Memoirs of a Spinster

I'm terrible at this blogging thing. It's been over a year since I've written a thing, and maybe it's due to the pressure I put upon myself to feel like Carrie Bradshaw and say deep-yet-recognizable truths. I also have this bad habit of coming up with a million different things that I want to say, usually in the shower, so I forget these strikes of brilliance as they go down the drain along with my shampoo suds. 

I also didn't think I had much to eject into the ethosphere. With the many, many heartbreaks I had both professionally and personally in the past 12 months, it was too much, too soon, too personal. I've had time to process it, and while it disappoints me no less, the murkiness that I had to paddle furiously through has finally led to somewhat of a surface. I'm still climbing an uphill battle, but I can say that I got through these things and have emerged with as much grace as I could muster, and a bit more cynicism. This coming from a girl who told an acquaintance from an improve class that, since I moved from Florida, I've become more cynical answered, "MORE cynical?? Eek!"

ANYWAY. I was doing my usual weekend activity of watching one of the Jane Austen or Bronte sisters' novels film adaptations, and said to my roommate "I should start a blog about being a spinster!" She agreed. My apartment is like a home for modern spinsters. We have jobs, are well educated, are stylish, and have loads of class, yet are lacking in one department: our love lives. And yes, its pretty much by choice.

I began to think about this and, as I was scrubbing my hair, I had a thought. Carrie Bradshaw was super fun and fabulous and sexy, but her column and the thousands of other advice columns and blogs, etc. etc. etc. are so alien to me. Where is the blog about the girl who HASN'T had a date or a boyfriend (let alone all that goes with it) in so long she now has a natural reflex to chuckle cynically at the notion. Where is the blog for the girl who identifies more with the sad guy in love with Keira Knightly in Love Actually and has to hold back her tears when Kate Winslet begins The Holiday with this achingly truthful monologue: "What about our stories, those of us who fall in love alone? We are the victims of the one sided affair. We are the cursed of the loved ones. We are the unloved ones, the walking wounded. The handicapped without the advantage of a great parking space! Yes, you are looking at one such individual. And I have willingly loved that man for over three miserable years! The absolute worst years of my life! The worst Christmas', the worst Birthday's, New Years Eve's brought in by tears and valium. These years that I have been in love have been the darkest days of my life. All because I've been cursed by being in love with a man who does not and will not love me back." 

Steak through the heart, that one is, and all because it so perfectly and eloquently describes so many of the one-sided relationships I've been in. You know, the ones where you hang onto every word they say, knowing just knowing, that your loyalty, your unwavering and profoundly open-hearted interest in what they have to say will land you a spot in their heart. Really, it just means that you're their therapist and the second you try to talk about anything significant to yourself or say anything honest about your opinions, you will get railroaded with their needs once again. And you take it. And take it. An endless torrential downpour of them, them, them, until you snap and let the Florence Nightengale act slip just for a second, and BOOM, you've betrayed them. They either throw a pity party for themselves, or, as one of my more recent heartbreaks went, they go completely AWOL, shut you out of their lives, and (insult of insults) block you on Facebook. All because you decided that you have given enough of yourself, listened to them for months on end with nothing but kindness, compassion and complete selflessness, and wanted to be heard, listened to. You want to feel, if even for a second, that you mean as much to them as they do to you, and you have things in you worth being listened to. Selflessness is a virtue but it can also be a torture device that tightens around your neck and keeps you in a stranglehold, manipulating you to turn this way or that to the direction they desire, and if you make one false move, jerk to the side even a little, you die. Your relationships dies. Your heart dies just a little more. The only thing borne of it is the emerging of a little more cynicism and self-doubt. You've done it again. You were no longer convenient. 

