often very nearly moved to fisticuffs when belligerent Appletonians or college students driving through from Madison tried to insult my fair city. But recently, I’ve begun to sour on the idea of living in a city that seems so hesitant to be as great as it could be. As much as I love living in a small city, where the lakefront is easily accessible, the hipster bars and music venues are almost absurdly affordable compared to their counterparts in larger cities, and I walk past the art museum every day on my way to work, reading a list like this reminds me of how nice it will be to live in a city that isn’t controlled so ineptly and naively by the whims of the county and the rest of the state.
I long for a city with downtown movie theaters, shopping malls, and stadiums. I’m excited by the idea of living in a city with more public transportation options than surface level parking. Most of all, I’m excited to live in a city that doesn’t fear change, that isn’t stagnated by old stereotypes, and that looks forward to opportunities to invest in urban cultural development, instead of letting projects like the Grand Avenue Mall, the downtown shopping district on Water Street, the Pabst City, and the Prospect movie theater languish without adequate support or funding. I realize that Milwaukee is a very accessible city, and that our economy depends on the ease with which suburbanites can get in, park their cars on some asphalt, and get out, without having to see any undesirable urban-dwellers, but this idea that the city belongs even to those who have chosen to flee it is a frustrating concept for those of us who live here. Every day.
It’s also kind of ridiculous that you can’t hail a cab, and if you ask anyone who happened to be standing in the middle of either Center or Brady Street on Saturday night, they will agree that I (loudly) told them the same thing.
I was so nervous to listen to Nicki Minaj’s first album in its entirety this morning that after I bought it; I just sat looking at it for five minutes. I kind of knew I was going to be disappointed, and that realization was what was giving me the pit in my stomach. I felt sort of like a parent about to watch my child’s team lose a basketball game in the last second. I’ve been anxiously waiting for this day for over a year, but as it started to approach, I kind of started to dread it because I knew it meant that I was going to have to acknowledge that even though I’d been screaming about Nicki Minaj’s ability to legitimize tough-as-nails female rappers who were also interested in presenting an ultra femme persona, this album wasn’t going to be the body of work that did that.
I’ve heard (more than a few) people compare Nicki to Eminem by saying that she is a niche rapper with a message, a voice, and a character whose presence is necessary to create a wedge in an otherwise homogeneous market. I have more recently compared her to Eve and especially Missy Elliott, who put out tracks they believed in and created their own image without much concern about the way they were being received or perceived.
This is a solid album, it really is. It would be a good album for a woman who was going to be satisfied with being a good female rapper - a Trina - but I still believe Nicki is capable, creatively, of a lot more than that. This album is frustrating because I can hear the Nicki who reminded me what is so exciting about a hardcore, lyrically creative, musically fearless female artist, but she’s buried beneath tracks like “Moment 4 Life,” and “Save Me,” when she really just sounds bored. She seems most comfortable when she’s playing characters and threatening to annihilate those who don’t take her seriously; she seems almost oddly uncomfortable playing the devoted girlfriend material on tracks like “Your Love.” Her strongest tracks are those on which she combines her fragility and her vulnerability with her ball-busting bravado, and I hope that she eventually, instead of trying to appease people who want her to pick one or the other, she realizes that this combination is what makes her strong.
So there, that is how I feel about Pink Friday. I probably could have written this yesterday, honestly.
the glitzy gun dress is from modcloth. http://www.modcloth.com/store/ModCloth/Womens/Dresses/High+Caliber+Dress
it's ridiculously expensive, so i don't think i'll be buying it anytime soon
but HOW AMAZING is a dress with sequins and guns?
dream come true.
Hmm, okay so if I start donating plasma like tomorrow and refrain from buying really anything, I should be able to wear this in time for most of the 2011 holidays without being evicted from my apartment. This might be worth it?
But anyway you guys - that is where to get that dress!!
Last night, I got home, downloaded the new Girl Talk album, and went for a run. All Day is no Night Ripper; it’s not even quite Feed the Animals, but both of those albums are such glorious sound collisions that it would be hard to replicate either one. This isn’t to say that All Day isn’t a good album; it’s solid, but just to provide a point of comparison, nothing on the album comes close to the magic of this track. Just listen to it.
Whenever I order food for myself (which is OFTEN, or at least WAS often, when I was in college and perpetually drunk and fat) I always pretend that I’m with someone else who is going to assist me with the eating, or that I’m at least ordering for me and someone else who will appear at the time of eating. I’ve developed many ways to do this, the most trusty of which is simply minimally covering the receiver while pretending to shout to someone else about details of the order, or whether we have enough cash between us for the order. It’s pretty easy to do, by using simple phrases like, “Let me check…” (“Do you want extra ranch sauce?” “Let me check… Um, yeah, I guess we do.”) “Wait a minute…” (“Will that be cash or credit?” “Wait a minute. Do you guys have any cash? No? I guess not.”)
