Doin' Good

Back on track with my New Year's res. Took a break for vacation, which makes no sense, my res keeps me happy, and the place I should be happiest (vacaying) I neglected practice.

High-powered Step class even though it's been a minute. It's humiliating to mess up so many times but it makes a person strong, you know.

Minor set-back getting an extremely sugary coffee.

Then there were auditions at one of my theatres. Got an email that they were low on auditiors. No pay and around three hours of work, but I wondered if there were any women sitting in and I wouldn't know unless I was there sitting in, so I sat in. Guess what? No women but me. And I made sure to smile at each auditioning one as they took the stage. And when another auditor didn't like a girl for no particular reason I said, "Let's take her." You would do it too, but only if you were there, which is the main whole thing.

At home I set up a tiny office in bed to phone bank for the Congressional democratic candidate in my district. I made 50 calls, which I did not like at all, but I got a few more voters, and this is my duty as a person and my mess as a citizen in a country that does not value research.

A friend wanted to talk on the phone (despise) but I did it.

Could have watched something stupid over dinner, but dove into a true crime doc. Gotta learn about justice systems to get mad enough to change them.

Worked on my book. I have two goals for this week.

Took the train instead of a Lyft. Save any tank of gas we can.

Tried to make the new player feel welcome enough. Improvised a musical as a poached goat. Paraphrased MLK Jr., a finale that was a metaphor for bipartisanism, tossed out the compliments. (They're free.) Tried to make people feel good.

And then I could have gone to sleep but watched Kimmy S over leftover birthday cake. I did my best.

Witch

Seven women. A witchy number, a holy number. It started as a Galentine's party but as the plans deepened and the email chain wore on, it became Coven Weekend 2017. It was routine to receive  messages like "The black flame candle has been lit."

The first five to arrive in Sprite's woodsy family cabin unpacked quickly. There were kimonos for everyone and foam crowns to bedazzle. We all showed off our snacks. I told the group I felt like I was in 4th grade again, bringing a literal suitcase of doll clothes to a friend's house just to sort of marvel at it all and not really to put it on my Bitty Baby, or even, for that matter, hold my Bitty Baby. I ate a bunch of fancy cheese. I ate like I had never eaten before. Hoof said, "Me too. I am so snacky! I wonder if its because I am in a safe space." It's a joke and it's not a joke.

When the final two arrived we played a game that involved drawing cartoons with dry-erase markers. In between we chattered about our lives and Roxanne Gay and singlehood and pain tolerance, and wow are women amazing. A medical head of Cook County Hospital. Four JDs. 6 out of 7 of us have been into prisons?! An all-star roller derby champ. We flipped the sand timer and also discussed the Chicago police chief. I said I have been thinking about becoming a cop, and no one laughed at me. "You would be a good cop," they said.

After the glitter tatts it was time for the fire. We wrote out what we want to rid ourselves of and went around the circle burning the scrap papers one at a time. Strained relationships, Catholicism, the fear of moving, the error of being a failure. Into the pit. A marshmallow got stuck in my fur hood. I don't want to wash it. Every time I put on my coat I smell firewood. One house far away on a hill, we blared femme pop music and danced. We channeled the Crucible. I always felt someone was missing. Hunny, drunk, slurred about her passed grandma who she believes haunts her. There were no wrong answers. When my teammates were too wine competitive for charades I sat on the carpet and had my tarrot cards read. The message was clear. It soothed me. "I guess you shouldn't become a cop," Nasty said. I guess not.

We all skittered to the basement. A large room with bunk beds. I chose a top. In the middle of the night, time unclear, I had to throw up. It was pitch black. My period had started. Summoned? I felt empty in the good way.

G v G, Age 9

I'm not sure how you felt about your girlfriends growing up, but there was an intensity between mine. I did not form supportive bonds until I was probably in college. I loved my girlfriends, but we also hated each other. In hindsight, I don't know why I didn't question this more or even ask for help. Maybe because my tribe was still a tribe--despite having inward slashes? At the end of the day, we would still always be against other girl tribes (a whole different issue).

When I sniffled because I thought another girl was better at cheerleading than me, my mom said, "Well, she's a dog." Meaning, maybe she can do a backflip, but in ten years I would be beautiful and she would still be woof. I googled her two years ago to see if it was true. I don't blame my mom. It was her job to make me feel better, and in desperation that's what she landed on.

In middle school it was always someone's turn to be hated. I didn't mind this cycle because I had about six friends, so five weeks would be good and then one would be bad. That was okay odds. I had respite in my summer camp group, but there were weekly awards we all secretly hoped for, so? Once a girl in my bunk said she struggled with math. I told her I liked math and she said if I went to her school I'd probably have worse grades than her. When I was 17 one of my camp friends exploded at me yelling I always when were 12 I always purposely ate dessert slower than everyone else to make them feel bad. Ridiculous if it weren't true.