And yet, you still troll the boards of Pinterest, creating the most perfect wedding ever. You know who your bridesmaids will be, the color of their dresses, the amazing sit-down dinner, the fun little makeshift Photo Booth. All you need now is the groom. That's the tricky part. Despite being raked through the coals over and over and over and over again you are still a romantic at heart. You never miss a Jane Austen marathon on a Friday night. You long for the balls of the Regency Era, the subtle romance that can leave you breathless from a man simply staring at your lips while delivering a passionate line about his ardent and unwavering love for you. 

But at the same time, you don't believe a word of it. Oh how you want to, but there is that nagging voice in the back of your head reminding you that you are the doyenne of the one-sided love affair. You are no great beauty, so you smile bravely at your acquaintances ADORABLE wedding and baby photos thinking "WHY ARE THEY MARRIED AND I'M NOT?!!?" You continue being a shoulder to cry on for those ones that light up your day, if only to know that you've made them smile if only for a moment. You fancy yourself to be Saint Diana, protector of the Aching Hearts but retain your rep of being the sassy single one with witty, buzzy one liners. You want to be the one with the tales of wild weekends making out with dark and handsome rogues in a nightclub stall. But really, you spent your weekend with Pride and Prejudice and Prosecco one again, and you're actually just fine with that. 

Where is the blog for THAT girl? Assuming I can keep this business up, maybe that will be this blog. 

And I'm Letting Myself Down in Satisfying You...

I have just finished reading The Paris Wife by Paula McLain, and my heart feels oddly broken. Now, to those of you who don't know, the novel is based off of the relationship between Hadley Richardson and Ernest Hemingway as they made their way through the beginning of his career and among the fellow members of The Lost Generation in 1920s Paris. The book plainly states that it is a novel, and therefore not a cut and dried biography of Hadley, but the author was very, very loyal to Hadley's real life events, letters she and Hemingway sent to each other, and other intricacies that turned the book from just a piece of historical revisionism into something that really gets into Hadley's soul and psyche. I had been meaning to read it for months now, but was really inspired to buy it finally after hearing that my absolute favorite movie, Midnight in Paris, took a lot of inspiration from Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, which was written about this specific time in his life. We all know Hem's point of view of the story; I wanted to know Hadley's.


It actually took me far longer to read this book then it takes me to read most others - about two weeks. Normally I can put a book I'm really into to bed in five days to a week, considering work and bathroom breaks. This, however, I needed a break from - it was getting too personal, too sad. We all know that Hemingway had four wives, and Hadley was just the first, so obviously it wasn't going to end well. It was about halfway through the book, when Hemingway, for the first time, grew testy with Hadley, that I went forward with one of my very, very bad habits: I skipped ahead and read the last chapter. I've never been terribly good with surprises, and I pretty much do this naughty deed with all books I read. I don't know if it is the actor or humanities student in me, but I like to know who the characters in the final act end up being, and, in knowing that, really paying attention to the things they do and say along the way that gets them there. Or it might just be that I'm horribly impatient. Either way, it's just one of those odd quirks that inhibits my being. So, back to the book, I saw exactly how the outcome was presented, and broke down in tears. It was then that I knew that I needed to take a break and gather the courage to really get through the rest of it.


Last night, I did just that. The fun and fabulosity of gay Paris had begun to grow tarnished. The steadfast, loyal, and achingly devoted Hadley has had a child, and has grown tired of Hemingway's ways. He was a published author by then, and was losing friends left and right, including one of his closest, Gertrude Stein, due to him getting a little big-headed. Soon, she finds out that he is having an affair. Bad enough he was cheating on her, but in the grand tradition of those that cause the most pain, he was having an affair with one of Hadley's good friends. She tries to remain a good wife, going so far as to vacation with the two of them in an odd, non-sexual (mostly on her part) and uncomfortable menage a trois, but she finally cracks. We all know what happens from there: they divorce, and he marries the tramp lady. Hadley eventually remarries, and she only sees Hemingway twice in her life after.


