Category Archives: man-loving feminism
For those of you who don’t know, I’m a huge fan of Yahoo! journalism (fan being the keyword, despite my deliberately confusing use of italics). See, I’m not a fan in the traditional sense in that my feelings about Yahoo! Journalism are comparable to those I have for kitten road kill; it sickens me, but forces me to question my own humanity when I can’t take my eyes off of it. And while I’d rather obtain my global headlines from more legitimate sources like The New York Times or TMZ, when the only cost associated with reading Yahoo! is my brain’s slow but steady decay caused by constant exposure to Kim Kardashian cellulite pictures and headline videos of misbehaving cats, I feel it’s a pretty good trade off.
Today while at work wasting my potential as always, I decided to scour Yahoo! for contemporary pop culture references I could use to make myself seem wittier than I am, when I saw
an article titled ““Model Pose Sparks Outcry”.” Now for me, anything involving models is undeniably fascinating since they are sort of like an Earth bound alien species, with their over-sized heads and skeletal body types, so needless to say I couldn’t resist this scintillating (not really) headline.
But as with every Yahoo article that assumes illiteracy among the masses, after clicking a link to actually read it, I was automatically redirected to a ridiculous video involving worthless human beings talking with authority about topics on which they are not actual authorities, while trying to be funny and younger than they are. I can’t tolerate those sorts of things, even when I do them, so I am admittedly reacting solely to the text.
Basically Vogue published a sensual/sexual/does anyone know the difference between those words anymore (?) cover, featuring model Stephanie Seymour being “choked” by some irrelevant male model no one cares about. Apparently this caused “feminist outcry” by four not-valid-enough-to-name women’s advocacy organizations who are claiming the cover promotes domestic violence. They are now pushing Vogue to pull the magazine.
So, I have considered myself a feminist since I was six years old and first declared to my mother that “I don’t need a man” and will never marry because it was stupid. Though I’m sure she took it more as an early sign of lesbianism than political advocacy, I can assure you that it was probably meant as the latter. But throughout my entire life I have had to defend that label (feminist, not lesbian) to men and women who called feminists crazy, man-hating boner-shrinkers. I don’t like it, but it comes with the territory.
However, I have to admit it gets increasingly difficult to defend feminists when they continue to pull legitimacy from the actual problems women face in the world, by making headlines over utter silliness. I can see being upset if the cover looked like this:
But it doesnt. This is a ridiculous thing to be upset about. The actual cover is hardly promoting violence, what with the vacant sex faces and sup-par grope fest. And honestly, who cares about the self-proclaimed edginess Vogue attempts to exude? The female demographic Vogue largely caters to is assustomed to having their self esteem beaten down month after month; this may be an emotional relief. But mostly, I can’t handle the fact that something as inconsequential as this can garner more attention than many of the legitimate problems women face in the world. Therefore I give you the following list:
Things More Offensive to Women Than This Ad
1. The lack of maternity leave in the United states.
2. The fact that women’s reproductive rights are still used as a wedge issues in politics.
3. The fact that there are still countries around the world that allow child brides, public stoning, and female circumcision.
4. The fact that according to the Institute for Women’s Policy Research, around the world 1 in 3 women have been beaten, coerced into sex, or otherwise abused.
5. The report by the Journal of American Medical Association saying 1 out of 5 high school girls is in a physically or sexually abusive relationship.
These are just some of the many issues that men and women should be concerned about, as well as countless others involving other demographics. Why advocacy organizations continue to waste their energy on petty campaigns that diminsh their reputation and the reputation of all feminists is beyond me.
Perhaps it’s a Romney/Ryan conspiracy. What do you think?
The girl who can’t just ask people why they are white
It’s no secret that I’m an overweight, pale, blonde girl. I wear double digit clothing sizes, makeup that is literally labeled “translucent” and have hair so light I would appear to have lesser eyebrows than Whoopi Goldberg. In other words I could moonlight as a beer wench at Oktoberfest any day of the week.
Yet my entire life people have treated me as if I were somehow unaware of my appearance. Phrases like “the South Beach Diet would work perfect for you!” and “OMG, like, what’s with your skin?” have been thrown at me since I was five and a girl on the playground told me I looked like an apple, a body type label that has stuck with me throughout adulthood.