My gang was academically-driven, so we competed with grades and whispered when someone turned in homework late. We wanted to be the best. I'm trying to determine if the media influenced me in this way. I guess. It was always Christina vs. Britney never Christina & Britney. Betty v. Veronica. Most TV I watched didn't have girlfriends. Patti Mayonnaise. Rugrat Angelica. Spinelli. Lisa Simpson. They were loners. I read Betty Tasty and Tib or whatever those dumb books about growing up in the 1930s were. Samantha the American Girl had a friend, but she was mainly a metaphor for poverty. The Disney Princesses were loners.

Anyway, the world is different now? Frozen? Is Frozen saving us yet? Well. In improv class the students' favorite game is Four Corners. I stand in the middle of the room with my eyes closed, count to ten, and then call out a corner. Anyone in the corner is "out." I recover my eyes and repeat until one student remains: the new caller. So this Girl wins the round and excitedly stands in the middle of the room. After she counts to ten she spins around surveying the room with her eyes "closed" and then calls a corner. I ask her to put her hands over her eyes. She puts them up, gaping cracks between each finger. I let it happen. I watch her pick off the people she doesn't like corner by corner. Until its her best friend, someone she doesn't care about, and a boy I suspect she sort of likes. Her friend wiggles in excitement of potentially winning the game and then, boop, Girl chooses her corner. Best Friend Out. Girl poorly acts surprised and then tried very hard to hide a devilish little smile. I don't judge her. I remember feeling so horribly happy when I was hanging out with a group of girls I didn't know that well and they started making fun of one of my tribe. It was completely base--I'm better than her, but still so shameful. The Girl then proceeds to make the boy she likes win. He jumps around and screams, very proud of himself, announcing he is the best at this game.

The Worst Day

Two days ago, Tuesday November 8th, I was happy. I played "Proud to be an American" while I was in the shower and "Born in the USA" as I walked down the streets. I emailed Dizz to tell her how I thought of her child, my goddaughter, growing up with a woman president every time I passed the early voting site across from my apartment. There were lines a block long.

That afternoon I wore my sweater that reads "A woman's place is in the House and the Senate." A little girl in an improv workshop I helped with told me she really liked it. That night I went to see my friend Tob in an improv show. I watched his set, and during the break before the next team came on I checked the news. My stomach dropped. Trump was getting votes, a lot of votes. I was floored. I had never believed. And then here was this little map of the US lit up red. I took my purse and ran out of the theatre. I bumped in Tob and slurred "Good job I'm scared." He held my shoulders and explained this was expected. "Conservative states were coming in first, Hillary will win Pennsylvania, Nate Silver says..." and I breathed. But my heart was beating at an alarming rate. I watched for a few minutes with a cast member I bumped into and then went home, refreshing the page the whole train ride. People around me were doing it too. We were silent and staring.

I walked to Walgreens and bought a can of ranch Pringles. I got home where Puhg was under a blanket like a boy who believed he say the boogeyman. "The Boogeyman," one of my Mexican friends had told me, is what Latino children in his family have been calling Trump. A scary creature threatening to rip them away from home. We watched as it got worse and worse. Girlfriends texted me, "What is happening?" I am usually optimistic and I had no words. When it was being projected with 99% accuracy I tried to voice what had been building in me. I said, "I just really thought--" and then I could not stop crying.

There are things I don't love about Hillary, but there are things to criticize about everyone. No one in the history of the world has ever been perfect, and yet we have demanded our women to be. She is too qualified to not have been involved in something that could be spun as "bad." She has had too many complicated, intensely rigorous jobs to not have ever been a piece of a death or a technical snafu. She has been cleared by the FBI. She has never committed murder. She has forgiven her husband for infidelity. She has worked every single say of her life to create the exact smile people want to see. She is SO SMART. She is SO ACCOMPLISHED. She knows government like literally no one has ever known it.

I don't need to say what Trump is. If Hillary has said ONE of his top 25 most offensive sentences, she would have been banished from this election immediately. Yesterday I cried my eyes out all morning. My dreams crushed, the textbooks of the future explaining how we just weren't ready. People say it's not sexism. No one believes they are sexist. True sexism is transparent. True sexism is how a girl in middle school can be called a slut or a brat or stuck-up and how everyone will just believe it. No one is asking, "What's your proof? According to what?" And then later when people ask, "Why don't you like Tiffany?" You can answer matter-of-factly, "It's not that I'm sexist, it's that she's a brat." He said Crooked over and over. That's all it took.

Racism. I do believe not every Trump voter is actively racist. But supporting a racist is tells POC "I do not care that you are scared" and THAT IS RACIST. There is no counter-point to this argument.