That is all well and lovely, and happened long ago to two people who died before I was even born... so why did it begin to feel so personal, like Hemingway's selfishness was hurting me, not Hadley, not some character in a book? Why did I find myself crying, over a BOOK, at 5 am? And why did it compel me to write again? I think it is because I see a lot of myself in Hadley. I don't necessarily like it, but I think it's the truth. We both came from families with a comfortable upbringing (although hers was far, far more depressing). Really, that is our own literal similarity. However, I feel like emotionally we share a lot of similarities. We are both slightly old fashioned (although I would call myself a hardcore feminist, I still feel like I have an "old soul"), and we both know we can love loyally, fiercely, and devotedly. I know for a fact that, when I'm in love with someone, I will love them better than any one else possibly could. I have turned myself inside out, and outside back in for the one I was in love with, willing to do almost anything to support them and their goals (I had this brief plan that we would move out to the desert and live with Bedoin tribes at one point). This is exactly what Hadley did for Hemingway. And it is their outcome that terrifies me, because you can never guarantee that, regardless of how fiercely and freely you give yourself to someone, how much of a coddling, petting dummy you make of yourself, they will not selfishly rip your heart out and throw it toward a raging bull to be gored. She was much more level headed and forgiving than I want to be... she made up so many excuses and knew that if she pushed back or rebelled against him for his indiscretions, she would lose him entirely. However, for all of her goodness, he still left her for the next make and model. I have been in that situation, and the fear of losing them is worse then the fear you have of losing yourself. And that fricken sucks.


The book didn't end pretty, but what hardcore passionate relationship does, it seems? I long for passion, for someone to pine for me so thoroughly that their final memoir encapsulates our relationship... I want to be needed, desired, wanted almost like a seething hunger. But I don't want all of the messy stuff that results - the heartbreak, the loss of inner self, the fear to fall for another ever again, the bittersweet emptiness that inhabits your heart almost to the point where you can't really be sure WHAT you ever felt for the other person. Is love always pain and longing? Deceit and regret? Hope and blind, naive faith in the other person's goodness? I've never been one to like the schmoopy versions of love. If I'm with someone when Valentines' Day rolls around, I don't want anything special to happen then... I want to be wooed sometime later, when society doesn't pressure couples to publicly shout their love from the rooftops. When I get engaged someday, I don't want some standard solitaire that Tiffany's extolls as the perfect token for an engagement ring... I want something that actually means something to us. I've always preferred the exclamations of love that seemed more organic, painful even, like the poor sap who loved Keira Knightly in Love Actually, who shamefully zips up his hoodie and runs away in panic when she sees for the first time that he loves her. That pain is real... we have all felt rejection - it is raw, authentic... corporeal even. Or in Shakespeare's sonnet 130 where he blithely proclaims that "and yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare as any she belied with false compare" when he describes that she doesn't follow the usual standards of beauty, but loves her just for who she is. No false pretense, no flowery bullshit. This is love. Messy, uncomfortable, authentic.


I knew a girl in college named Hadley, and I remember her telling me once, in the streets of London, that she was named for Hemingway's first wife. I thought to myself, "who the hell would name their child after someone's first wife?" However, its said most beautifully in the book - she had him when both of them were at their best. They INVENTED the iconic version of Paris that they lived in. They, as a couple, were a force to be reckoned with, and a duo to be admired. And who wouldn't want that?

Tells a tale of grace?

Tonight, I feel like having someone else do the talking for me. They pretty much encapsulate where I am. This is "Seven Years" from Norah Jones, and I've been reciting these lyrics in my head over and over for a few days.