Lately, I’ve developed a new technique, which is slightly trickier. I inquire about the order as if I am ordering for someone else, like I used to do when I ordered food for my old boss. I invent a serious of nonsense questions, and then I respond to the answers: “Are there onions? Oh, no, he doesn’t like onions.” “Okay, my friend wants to know if we can get that with extra cheese.” “Let me check, it’s not for me, it’s for someone else.” (This is a combination of TWO methods, and requires extreme commitment, because it’s a dead giveaway if mishandled.)
My apartment is very small, so when the food arrives, I have to be sure to take my time in buzzing in the delivery person, and I also need to make sure I’m playing some festive-sounding music that one would most enjoy listening to in the company of others. This is pretty crucial, because several times, I’ve been stuck with 30 Rock playing on Netflix Instant, which serves as a dead giveaway that I, too, live a Liz Lemon existence, albeit a drastically underpaid Liz Lemon existence.
The shame in ordering unhealthy meals for one has doubled since my new commitment to not eating like a sixteen year old boy, which means, among other things, avoiding excessive amounts of cheese and fried items. It means that I order food for delivery a lot less than I used to, and as a result, I’ve fallen out of practice at executing these techniques.
Tonight, as both (seriously there were two opportunities for rejection tonight) my plans for the evening fell through, I am sitting here in the upper half of my cute outfit trying to determine from where I should procure my next meal, and feeling a lot less resolve to masterfully execute these techniques than usual. Tonight I kind of just want to wallow in it. Yup, I’m wearing a going out top with my Paul Frank pajama bottoms. Nope, there’s no one else in this apartment. Yup, I’m going to be watching America’s Next Top Model while shoving food these girls haven’t seen since their toddler years into my mouth. Tyra, I will never be on top.
Yesterday, as a result of some apparent mix-up caused by the Veteran’s Day holiday, our paychecks were not deposited into our bank accounts, which, in my case, made it very difficult to bulk-buy my favorite variety of discontinued hair clip from online beauty retailers in a panic with the remaining $16 in my bank account. Because I am irresponsible, we weren’t just dealing with a ran-out-of-cash-to-pay-the-babysitter kind of situation. I live $300 paycheck to $300 paycheck, and my gas bill is due on Tuesday. Because my bank is awesome, the money was deposited TODAY, on a Saturday, which means that if I had any awesome weekend plans, I would be able to go about them as planned. Adorably, my mom came over last night to loan $20 to me so that I could go out this weekend, and in a move that I feel has probably disappointed her, I haven’t used it.
This brief panic was really great for both my attempts at being frugal and my attempts at losing weight. When I went to lunch with a friend, I ordered a Bloody Mary as a cost-saving initiative. The main point of this post is that if you move to Wisconsin, I can recommend an awesome bank that will appreciate your need to get money get paid, not that I am an annoying friend with whom to have lunch. I can see now that I pretty much failed as a storyteller.
Admission about my own life philosophies: I have this written on a post-it, hanging on the computer at my desk. Possibly not the best message for my high school students to see, but also possibly a more useful message than they realize.
(via inmyopinion) Life philosophy offered by my wise sage, Lil Wayne.
If the emotional, off-the-cuff criticism of a rapper who is almost as famous for his (often incoherent) public outbursts is sincerely the absolute low-point of your presidency, that drove our country into an enormous recession and two endless wars, then maybe you’re a little extra self-conscious about being called a racist. If it really hurts your feelings, but you can’t really give any examples of some things you did for black people while you were president, other than, “it’s not true,” or, “I know a black person,” then maybe you should think a little harder. Then maybe you’re going about being a not-racist the wrong way.
Hey, politicians, here’s a clue: if you don’t want to be called racist, don’t act racist. Don’t support policies that blatantly favor the interests of one race or one class of people over another. Just a tip.
You aren’t not racist just because you say you aren’t. You’re not racist because you don’t act racist.
In fact, far from being conservative, the Republican stance on global warming shows a stunning appetite for risk…When it comes to climate change, conservatives are doing none of this. Instead, they are recklessly betting the farm on a single, best-case scenario: That the scientific consensus about global warming will turn out to be wrong. This is bad risk management and an irresponsible way to run anything, whether a business, an economy or a planet.
The great irony is that, should their high-stakes bet prove wrong, adapting to a destabilized climate would mean a far bigger, more intrusive government than would most of the “big government” solutions to our energy problems that have been discussed so far.
Why do so many Americans insist on voting against their own best interests? Why do they shout hatred for a health care plan that gives them better protection against calamity than they have ever had? Or stimulus spending that has prevented a bad economic climate from being much worse for them? Or tax proposals that lower their own taxes by raising taxes on people much richer than they will ever be? Why do they vote in such numbers for the party favored by the bankers and traders who brought on the economic catastrophe?
True, the improvement is slow—no doubt slower than everyone hoped and many people expected. But if someone has burned down your house you would not fire your new contractor because he has not rebuilt it overnight and then hire the arsonist to finish the job.