So many horrible memories of my experience as a woman keep sliming their way up to my brain. A group project where no one listened to me because they didn't want to be bossed around by a girl. I had to wonder for a year if I was unlikable when they elected a new group leader. I had done nothing but asked to make a spreadsheet of who should do what and by what date. The new leader said "We're all mature enough to get this done." I was inc charge of compiling. Half of them emailed their materials and half didn't. No one had edited. I did the whole thing myself in one night.

Walking into the first day of 8th grade Reading class. Our teacher was a 20something skinny blonde woman. My classmate said, "Looks like a real bitch." She had only said, "Hi everybody!" My classmate repeated this several times to all the boys in class. He was the only black student. Maybe he had a really rough experience and was trying to fit in. He used blatant sexism to do it. I was scared to be a girl. I was jealous not to be a boy who only had to snicker.

In graduate school a good friend of mine started ranking girls in our sketch comedy team by numbers of attractiveness. He called me an 8 and said I could easily be a 10 if I stopped eating so many desserts. Another woman there scolded him and he replied back why should we be mad he was honest? I begged my castmate on the cruise ship to stop objectifying women's bodies when we were in the pool at Costa Maya. I teared up explaining how hard it's recently felt to be a woman and he he responded, "It's hard to have someone not think you're funny too."

I didn't know how much I needed it until it was taken from me. I am devastated. I have been texting girlfriends from all times of life and we are all mourning. We are baffled. We are sad. I saw a student on the street and I cried in her embrace. I cried in my improv class. I said, "It seems offensive to be doing this." My teacher said, "It's not." He was very supportive, but I don't know if forgetting is the answer.

I cannot imagine how Muslims feel. I recognize my sadness is nothing compared to many more marginalized people.

Dusty is mad in a way I didn't know Dusty got mad. How is it possible the world is continuing on as though nothing has happened, he asks. And he has a point. Someone who has spoken out against other people in our country is now in power and we put him there. And we're all supposed to go on supporting this system that is so rotten and wretched by trying to find our own happiness and moving on? I am torn between trying to be joyful in the face of Trump stealing happiness and trying to never forget how terrible this is. I keep refreshing my Twitter to see more and more accounts of hate-crimes. Puhg asks why I am looking. I don't know. Maybe it's my duty? Just by knowing I don't end it, but by not knowing do I dishonor it? I usually know what to do even if it's hard or even if I'm not doing it yet. But I do not today. I truly do not know.

Boss Friends

Omaha was lovely. I went last week to visit Lavender in her new home. She has a boss job out of grad school, lives in a tiny house alone, is working hard to create a new life at 29. We talked for hours and hours and hours. I saw her theatre, her program, her hip neighborhood.

We went out for sushi one night and died to see they had vegetarian lettuce wraps which are usually chicken-involved and we miss terribly. We split two rolls--a crab thing and a vegan bbq thing. Oh divine. There were eight rolls of crab and five bbqs. We each are our halves. She gestured at the lone bbq left--the non-half, the fifth. "Do you want that?" Usually that's where I would say, "oh you have it." And so would she. Usually. But in light of being on a desert island/ inside a parachute we created with our theorizing of feminism and progress I said, "Yeah, I do." She said, "Me too." So we paper, scissors, rocked. She won and said, "Does this means I choose who gets it so I should be gracious and give it to you?" No! I said. "I won it fair and square!" She announced while plopping the bite into her jaws.

Women Underground

Watched 10 Cloverfield Lane last night---a pretty good flick. Without spoiling much, the concept is a young woman wakes up from a car crash in an underground cellar being held captive (?) by an older man. She freaks out, but he maintains the world is under attack either by another country or aliens, and everyone outside is suffering a fatal skin disease. So, is she safe or is she prey? I will talk about this movie--with spoilers--in another post.

What occurred to me as the credits rolled is that this is the 5th piece of media about women being held in a bunker underground I've seen in the past one year: 10 Cloverfield Lane, The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, Room, Ex Machina, Stranger Things. Oh, and. There's a new movie coming out this fall called Morgan that is also about a girl with special powers trapped in an underground bunker. It's not truly a repetitive "problem" as all five of the works I have seen are actually really good. But, huh.

Being a drinker of the critical theory Kool-Aid, I can't believe this is coincidence. These stories are all slight variations on the current zeitgeist of American feminism. We have been down here with people who say they are helping us when they actually are harvesting us: for our intelligence, for our innocence, for our unique abilities. Most sexist men do not know they are sexist. They become funnels between women and power believing they are protecting women or helping them. Women made huge strides in the earth 20th Century, and then again in the 70s, and now...we reach a new age. Without being an expert in the field, I champion Twitter for bringing women together instead of lashing them apart with catty magazine headlines and lonely kitchens. Not even concrete can contain us and everyone knows it.