Spinning, laughing, dancing to
her favorite song
A little girl with nothing wrong
Is all alone

Eyes wide open
Always hoping for the sun
And she'll sing her song to anyone
that comes along

Fragile as a leaf in autumn
Just fallin' to the ground
Without a sound

Crooked little smile on her face
Tells a tale of grace
That's all her own

Fragile as a leaf in autumn
Just fallin' to the ground
Without a sound

Spinning, laughing, dancing to her favorite song
Shes a little girl with nothing wrong
And she's all alone

Beneath the makeup and behind the smile, I am just a girl who wishes for the world

Hey guys, remember that one time that I started a blog? Well, I tried to be dedicated to writing every night, and I did... for about a week. If I really wanted to keep with it, I suppose I could have, but I've been feeling that I just don't have anything interesting enough to contribute to the blogosphere. This evening, as I was entertaining myself via revisiting old videos, pictures, etc that I've posted, I saw the last blog item that I put up... on January 10th. For a hot second I thought, "oh, how embarrassing! All of the people who read it now must think I'm a total flake!" But, then I realized that there was nothing to be embarrassed because 1) only like three people have read this, and 2) if I were someone who read blogs, I really wouldn't care if they had stopped blogging for awhile. I would just go and find another blog, another fun activity or another (gasp! sigh!) read a book, or go outside... or just something else. 

It's all replaceable, it seems, these days, or it goes away in one way or another.  Your friends change. People who you think would be your bridesmaids in your (hypothetical) wedding become strangers that you don't really think you would have any interest in seeing again. Places that were close to your heart once, you can't fathom going to again (or they have closed... like several beloved clubs in Tallahassee). Clothing trends that you absolutely loved, you now see as trashy or gaudy. Pets die, people change, political ideals form... As one gets older, the complicated kaleidoscope that is the makeup of one's identity rotates and morphs into different facets. In the past few years I've had so much change that something a little disconcerting happened. I just stopped caring. It's almost as though I've had so many disappointments that I simply can't be bothered to care for the most part.

Now, that is not to say that nothing bothers, me. A lot of things bother me, but I just really don't feel like exerting energy on it enough to really cause too much havoc. I remember once, when I was very young, one of my cousins tried to explain why one gets tired. "Its like every day you have $100. Everything you do during the day costs you a few dollars, so by the end of the day, you have run out of money. Same thing for how much energy you have." Perhaps that same comparison can be used for the amount you can dedicate to caring about things. I used to worry and stress so much, and by the end of the day, I would be a wreck. Lately, I have been compared to "The Honeybadger" because, 3/4 of the time I just. Don't. Care. Or do I? Am I just wasting even MORE energy putting forth the facade of not caring, but being too stubborn or bitter to show it anymore. Why should I care when so much of what I've put forth and showed so much passion for has been trampled on? If no one else cares, why the hell should I? And if I do? Why should I let anyone in on it? Because clearly, it doesn't matter.

But at the same time, some old habits die hard. There are some lyrics from a Norah Jones song called Seven Years that just replay over and over again: Eyes wide open/ Always hoping for the sun/ And she'll sing a song to anyone/ Who comes along. 

There are parts of me that still craves the approval of everyone that I meet so much that I will turn myself inside out. It's almost a challenge. Perhaps its because of how hurt I was when  I was young, and my classmates were cruel to me. Perhaps its from my years in the sorority, where perfection was not an option. It wasn't just your reputation that would be harmed, but an entire group of young women. Maybe its from the directors I performed for, the large family I came from, my Type A personality. Many, many reasons that have created a terror inside of me of being less than what is expected, wanted, desired. I'm happiest when I know I've exceeded the expectations that someone has for me. Occasionally I'm happy because I've reached a goal I've personally set, but I'm more satisfied when I've reached another's for me. But why? Does anyone care as much about my opinion as I do of theirs? I have worked hard for the past few years to be as strong and as self-sufficient as possible. I feel this searing inner drive to be strong, be tough, be a bad ass. But at the same time I feel like another line from the Norah Jones song: Fragile as a leaf in Autumn/ Just fallin' to the ground/ Without a sound. 

In the end, Marilyn Monroe said exactly how I feel much of the time: Beneath the makeup, and behind the smile, I am just a girl who wishes for the world.

Don't Get Your Support Hose in a Twist...