In high school I spent many nights lying awake in my bed thinking about every part of my body that was flawed. My hair was too thick, my brow bone too strong, cheeks too chubby, arms too flabby, boobs too big, boobs too small, skin too broken out, stomach too big, thighs too thick, legs too short, skin too pale, hips too wide, butt too small, feet too arched, etc. Every part of my appearance was a disappointment to me and the constant reminder via CW dramas, flawless high school peers, and thoughtless family members and strangers, that there was a better alternative to me and all of my imperfections, that I could never and would never physically attain, made me ache inside to see a reflection that was no reflection of me. It was this kind of mindset which made me value being told I was “pretty” as a greater compliment than being told I was “smart, funny, kind, talented, creative,” etc.
It has been six years since high school graduation but I have only in the last two started to feel like I am not some kind of mangled rawhide, covered in slobber and dog hair, lying on the floor of an illegal puppy mill in Idaho. Vivid, I know. But perception evolves with the passage of time and what I couldn’t see when I was in high school is that I am actually pretty. Not to everyone of course, but to myself.
But my reason for writing this has nothing to do with how gorgeous I think my hair is now or how classy I think my pale skin is, and how even though I need to lose some weight for health purposes, I no longer want to be thin. I’m writing this because I think the biggest problem with the issue of beauty is that beauty doesn’t actually exist. Beauty is an intangible perception of something else that cannot be proven, but merely argued. Which leads me to my next point: the sickness of comparative beauty.
There’s a strange movement right now in our culture. On one hand, models look more emaciated than ever, and on the other women like Christina Hendricks are garnering mad attention for their naturally curvy bodies. Pictures like this are being passed around the internet:
While I can grasp that this is trying to send a positive message that thicker girls are just as sexy, if not sexier to some than skinny girls, I hate the fact that we need to tear one group down to lift up another. I also hate that the definition of female beauty is being dictated by the men who date them, designers who dress them, and people like Perez Hilton. I also hate that instead of rebelling against this system, we women allow it and promote it by being competitive with other women, diminishing each other for our differences. And lastly I hate that in a world of increased eating disorders, skin cancer rates, and deaths related to cosmetic surgery, we live in a culture that still promotes the constant alteration of our bodies. Viewing our faces and our bodies as blank slates for culture to imprint all over is a recipe for self-destruction.
Forget the fact that a few centuries ago artists would have had a throw down over who gets to paint me naked, in today’s society, I and so many other girls are not considered the “ideal” for one reason or another. But the fact is, that even despite the after-school special undertones of what I’m about to say, everyone is beautiful to someone, in their own way. Blonde or brunette, curvy or thin, fair, or tan or black, or whatever other generalized term we can create to label ourselves, everyone is beautiful because they are different. Because there are no two people EXACTLY alike. Because no person will ever be duplicated. Everyone is the master copy of themselves, which makes us each pretty undeniably special. And sometimes being special is actually better than being just like everything else.
So before you tan your skin to make it look more like someone else’s, or dye your hair to fit in with the trends, just think about the fact that you are the only person in the world with that skin color and that hair, and by choosing to make it some other color, you are choosing to say goodbye to one of the things that makes you unique. Let’s all learn to accept each other and ourselves for who we are so we can all live together in fat, skinny, ugly, pretty, peace.
And remember, real women have confidence, and sometimes that’s all we needs.
The girl still working on the confidence thing
I’m a terrible feminist.
Tonight I was all prepared to write something really scathing about the poor self-image the media inflicts upon young girls, and how a woman’s self-worth should not be determined by the opinions of a man. I was so dedicated to this topic I didn’t even take off my bra before lighting it on fire.
BUT THEN…a customer came in.
And now after our exchange, all my measly weak-minded girly self can give you is this:
The Power of the Male Compliment: A Dramatic Scene
Female (LENA), early 20’s, understated, ravishing beauty sits behind the counter of a coffee shop, listening to Bob Dylan and wasting her youth. She’s feeling rather pensive and existential, whilst debating her attraction to Keira Knightley. NAMELESS MALE walks in, early 20’s, tall, kind of cute wearing a pea coat that mildly resembles Bob Dylan’s on the cover of Blonde on Blonde, a fact she chooses to withhold as no one ever cares when she tells them things like that. She stands up and walks to the center counter to greet him, wondering if he is a Bob Dylan fan and whether or not he has enough body hair to satisfy her.