Not Helping Feminism?/Submitting to Misogyny

A couple years ago many of my Arizona comedy pals had a mass exodus of our improv group. It was time for me to go too. I knew my final year of grad school should be spent focusing on my thesis, and the group was getting younger anyway. The director put together a final send-off show on a Sunday night. It was pretty packed, and it was a great night for all of us. We bowed, and I felt a bittersweet twinge for these four other guys who were moving on. And then something "organic" happened. The director took the mic and thanked the huge crowd for coming out. But then he went on to say how much the group meant to him. Hm. And then he rambled about the legacy of the group. (At this point the audience started squirming a little. They just watched an hour plus of improv and were kinda ready to scoot.) Then the director starting giving personal shout-outs to guys who had been in the group when he was just starting. Then he gave little speeches about each of the guys leaving on stage. He said something like, "These guys are the funniest people and my best friends, and the ladies are lovely as well." It was pretty embarrassing. I was hurt too--I considered this person my friend. Oh well, it was almost over. NOPE, PSYCH. He handed the mic to someone else onstage. The audience let out a collective discomforted sigh and waited while three other dudes gave basically the same speech calling out the same dudes from previous generations. Not a single guy recognized the female director who had cast most of them initially. Not a single one called out any of the women who had been on teams with them. My female teammate took the mic and gave gratitude this is how she met her boyfriend, an ex-cast member. The whole goo-fest was probably fifteen minutes strong when I got the mic last. I, again, was feeling bad for the audience who was listening to this pretty self-referential sludge, so gave a polite shake of my head and the night was over. I had been thinking about what the group meant to me though. I just chose to appropriately tell the important people I met in-person, not assuming a crowd of strangers wanted to hear about it.

Some of those important people (specifically three other girls I formed an independent group with) were in the audience that night. I hugged them and told them why they meant so much to me. "But you didn't say it onstage!" Kale said. It was such a trap, I realized. I wasn't egotistical enough to sing my own squad's praises, and therefore, they went unsung. I didn't mean to submit to misogyny. I didn't mean to quiet the very few and underrepped female voices in comedy. I acted rationally as a person regardless of gender, but.

Shellz and I writing sketch comedy years ago.

Rapture Blister Burn at The Goodman

Took my mom to see Rapture, Blister, Burn at The Goodman this weekend. It was the perfect play to see with one's feminist--yet of a different era-- parent. One thing that struck me before I even entered the theatre was how "womany" this play was. It was billed specifically as a piece by a woman. The promotional materials featured Rose the Riveter. There was even a little extra option at the bottom of the purchase order that explained The Goodman wants to keep making works by women, so would I consider an added donation? It pains me that this is necessary. It shouldn't be exotic to feature women playwrights, but at the same time, the extra push seems to be important. After all, this play was nominated for a Pulitzer, but I had never heard of it until it showed up on my Goodman emails. Look at Tonys last year, Oscars this year--women writers are invisible. It's been said before.

During the play there were times I thought, "No wonder people don't see plays 'for women.' A huge chunk of Act I was literally a feminism class. Sure, there were some quips and personal character views inserted in, but largely, we were all in a lecture class getting the history of women's rights. That said, the characters were interesting, relatable, lovable, intriguing. And at intermission, immediately my mom had a lot to say. Furthermore, the woman next to us chimed in. The three of us talked for the entire break about what was compelling about each view of feminism, the history, our experiences. I think that is the truest mark of an important and interesting play--the audience discusses it at intermission. The most interesting things to arise from our talk: the woman next to us was a dentist and explained all the guys she went to school with were serious dummies, my mom said if she could have stayed at home and just been a housewife, she would have--instead of having a very successful career in education, and I explained that when Catherine explained if people are equal in a relationship they can't both go first I didn't really find that true anymore because couple my age do a great job of compromising jobs, location, etc.

I was pleased by the major and surprising action that kicked off the second act. Things got GOING. For those who don't know, the play is about three graduate school friends meeting up after many years. One went on to have a lucrative career in writing, teaching, talk shows. The other two got married and didn't. The wedded woman didn't even finish her degree. Ron (wedded male) is in a rut romantically and career-wise. The huge HAPPENING was (SPOILER AHEAD) the two women decide to switch lives. They each are so "I wished I had had a family"/"I wish I had a career for myself." So they walk the talk. At first it's fun, but quickly, so quickly, I was very very delighted by the married characters' conclusion. It was not rosy, but they wanted to be together. They had ended up in life as they were because they didn't want challenges. So when Catherine comes in and says, "Here, Ron, I'll support you and help you write a book, Gwen, I'll set you up in my New York apartment, they just run home." Home. A whole other can of worms. Catherine comes home to be with her mother at the outset of the play. She preaches how you can't outsource a home, and yet she tries to by taking someone else's husband and child. In the end, we all want to be home meaning family but for many of us that involves have a certain stability of money meaning a good career too. Hence the whole reason we're still seeing plays about this difficult balance decades after women's rights allegedly happened.