There are times, like when I'm out at a really fantastic bar, drinking well made, exotic cocktails, and discussing very sophisticated things like the next bougie event that I am working on, that I feel like I am young, fun, and living a fabulously glamorous life. Then there are times, like when I talk with my young cousin, when I feel like I am a hop, skip and a jump away from waving a cane at the young'uns (read: 18 to 21 year olds) drunkenly hooting and hollering down the street at 2 am and telling them to get off my damn lawn, after giving those whippersnappers on Teen Mom a piece of my mind. Today was one of those days.


My dear, sweet young cousin, Darla I'll call her, is still a very green underclassman in high school. She messages me from time to time, in a complex language of abbreviations that I call "teen speak" that causes me to have one tab open on Facebook and another tab on Urban Dictionary in order to interpret what she says. Today, however, she was loud and clear. While checking up on friends' misadventures, a message from Darla pops up: "boys are stupid." This progresses into a conversation that informed me of the intricate world of teenage dating. Words like "talking" and "walking" mean something much more significant than what those words mean to a 28 year old. Apparently "talking" and "walking" can lead to heartbreak, anger, mixed emotions, and confusion. All it was making me feel was "old" and "confused." Oh look... a similarity. Confusion all around. I gave her the best advice I could: maybe be a little bit of a tease, but don't be skanky. 


I got to thinking... what is the rush to get into deep, meaningful relationships at such a young age? Why does someone with so many other, better things to do, worry about something that will most likely be, at the most, trivial a decade from now, but will most likely be mostly forgotten? I know I dated a bit in high school, but I can really only name two or so of the boys in question. I'm not saying that THEY are trivial, but the relationship was, in the end, of very little importance in the mosaic of my life. What was significant were the dance classes, the voice lessons, the acting workshops, the musicals and plays, the deep friendships, and the carefree Friday night football games. Those were the things that have helped to mold the content of my character, that will last the rest of my life. The rest was just... fluff. 


I'm not saying that formulating youthful simulations of deep, loving relationships is not a worthwhile experience, but I think that now, in this era of many many possibilities (assuming you receive a formidable college education), there are so many other things that should take priority. I shouldn't be so hypocritical, however. I remember (although it feels like it was far more than 10 years ago) the feeling of first kisses, note swapping, and flirty glances between desks. It really DID seem urgent. We live in a society that badgers kids into grow up far quicker than is really necessary. High school students are pressured to take extra curricular activities, not for the pure fun and healthy benefits of it, but to make your college admission essays and resume look good. Fun isn't the main point of it all... its to look good for the future. So, fun needs to be found in other venues. Thus, Teen Mom. 


I worry for high school students in this generation, not because I think that they will make dumb choices. Girls like my cousins are smart, ambitious and are good girls. It's their friends and potential boyfriends that worry me. No doubt some of the other students in their grade have already done the dirty deed. Thus, no doubt, in the next few years, I worry that boys they date will expect more than a good night kiss at the end of an evening out. I worry about this because I know that was absolutely the case when I was Darla's age. By the time I was 15, I had a handful or more of friends that were no longer candidates for nun-hood. By the time I was 18, I was one of few people I knew that had yet to "take the plunge." My graduating class had six or so pregnant girls in it, for heaven's sake! I felt pressure to be like all of the people who made that choice, but my personal values kept me from taking that step. It will happen for everyone at some point, and God knows that I am not an advocate for the "abstinence only" teaching, but, looking back at my and my friend's life choices, I think it is so vital that these girls realize that some things you can't take back. That includes a baby or VDs. It's fun, and it's a very "adult" thing to do, but comes with adult repercussions. As long as they are prepared for them, and as long as they take the necessary precautions... well... it is what it is.


I'm actually, at this moment, doubting wether to actually post this. I'm sure that is goes totally against some of my friend's and family's beliefs, but it's realism that gets me thinking about the subject. 


I don't think that I'm old, I think I'm just educated.

What a Difference a Few Years Can Make?