LENA: (cheerily) Hey!
NAMELESS MALE: Hi…
LENA: What can I get for you?
NAMELESS MALE: Two chocolate donuts.
LENA: Ok. (turns around to reach for donuts, placing them into bag) Anything else?
NAMELESS MALE: Peanut.
LENA: Ok. (turns around, places one into bag) Anything else?
NAMELESS MALE: And coconut.
LENA briefly wonders if NAMELESS MALE continues asking her for donuts so he can ogle her goodies when she turns around to retrieve them, but determines, as she has less ass than a dolphin, he is simply hungry and indecisive.
LENA: Here you go. (hands the bag to him and he smiles at her holding out his money) Thanks.
NAMELESS MALE: You’re welcome…so, how is your night going?
LENA: (hands him his change) Oh you know, it’s not too bad. How is yours?
NAMELESS MALE: That’s good. It’s good…It’s okay.
LENA: (laughs) Good.
NAMELESS MALE: Well, thanks.
LENA: You’re welcome. Have a good night.
NAMELESS MALE: Thank you.
NAMELESS MALE begins to walk out, but as he opens the door, yells out
NAMELESS MALE: You’re very pretty!
LENA: (laughs) What? Oh, thanks!
As NAMELESS MALE gets into his vehicle outside, LENA trips over a plastic coffee stirrer on her way back to her computer, beaming with the giddiness only seen in “principal offices” on pornography sets.
There you have it.
No feminist thoughts. No well-written accusatory tone.
I have nothing worthwhile to say. I have lost all feminist energy, solely because some young man wearing a Bob Dylan-like pea coat told me I was pretty.
It’s like, such a huge problem, I just…
You know what? Why am I even trying to explain? As if any of you uggos will understand…
I need to talk to Samantha Brick.
The girl blogging under the influence of EXTRA Dessert Delights sugarfree gum (you don’t know me!)
Arrogance is the laxative of humanity. It brings out all of the shit in people.
I believe, deep in my heart, that a truly conceited person is nothing short of despicable, a phrase I formerly reserved for Robin Williams alone. But today I realized that if I were arrested by Bob Dylan’s security team and stuffed into a windowless 10×10 room I’d rather 77 furry and infuriating Robin Williamssssssssss to keep me company than ONE of this twat:
Sure, on the surface she looks like any other woman suffering from serious constipation. But like I said before, arrogance is the laxative of humanity. So if one thing’s for sure, constipation is not her problem and her pants are likely filled with feces. But I digress.
I’m not simply railing on this woman because it’s fun, although let’s face it. It’s phenomenal. But in all seriousness, Samantha Brick, the woman, the writer, the revolutionary force behind “beautiful” women everywhere recently published an article entitled, no lie, “’There Are Downsides to Looking This Pretty:’ Why Women Hate Me For Being Beautiful.”
I know. Just, I know.
Now, obviously anyone reading this is more curious about what this poor woman looks like, than anything she actually has to say. Kind of like how people mute Jennifer Lopez music videos. So, much to the disappointment and satisfaction of every reader, it is somewhat surprising when the woman writing the “I’m so pretty I should just die” article is actually, kinda, sorta, undeniably average. A whaaaaaat???
If you read my blog you know I’m somewhat of a lesbian. Not really. But there’s about 17 women I’d go gay for in a second if given the opportunity. Emma Stone, Amanda Seyfried, Sophia Bush, SHAKIRA, Dear Jesus, I can barely continue typing…
Point is, I have never in my life hated a woman for being beautiful. I typically end up idolizing them to an unhealthy degree before accepting that face transplants are only reserved for burn victims or people like Jocelyn Wildenstein.
So when a lady starts spouting off about how irresistibly boneable she is, I expect big things and am horrendously disappointed when all I get is a bony, blond, constipation face. Straight trippin.’ But to be honest there should be less focus on her looks because no matter how good looking she is, no one should be in such serious self-denial to think that their looks are so astonishing that an entire gender has collectively decided to hate them. No. The focus of all ridicule should be on the fact that, deep down inside where it actually MATTERS, this woman is utterly hideous. Here’s how:
“I know how lucky I am. But there are downsides to being pretty — the main one being that other women hate me for no other reason than my lovely looks.”