The crux of the play to me was that people will be what they set out to be. Avery has my favorite monologue from the play. She tells about how she ice skated when she was a child and quit. When she sees the Olympics she says, "That could have been me." Not only do we look at the "greener" grass on the other side of the fence, we typically look at a magazine picture of the plot of land. Yes, if we had made different choices along the way, things would be different, but why on earth would we expect to be at the perfect end of different? I like how quickly Gwen and Ron are like, "Nah. We liked using our What Ifs as excused, but we're truly average." They chose to see themselves as losers and poor, when really they had enough money. It's not like Gwen couldn't have worked part-time retail. For goodness sake, they have enough money to get a custom birthday cake made for a toddler.

I do also want to note that at first glance, it seems Catherine was almost perfect. She was successful and tried to "have it all" with Ron, but Ron sucked and wanted to be average. But the next day over a Field's salad at The Walnut Room, my mom and I decided Catherine wasn't really much better than the other two. She didn't want to work for her life to improve either. She tried to gank a guy she dated a million years ago who she knew was lazy and a pothead. She didn't put herself out to the world to find a real true companion. She didn't attempt to find an equal partner who loved and cherished her. She went for a near warm body for comfort. It's really no better than Gwen realizing she has no interest in working for a Masters.

In the end, every one is okay. They have learned, and even if they are not totally happy, they can no longer use outside sources for their unhappiness. They know who they are--which is more than most of us can say and a thrilling resolution to a piece of literature.

My one itsy bitsy complaint is that Avery crumbled so quickly when her boyfriend, whom she was merely exclusively hooking up with, left. She painted herself as some warrior lover and fell back on whining to him on the phone when he strayed. My mom says it proves that women who say they don't care about relationships really do. We're all sensitive. I don't buy it. I think sometimes you do have fun relationships. I think sometimes you don't really care. I understand Avery is ONE twentysomething, but of course I couldn't help but feel she represented us all. And I don't think she did it rightly.

I felt I was corned into seeing the whole story as representative pieces by the text. I was forced to see representation by the constant discussion of theory very literally plotted over the play instead of things just happening and those in the audience who know theory making the connections or not. (Like most plays). But then I wondered...is it possible to be a woman these days and not have a strong understanding of that theory? Yes, of course, but not in middle class college-educated society. It's just not. Everything you do, there are the hanging skulls of Friedan or Butler above you, asking of you, "Are you doing it right?" 

TV for Women

1. It's very easy to be critical of women-created/based TV shows. I was very critical of Girls for a second because it was such a bad example of women I thought the show was trying to represent. But, then I took a step back and had to realize this was just a gang of gals like any other gang on TV, and why I was ACTUALLY upset was because I wasn't being represented. It's not Lena Dunham's job to represent me on TV. It's her job to tell an interesting and entertaining story.

2. It's TV corporations' job to include equal male and female voices so that those stories start to show more diversity and thus represent more of our world so viewers who identify can feel as though they belong and viewers who don't can feel as though they understand others better.

3. I like Mindy Kaling a lot a lot, and I love her show. It's fun and quirky, and her character is sort of an idiot. "It sets women back." But also, again, it's not that one show's fault there are not other "setting women forward" shows.

4. In a recent interview she mentioned how she didn't intend to name the lead character after her true first name, but the producers wanted it. I wonder why that is? Is it because part of the show's appeal is that people love Mindy Kaling and they wouldn't be interested unless they thought it was her they'd be watching?

5. I realized many women on TV have had to take on their own similar to themselves personalities. Whitney Cummings, Amy Poehler, Tina Fey, Dunham, Zoe De. This is true for men as well at times (Seinfeld, Mullaney, Raymond). BUT, there are also a LOT of other men who have nothing to do with their true selves: John Hamm, Bryan Cranston, Steve Carell, etc.

6. Mindy's show almost never passes the Bechdel test. Yes, the protag is a 30something avergae-built Indian woman (yay diversity) but the next main supporting characters are four white men. Mindy had a bestie at the beginning of the show, and she was written out extremely quickly. Now it's just her and dudes basically.

7. Bisque went on a business trip last week. He came home and I said, "But it was kind of nice to be apart for a couple days, right?" He said, "Uh, no!" And I was like, "Yeah, but I took up a ton of bed space and watched whatever I wanted on TV!" He thought and said, "That's every night for me." And it's true. I don't really watch TV, so he controls the remote for the evening and I grade papers half looking on at what the case is this episode of Criminal Minds.