Well, you have witnessed my first lapse in discipline regarding the writing of this blog. Seeing as I'm pretty sure that I'm only disappointing like three people, I'm sure my nearest and dearest will forgive me. My fantastic new roommate Lianna, who is a beautiful, smart Southern gal, moved in last week, so I've been a little preoccupied. I'll be honest, too, that I haven't had much to talk about really. Maybe something will inspire me soon. In lieu of original ideals, I figure that I will do a comparison of those narcissistic quiz things so popular on MySpace (remember that?); one from when I was new to Boston, and one now. So, lets see how I have changed, and how I have stayed the same. 


First done March 18, 2009
1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
Nope. Mom wanted us all to have original names! That hasn't changed... 

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
Hmm... a few weeks ago, watching Cold Case. That show always gets me!! Firstly, Cold Case has sadly been cancelled. Second, the last time I cried was a couple of weeks ago. I was watching My Fair Wedding with David Tutera. He was granting a Make a Wish from a kid who had cancer wanted to give his mother a dream wedding planned by Tutera. It was pretty tragic.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
I do. Thanks Sister Ita and Mrs Guidera! Same. Although this "good" handwriting has been at fault, as every org I work with demands that I write out all pieces of mail for donors. 

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
Turkey, but it has to be sliced off of the bone. I HATE packaged turkey. SO GROSS. I can honest to God say that I haven't had any lunch meat in a few years. But I love me some TJ's smoked gouda aka the BACON OF CHEESE!

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
Ew no. Same. Thank GOD.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
I would like to think so. I mean, its kind of my mission to get as many people to like me as possible. My mission in life has since changed, but I still think that I would like to be friends with me. I'm pretty snappy with the come backs and provide entertainment to the masses.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM?
Never... Like I care to answer that question again.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
Yup. Same.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
Maybe, if they could absolutely assure me that I wont die. It seems like fun though! I saw a news article just yesterday about a woman who went bungee jumping and her cord snapped. I'm too old to do stupid stuff on purpose. Leave it to those "invincible" kiddies of the world.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
Banana Nut Crunch or Trader Joe's Berry-Os Cream of Wheat. I don't really eat cold cereal any more. Maybe Cheerios. 

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
Nope Same. That was trivial.
 13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Mint chocolate chip, hands down! I have discovered tart yogurt, the yummiest dessert. I like the original tart yogurt flavor with dark chocolate chips and fresh raspberries. WAY better then mint. 

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Eyes, hair and teeth. Hair, expression, clothes.

15. RED OR PINK?
Blue Same, but specifically French Blue. 

16. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORlTE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
Where to start... LOL Naw... I sometimes have the attitude of "if I don't think about it, it will fix itself." Turns out, that doesn't work. SO many things, still. Now it's more like "I get defeated in a rather dramatic fashion from time to time."

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
My mommy and Meggie!! The same, actually.

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO COMPLETE THIS LIST?
I mean, if they want to, that would be cool. I like learning things about my friends. No one else completed the list. Not like I cared really.

19. WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
I am currently wearing neither of those things. I'm cheeky! Well, that was skanky. Now, I'm wearing gray Lulu Lemon yoga pants. No shoes still

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
The Barefoot Contessa. My Name is Earl... surprisingly not terrible!
22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
Um, I don't know. I like the color blue though... does that count? I would be the crayon that doesn't give a shit... because this is an absolutely stupid question.

23. FAVORITE SMELLS?
My mom's perfume, our family spaghetti recipe and orange blossoms. It's actually the same!

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
My mom on Skype. I spoke to someone at a restaurant that I was asking for a donation for an event that I'm working on.

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?
NO! I heart her-----she's one of the most upbeat, kind, and loving person. And a GREAT sister! Seriously... more people should be as great as her. I have no memory of who sent this to me. Oops.

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
FSU Football!!!! I don't really watch sports... I have watched a couple of Pats games though I suppose in bars. I don't get into it really though.