“I’m not smug and I’m no flirt, yet over the years I’ve been dropped by countless friends who felt threatened if I was merely in the presence of their other halves. If their partners dared to actually talk to me, a sudden chill would descend on the room.”
“And most poignantly of all, not one girlfriend has ever asked me to be her bridesmaid.”
“You’d think we women would applaud each other for taking pride in our appearances. I work at mine — I don’t drink or smoke, I work out, even when I don’t feel like it, and very rarely succumb to chocolate. Unfortunately women find nothing more annoying than someone else being the most attractive girl in a room.”
I can’t even finish this article without laughing hysterically. I mean, honestly, it sounds like either one of two things.
1. A parody, a joke, satirical non-humor, or something more believable than someone actually being this much of an asshole.
2. An EXTREMELY insecure woman whose mother once told her that the only reason people made fun of her constipation face was because they were jealous that they did not look as constipated as her, and therefore for the rest of her life had to tell herself that every time people decided they didn’t like her shitty personality it was because they were jealous.
While I initially assumed, it HAD to be number 1, I was indescribably delighted when she wrote a follow up article confirming that it was number 2, shit and all.
“While I’ve been shocked and hurt by the global condemnation, I have just this to say: my detractors have simply proved my point. Their level of anger only underlines that no one in this world is more reviled than a pretty woman.”
“If Brad Pitt were to say: ‘Yes, I’m a good-looking fella,’ then the world would nod sagely in agreement. But if Angelina Jolie uttered something along those lines, she’d be subject to the same foaming-at-the-mouth onslaught hurled at me yesterday.”
It’s like conceited **** comedy hour up in herrrrre (use your imagination to decide what word I starred out). I CANNOT get through this woman’s writing without taking a leak all over myself, metaphorically speaking.
While everything in this piece is pure gold, my favorite part is probably when she compares herself to Angeline Jolie.
See anything different about these two women? Anything at all? I know, like, how totally uggo is Angelina.
Let’s cut the shit, this woman’s inflated ego, ie. Insecure desperation to figure out why everyone she’s ever met hates her, says it all. But I’d like to say one last thing. Here it goes:
H-h-h-h-h-i, I’m-m-m-m L-L-Lena. Sorry, I’m just stuttering because I can’t handle how beautiful you are.
Ok, I’m over it.
I know the last 24 hours have been difficult for you. You not only plastered pictures of yourself all over the internet for people to judge and ridicule, (tough break, girl) but you also let the entire world know, at once, how much your personality sucks. Now that’s a total bummer.
Because let’s face it, woman to woman. Even if you were the super bionic attractive specimen of sex personified you seem to think you are, in the vapid culture you believe yourself to flourish in, looks fade with time. And when you finally look as haggard as all the women who just don’t understand how difficult your life is, you won’t have a great personality to fall back on. All you will have is pictures of your younger self and soon-to-be embarrassing globally consumed publications of vanity to prove, that even when you looked your best, you still were so intolerable as a person, that not a single woman wanted to be friends with you and all men valued you for were your looks. Because if there is anything women know, it’s that it doesn’t take much more than having a pulse to get a man to hit on you. But it takes being a decent human being to establish real friendships.
In addition, it goes without saying, that if you want to write an article about how tough life is, you might want to focus it on something other than being beautiful. Last time I checked, the global economy has collapsed, kids are being murdered in third world countries, and Two and a Half Men is still on the air.
Peace out, ya’ll.
The girl with a personality to fall back on.
Today has proven to be a sippy cup of useless knowledge.
THIS MORNING: While talking with my mother I learned that not everyone dreams about food. The conversation went something like this:
Me: “Soooooo… you know when you have one of those dreams where you’re surrounded by food, you eat until you throw up, and then struggle to hang yourself?”
Mom: “No, that’s never happened to me.”
Me: “Really? I mean, I’m pretty sure everyone has that dream at least once a week.”
Mom: “That hasn’t happened in my lifetime.”
Me: “Oh, haha. Me either.”
THIS AFTERNOON: While applying streetwalker makeup for my coffee pouring job, I learned/realized that by repeatedly stabbing my eyeballs with a mascara wand on a daily basis, I am no doubt responsible for my bloodshot soul windows and future blindness. Well, that and all the meth.