8. Today I did my usual Daily Burn workout and watched The Mindy Project. When Bisque is home I don't watch that show because I don't think it would interest him.

9. Sometimes I have watched Sex and the City with him nearby, and he sort of chuckles at the stupid drama happening. He has a point. It can be stupid. And then I feel kind of ashamed to be watching trash. But SATC is the closest thing I have to female Sopranos! Sometimes it's really good in a way I don't think Bisque will ever really understand...but I'm still embarrassed.

10. So. Why is there such a lack of TV shows featuring women and womens' interests? I think we are all part of the problem.

The Writer He

For some stupid reason it has been very hard for me to find good persuasive essay examples to share with my classes. Most persuasive writing available in media and online doesn't follow the five-paragraph-essay formula believe it or not, and that's where my classes are right now. I pick some reading from the textbook, okay, but solid, legit, simple persuasive essays about, you know, why we should be allowed to burn the flag or not just aren't easy to find apparently. So, I decided to write a sample essay myself. I used the school's writing rubric to write an essay about the benefits of school uniforms.

I shared this example with my students, and we had a discussion about why the piece deserved a high score on the rubric. I felt weird saying I had written the essay because a. it's kind of weird/sad(?)  I spent an hour of my Sunday writing a five-paragraph essay and b. I didn't want our discussion of why the essay achieved rubric success to look like a veiled attempt at me making my class an ego-boost activity. I didn't mention anything about the author, and no one asked. So, during the discussion the author became "he." Everyone kept saying, "This guy used examples really well," etc. At first I would correct statements by saying, "Yes, he or she did use good examples, like the one about the cost of fashion." But eventually that was cumbersome, so without my even knowing it, I also just started calling myself "he."

And that is how patriarchy is a thing.

All Stories Are Valid Part Two: An Unfortunate Story

The new Murakami book Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimmage came out this week. I haven’t read it. Full disclosure.

I have already seen multiple people on the internet disgusted by this novel because the main character is a man who was falsely accused of rape by a crazy woman. While I obviously have major suspicion about any rape case involving a woman people dismiss on the vague and usually sexist grounds of “crazy,” it does happen. From time to time. It’s obviously the worst thing ever because even one instance of a false accusation is all anyone can remember every time someone is legitimately asking Help. Please.

Perhaps we don’t need more stories about evil-rape-fiction people. They permeate bigoted brains. Why add fuel to the fire? Well, maybe if it’s a good story. Or an important story to the author. Writers have responsibilities to their audience and culture as a whole, yeah, but they are still artists and get to do what they want.

Hey, I for one think it would be really really hard to be a man falsely accused of rape. Just because many men lie about a woman lying doesn’t leave the truthful ones in any less pain. Metaphorically, be wary. In considering what the world has already heard, use care.  ALL STORIES ARE VALID.

Binders of Tony Women

Obligatory blog post about the lack of female representation at the 2014 Tonys. I didn't watch The Tonys, mainly because I don't have TV and secondly because I didn't hear about literally anything that even piqued my interest on Broadway this year. So I just read the results the next morning. Of course the lack of women was obvious. Like, where the woman at? Especially playwrights. Especially because the Pulitzers were female playwright bonanza.

A positive outcome from the whole kerfuffel is how many people are cognizant of the inequality. Jason Robert Brown publicly dissed Broadway, the internet exploded etc. etc. But I'm just so tired of women being counted all the time. One one hand, apparently we have to keep doing it. Because there aren't women in things women need to be in. You know, little things like Congress and national artistic awards. But, like, EVERY TIME  thing of importance happens I feel like these really imporant (and rare) ladies are just numbers. (Only one woman in this category, only one previous winner in this category, this many seats in the House, and so on). So, like, yeah, since it;s ridiculous, we need to keep reminding people women are supes underrepresented. But on the other hand what kind of solution does that really inspire? Vote for for women based on the fact we're missing women? I'm annoyed there aren't many women on Broadway, but what can I do about that? Producers can certainly from now on feel they must at LEAST nominate a woman in each category every year, but then it's sort of a pity game instead of a talent game. Or at least it can feel that way.

What are the actual answers to these unfair numbers? I can't accept the answer is simply repeating the numbers over and over and pretending that's part of a solution or even the most useful data. Everyone laughed forever at Mitt Romney's "binder full of women" slip-up, but actually what he was even saying was highly idiotic. (Not trying to rip on Romney here, the most progressive people do this stuff.) Someone questioned his gender equality, so his first attempted answer is "All is good, a employ so many women." AKA Look at these numbers! I'm fulfilling the numbers!