27. HAIR COLOR?
Very dark brown. Same. Very surprising.

28. EYE COLOR?
Blue Same. 

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
Nope Same.

30. FAVORITE FOOD?
Hmm... lately sun dried tomato jam. Its the yummiest recipe I've ever made! With goat cheese and crostini... A-MAY-ZING Duck confit, hands down. Specifically from Petit Robert Bistro. Yummmm...

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Happy endings, esp when comedic. Firstly, that answer made no sense. Secondly, still happy endings. 

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
My Best Friend's Wedding.  Mommie Dearest. Don't you dare judge. 
33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Pink, oddly enough. I RARELY wear pink. Baby blue with brown edging. I have no idea what shirt that was that I apparently owned. 

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
SUMMER!!! Fall. Hot is too hot and winter is too cold.

35. HUGS OR KISSES?
KOALA HUGS!!!! WTF is a Koala Hug? Anyway... kisses. Really good kisses.

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
Nooooo clue Again, no one responded. Cheers for them.

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
Many people Um... 

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
Grad school books. I haven't read for pleasure in awhile. A book called Commencement. Pretty good so far, about a group of girls who attended Smith and how their lives progressed. 

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
I don't have a mouse pad. Yay MacBook! Same.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?
Sex and the City, always! Happily Ever After and Pan Am. SUCH great shows.

42. FAVORITE SOUND(S).
Laughter, ocean waves rolling in, music with a great beat to dance to. Same. 

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Beatles. Same. 

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
Sweden Same, although my flight to Hawaii seemed endless.

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
Several. That was lofty of me... 

46 WHERE WERE U BORN?
east coast Florida  Same. Duh

47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
Anyone who actually answers, hahaha JESUS what is it with that damn thing and it's intense interest in those that respond!?!? NO ONE CARES!!

48. HOW DID YOU MEET YOUR SPOUSE/SIGNIFICANT OTHER?
In my dreams. I'm beginning to think that it will be by match.com. 

"A Portrait of Women Today"

Tonight, after getting home from work and watching TV while relaxing and eating dinner, I stumbled upon the Julia Roberts flick Mona Lisa Smile, a film that I both love and hate. I love that it is so unabashedly extolling the virtues of 1950's feminists, and uses the exploration of art as a medium to find inner confidence and independence, but I also get very, very mad, as I know the movie is completely accurate in portraying the stereotypes of what an ideal woman would strive for back then - to be a perfect little wife and mother. 


I have no idea what I would have been like if I were in my 20s in the 1950s, but what scares me is that I almost have to admit to myself that I would be just like Joan or Betty, defining "everything I've ever wanted" as having a wealthy husband who could buy me a lovely house, a washer and dryer, and the "luxury" of never having to think for myself again. I wouldn't be able to help it; that was the norm, and what girls were raised to believe was right and correct. 


I was lucky enough to be raised by a strong and independent woman, who never has pressured me to hurry up and get married, or expected me to tether myself to a man in order to provide a nice life for me and the forty children I would singlehandedly raise. My duty is not to be a wife, but to be a self-sufficient, happy, and successful individual who can choose the kind of future I desire. I know that that may not be the case for all girls (certainly some girls in the old sorority never got the memo that getting an MRS degree was no longer the point of going to college...), so I appreciate the values instilled within my upbringing. 


However, I worry about what my potential future children's or even grandchildren's opinions may be of my generation's portrait of what a real woman is. In the movie, Julia Roberts rails against ads for girdles, cookbooks, and serving utensils used by pretty little ladies in their pretty little homes in their pretty little heels and pearls. We scoff now at these misogynistic images, and are so pleased with ourselves for being so much more advanced, liberated, smart, etc. etc. etc. then these women. But do we really have room to talk?