THIS EVENING: While “working” I browsed Facebook headlines, which, much like legitimate news sources, left me anxious for a story that did not involve cute puppies or fat people eating burritos. Much to my surprise in the evening hours I began to see a “trending topic” involving Republicans, Planned Parenthood, and abortion.
While I, and all other liberals, view abortion as an everyday recreational activity, much like tennis or Magic the Gathering, apparently Republicans aren’t so big on it. Who knew? What with all the blood thirsty legislation passed in this country, one would think Republicans ate fetuses for breakfast. But I am here to tell you, that is not the case. They’re more of an eggs benedict party.
As an avid fan of abortion and the murder of all children, I have to say all this uproar about Planned Parenthood and its abortion services is a little silly. First of all, if there is anyone who SHOULD be angry it should be people like me – advocates of fetal destruction. Do you know how many abortions Planned Parenthood has prevented, simply by providing inexpensive birth control options to women? I’d venture a guess at thousands to a Gazillion. You just can’t mess with statistical fact.
But even a Gazillion prevented abortions doesn’t make up for the fact that a whopping 3% of Planned Parenthood provided services are abortions. I know. Disgustingly low. Where are all the pregnant Democrats getting their inevitable abortions – back alleys in Tijuana? Mexicans really are taking all of our jobs.
But Republicans seem to think that 35% of services related to contraception, 35% related to STD treatment and prevention, and 16% related to Cancer screenings are simply not enough to make up for that tiny, wittle, 3%. Which is why several Planned Parenthood locations around the country have lost or are at risk of losing funding. To the everyday, logical person, this may not make sense. But when you keep in mind this famous Republican mantra, it’s a little clearer:
“Babies born no matter what
Then have them killed in war
Increase all military spending
Stop funding all the whores.”
Brings a tear to my eye every time.
Unfortunately, government funding isn’t the only hit Planned Parenthood is taking. One of the other reasons my peeps are all a-Twitter is that apparently the Susan G. Komen Foundation has cut funding to Planned Parenthood. What a slap in the uterus. What kind of women’s health organization de-funds another women’s health organization? Whatever happened to hoes before embryos? Kinda effed up, SGKF. Just sayin’.
So after much thought and coffee, I have developed a solution to this problem.
Republicans. Let us keep our American based Planned Parenthood locations. Let us continue providing low income women with contraception, cancer testing, STD testing and treatments, and all general gynecology services we women get and you men don’t want to hear about. In return, we will help advocate the building of Planned Parenthood locations in the Middle East. Why? The more contraception available to Middle Eastern women, the less terrorists in the world! YES! Oh, and get this. Since torture is pretty much a staple of American diplomacy and the prevention of war crimes, why not enforce some mandatory abortions of the future jihadists being conceived each day! Because, just keeping it real, we all know all this self-righteous morality disappears faster than Bin Laden’s corpse (eh hem…I call bullshit) when it comes to the war on terror. Keep it in mind.
Looking out for America, always.
The girl who, like 99% of liberals hates abortion but advocates the right to choose
Warning: Male relatives you may read at your own risk. If the idea of a blog post about my boobs makes you uncomfortable I recommend you avoid this blog post entirely. Should you decide to read on, please do not contact me about how uncomfortable I make you. There is a warning. Much like the “hot” label on a McDonald’s coffee cup or a “do not swallow” on a bottle of rat poison. If you choose to swallow, don’t change your mind and spit. Dirty.
I have a huge rack. I can call it that because it’s mine. And also because no one gets offended by the term rack, especially not when the term “fun bags” is an option. Nevertheless, I have gone through life, being reminded of my huge rack by everyone who comes into contact with it and those who want to but never do. Why? Well, we live in a culture that is obsessed with huge racks and the owners of them. Huge racks are assets to civilization that must be preserved, displayed, and glorified at every opportunity. Or, aren’t they?
Tonight after work, I decided to go bra shopping. Any woman reading knows that bra shopping is either a wonderful experience, resulting in a euphoric boost of self-esteem, or an agonizing one, with thoughts of suicide and the slightest consideration of taking a cheese slicer to every ounce of unwanted fat, yet to be sexualized by black guys and Hugh Hefner.