I don't know how many college ads are based on the concept, "You're not a number here at Blerg Blagh University. You're a name/student/person/Chia Pet!" And yet, all of humanity cannot stop treating women as numbers alone. I am not a number!

Bossy

The term "bossy" has really exploded in feminist culture and writings lately. People be like, "That is an inappropriate term for women." (Mainly because, like "bitch," "bossy" is never applied to men since assertive male leaders are just called, like, "president.") Meanwhile, Nicki Minaj and Kelis are making it their own: I am bossy. I am a bitch. That's my right. Worship me. Donna on Parks & Rec compliments or degrades Leslie via Twitter by alternating hashtags of #BitchBoss and #BossBitch.

My jury is still out, but the debate resurfaced a memory I had long buried. It was the summer before 7th grade and my gang of gal pals had spent the day riding bikes and hanging out in various parks. We ended up at someone's house, and I thought it would be fun to do some project. I honestly don't remember what. Something with writing. Everyone was being sort of lazy and not listening--understandable because it was summer vacation. Anyway, the three girls eventually sort of left the room one by one and announced they weren't going to listen to me because I was being bossy.

How was I being bossy? I wanted to know. Tell me what was bossy. I was offering everyone creative equality. "You just were." But I just had an idea of something to do. We were all bored. So I literally found a dictionary, read the definition of bossy, and asked, "What in here? Give me facts."

I don't think they were necessarily wrong, but I know I didn't get an answer, and I'm pretty sure I biked home and spent the night alone. In my middle school gang (there were about eight of us, thick as greek yogurt) people always made fun of me for saying "Can you give me an example?" Like, "Alice, you're always so blah blah blah." To which I would reply, "Give me an example." I still do this, and, come to think of it, it has frustrated people my whole life. That could be "pushy" (one of the definitions of "bossy.") But I'm honestly not trying to be right. I'm not trying to be "bossy" (whether that is a fair assessment or not). I just want to know.

We All Talk About Girls

Sunday night Season Three of Girls premiered. Monday morning, despite it being my first day of school, I carved out half an hour in which to watch the first episode over my berries and walnuts.

Girls is important to me not just because I like it (I do), but because it is the great corral of my demographic: liberal women in their 20s. While Girls certainly does not reflect my demographic at large accurately (mainly racially and socio-economically), some aspects of Dunham's conception of my demographic transcend race/money/being fascinating in New York City. Every woman in her 20s not only connects with some aspect of Girls, every woman in her 20s connects with some aspect of Girls on a very deep, almost depressingly accurate level. So, Girls does speak to me truthfully. And, further, people might think it totally represents me. And as far as the dodos who think Girls is trying to completely encapsulate every single young woman in America, I want to know what people think is being allegedly said about "me."

More importantly, most importantly, we all talk about Girls. It is the show most of the women in my life have seen and have opinions about. When a new episode airs the internet goes 'nanners, sure, but in person all the ladies around are chattin' it up. Season Two was a let-down to many critics--especially males--because not much "happened." But don't you see? The fun of it is not the plot moving along. The fun of it is gabbing with girlfriends saying, "I liked that Marnie did that" and your pal saying, "I hated it. If I were her..." It's a conduit for conversations about femininity. It's a backbone. It's a shared source material.

A few years ago while my sister and I were jetting through Season Five of Sex and the City she told me that someone she knew lived in New York during SATC'S heyday. And that everyone was talking about it. Like, you could go to your hairdresser and discuss the ins and outs of Steve + Miranda. I remember being so jealous. I want an automatic TV book club! I want to talk about womanhood every week with friends and strangers! AND NOW MY DREAM IS REALIZED!

So, this makes me happy. Obvs. Then I realized it also makes me a wee bit sad because maybe the reason we all talk about Girls is because it's the one big feminist television oasis in a patriarchal Sahara. But, honestly, I'm going to chalk this one up as a win because shared culture is just the best, and there's time for gender diversity next year. Even when things aren't "right," there are silver linings, and it's important to be grateful for those. They may be gone when the tides turn.

Living with Eight Fifteen-Year-Old Girls

One girl walks around the cabin in undies that say "YOU'RE SO HOT RIGHT NOW." Who are those for? I ask. She shrugs. I hate you, Abercrombie. Another asks me earnestly, "What do you think about push-up bras?" while her cabinmate clips one together in the background. I have to appease and paddle through honesty: "Well. I don't own one. And, well, ideally we don't see our worth or beauty as measured by...that. But, if it makes you feel more attractive, then, that can bring confidence, and, so..."
The girl in the Wonder answers, "It doesn't make me feel attractive. It's just what boys want."

You know, I think a lot of people think we've mastered certain aspects of feminism, but then a child says something that breaks your heart, or your camper cries because she has too much acne, or another asks, "How can I feel like I am equal to boys when we've never had a president?"