I'm not going to get into facts and figures because, frankly, I don't care enough to, and it's quite late, and I highly doubt that anyone will "nany-nany-boo-boo" me if I say something that may be a little umbrella statement-ish. But here's the thing: I would wager that there is a higher percentage of young girls in middle, high school, and young adult aged that voluntarily do not eat for long spans of time or up chuck their meals. Why would they do this? Because Hollywood and pop culture has told us to. Gone are the days of Elizabeth Taylor's, Marilyn Monroe's, Eva Gardner's and Sophia Loren's sexy, luscious curves. Now we all strive to have the "Sexiest Woman Alive"'s  - Jennifer Aniston's - complete and total lack of curves. She has, for years, been a darling of the fitness world for her long, intense pilates work outs, and her every bulging arm vein shows it. We are told that we are encouraged - nay, required - to hate ourselves for not being lower than a size six. Just watching TV tonight, in an hour time frame, I saw SIX weight loss aid ads. Women are practically being badgered into being as skinny as possible, but nonchalantly claim "oh, it's just a healthy diet and exercize." Screw that. It's pain, judgment, and self loathing. An article in the Boston Globe a few months ago claiming that Elizabeth Taylor's passing was the death knell of the "bodacious bodies" of old Hollywood. 
"Just looking at what makes its way down the red carpet now, flesh has given way to bone, sin has given way to purity. Increasingly, we are no longer watching women at the movies. We’re watching weight. The goal of many careers now appears to be the promotion of fitness as a sort of talent."
Actresses like Mad Men's Christina Hendricks, and her amazing body, are not "bringing back old Hollywood glamor...," but rather, they are filling a very specific niche, bordering on fetish. For every one actress that a fashion reporter coos "Ohhh, she has an 'hourglass figure... how exotic!" there are about 100 Calista Flockhearts, Angelina Jolies, Sarah Jessica Parkers, and Lara Flynn Boyles. 


Beyond the weight issue, there is other other aspects of physical appearance. Women clink Cosmopolitan-filled martini glasses for being "power players and ball busters" while waiting in line for a brazilian bikini wax followed by another insane trend, "vagazzling," or gluing little tiny crystals into pretty little shapes all over your freshly scalped hoo-hah. Now, I know that there were not that many women who actually bought into that vagazzling crap, but I can probably only count on one hand the amount of friends I have that do NOT partake in the ritualistic process of turning the appearance of our nether regions into those of underaged girls. Or chihuahuas. I won't lie. I've experienced that AMAZING thrill of the feeling of having bits of my body ripped off. And you know what? I felt sexier for it. But why? Why should we go through that pain, that embarrassment (you have to have a skin made of armor to not feel at least a little shy lying in front of your friendly neighborhood waxer, splayed out like a chicken), and the expense of that procedure? It sounds like a scam almost: "for just $85, you get to strip down and experience a whole lot of pain, and then repeat every two weeks for the rest of your sexual life!" Huh?


Next: makeup. I LOVE makeup. I also will never, ever leave my apartment, or, when company is present, my bedroom without at least a little war paint slapped on the old noggin. In order to be seen by people, I require at least ten minutes of prep time. And that is for the MINIMUM amount of makeup. My work look takes about twenty minutes. Foundation. Bronzer. Blush. Finishing powder. Eyeshadow primer. Eyebrow powder. Two, sometimes three, shades of shadow. Liquid eyeliner. Mascara. Lipstick. That is twelve, count it TWELVE different products I put on my face every day, just so I can feel my best. I don't feel pretty if I don't have every one of those items on. If I tallied up the amount of money I spend on makeup a year, I would probably cry. A lot. BUT... I love it. It makes me feel womanly. It is what I need to put myself through to get "everything I ever wanted."


What will girls see when looking at the vagazzled, emaciated, made up women of today? I don't know, but I hope to be as strong of an influence on my kids as my parents are to me. Hopefully my daughters won't find self-worth in a lipstick tube, or have the thought of "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." Back in the 1950s, girdles were considered an item that set women free. What sets women free these days? And how will that be scoffed at 50 years from now?