Since I get out of work after 11pm, my only option was to go to Wal-Mart. Now, when it comes to bras, Wal-Mart wouldn’t even qualify as the retarded little brother with spina bifida and a lisp, to the famous Agent Provacateur or even a Target. But since my huge rack recently assaulted the (flimsy) underwire of my favorite bra, with a Joan of Arcian level of womanly force, I thought I should give it a go.
After grabbing a pair of $3 sweatpants and browsing the fake Uggs, I ventured to the “intimates,” section. Quickly scanning the aisles, preparing for some intimacy with the Inimates, I came across a corner shelf display of “Buty Pants,” (because sometimes you just need a buty).
Now, I’m not sure if this is the white marketing version of “booty” but I think the label gives you the idea. These are, yes, you read correctly, pads for your butt.
Pads….for your butt.
Moving on. I was taken aback by this blatant display (literally) of the negative messages women receive about their natural bodies. But before my feminism kicked in, my ever-present frat boy mindset was popping its disenchanted collar. Dude, padded butts? False advertising, bro. Seriously, though, how could a brand that calls itself “Lingerie Solutions” make a product like this? First of all, if a chick is in her lingerie with a guy, nothing is going to shrink a boner more than saying, “Oh wait, let me take my buty pads out” or “you can’t spank me, you’ll damage the fake ass I used to lure you in before revealing I’m needy and have low self-esteem.” Epic fail, my man. Can you dig it? (high five)
Back to female feminist now. Not only was I disgusted by the fact that this product even exists, but I was incredibly frustrated by the difficulty I proceeded to face in my own shopping experience. Since the term “huge rack” is all relative I should tell you now, I wear a size 40 D/DD. Though this can change based on brand and store this is a pretty consistent range. After several minutes of searching, I started to grow frustrated by the limited availability of huge rack bras. Not only do most bras only run in sizes A-C to begin with, but those with the D or the even rarer DD option, were quite limited. Me and my huge rack were frustrated by this. We shook our heads in disgrace and sadly collected five of the ugly 40 D/DD’s available. For some reason, lingerie designers think big-breasted women like ugly bras and hate the cute ones with cupcake patterns and hot pink zebra stripes. They must work with the same crackpot design team selling plus size t-shirts with pictures of watering cans and kittens playing with yarn, on the front.
As I browsed the last aisle I couldn’t help but think about the mixed messages women get. All we ever hear is, “BOOBS! ASS! CAVEMAN LIKE! MUST BE BIG!”…unless they’re natural. Because let’s face it. Any woman going to Wal-Mart hoping to add fake curves to her butt has an easier time than any woman going to Wal-Mart hoping to find support for her real curves. With a prominent corner display, every woman passing gets the reminder that her butt may not be curvy enough to work in her lingerie, therefore she needs Lingerie Solutions. And every woman who actually needs to find something deserves a Worth Bingham Prize.
But at this point, my huge rack and I were exhausted, and all we wanted to do was try on the measly options and leave. Of course, as the tier below retarded little brother with spina bifida and a lisp, Wal-Mart does not inform shoppers with any kind of signage that dressing rooms close at a certain hour. Since you can’t buy an ugly bra without knowing how badly it fits, I decided the next best option would be trying them on in the aisle, over my tee shirt.
Now, it is impossible for a man to pass the bra section and not look down every aisle. I’m not saying it’s intentional. I really think it is more like an involuntary physical reaction like blinking or pooping your pants on a long car ride. But as a couple passed, the man glanced at me, in my shameless state, and I nodded “hey,” like a scene straight out of a Diablo Cody movie. It was my “I’m on my hamburger phone” moment, minus the Oscar nomination.
After selecting two mediocre garments, I browsed $5 movies while waiting at the checkout line. Apparently “What Happens in Vegas” holds the same retail value as “Sister Act.” Who knew? I paid for my bras and left $15 poorer, and pricelessly more aware of our contradictory world.
So for any non-relative men reading, I want to say one last thing. The next time you are with a girl who complains that her boobs are too big, her butt is too small, or that her natural body in general is too inadequate to deserve a spot on the corner display at Wal-Mart, please think of this post. Or at least my huge rack. She doesn’t have to know.
The girl with the huge rack (as if I left you wondering)