Last night I crept into the cabin after the staff meeting to find all my kiddos huddled in the corner, one flashlight on, sweating out the hot night in sports bras and gym shorts. It had been Lights Out for a while. "Can we talk for just thirty more minutes?" they pleaded, and I said yes. They can go to war in three years, I think they can stay up past ten.

"We're talking about PMS," the mop-top one said. And we laughed about emotive yelling and sitting down all the time and one was like, "Yeah, and then whenever you tell a boy something he doesn't want to hear, he says it's your period!" And I did not laugh anymore. And we whispered in the dark, just over the wild Lake Michigan winds, about culture and shame and confidence and they were like, "Oh, really?!" And I was like, "Yes, really!" And being in high school is amazing! These kids remind me what enzymes are and know about Marie Antoinette but also Burma but ALSO misuse the word "ironic" and when you ask if they've seen Chicago they say, "That's the one with 'STELLA!' right?" And you shake your head and they say, "Oh, yeah, I just saw that on Modern Family." Their minds are so open and they're so eager and so confused and truly beautiful despite/because it all. I want so badly for them to see themselves how I do, and I wonder if this is how the women in my life have always viewed me. If it pains them when I accept the pain I think is my burden.

"Okay, now it's really time for bed," I say. They nod and hug. I hop up onto my bunk. Their flashlights click off. One by one. Waves crash from the beach below. "Innocence is never lost": my last thought. Before sleep pulls me into the undertow.

The Heat! (Some Spoilers, But, Like, Stuff You Coulda Guessed)

Welp. I loved The Heat.

Granted, I had an extremely generous mindset going into the theater--I wanted to love this movie. Oh, boy, did I want to love this movie. FIRST FEMALE BUDDY COPS, FEMALE SCREENWRITER, MIDDLE-AGE HEROINES, MELISSA MCCARTHY'S UNCONVENTIONAL BEAUTY! My gender equality dreamz exploding into unicorns.

Look, it's not GD American Beauty, but it's way way way better than, like, eighty percent of Will Ferrell's summer movies. I have way too much to think and say about this film, but this is my crummy blog, and I don't get paid for it, so I am just going to give some bullet points.

-It was just as exciting to see women run around with guns and narrowly dodging explosives as it would be watching men. Truth. Of course the amount of violence is problematic, but that's not what I'm focusing on right now.

-Witty, gritty women. Some of the banter and one-liners. #SupesSmartDialogue #SupesSmartDialogueInLadyMouths

-I was worried at first when the women were so horribly opposed, but I had to recognize that they were not just competitive women (cough, Bridesmaids), they were just two opposing protagonists. It's a buddy cop movie. That's how it goes.

-Perhaps women can be a little more emotional, but they don't have to be. The women become friends/learn from each other, but they maintain a playful hate/love relationship until the end. Like, women (especially women in the FBI maybe?) can be affectionate jerks.

-No sexualization besides minor comedic club dancing. More awkward than body-focused. In buddy cop comedies, we don't need to actually get into a dude's six-pack. Same goes got Sandra's bangin' bod.

-THAT said, the women talk about each other's appearances more than average cop duos might.  (Although, it does happen. Opening scene in 48 Hours.) But, let's be real...that's part of being a woman. That stuff matters more. It's natural, they would make it matter more in their conversation. It was never drippy. It was punchy and often entertaining.

-Men also commented a lot on their appearances/ages/hygiene. I think this may have been overblown. (The villain always commenting on the relative "hottness" of the pair.) But, possible (sad). It was done comedically like, "Oh, great! This silly guy not being attracted to Melissa LOL." In seriousness, I'm sure true male villains do use appearance as a wedge to make their female victims feel uncomfortable. But, that would be a different genre.

-Lack of romantic focus. Each woman had a little backstory (I'm wondering if to prove they weren't gay?) but not even a B plot worth. Not even a C plot worth.

-The supposedly touching friendship moment was actually touching for me. I wonder if it was just written well or if I could connect more as a lady. Is this what I have been missing out on bromance movies all this time!? Seriously felt slightly choked up. During The Heat.

-There was a big ol' lack of other women. One one hand, this was probably accurate. Female cops in high places? Meh? It helped show a subtle feminist message: woman against everyone else. But, I thought that may have been too strong. Of course Sandra wants a promotion that her male boss can't see she deserves. What if it had been a woman? Maybe, I'm reading too much into it.

-These humans were supremely unlikable at the outset and didn't get much better (although they grew on me). Perhaps showing some negative women blown up? I think no. I think that's just what comedy is. They were whole humans. That's the important thing. I mean, we can't complain about lack of women in film if we expect them all to be perfect. Perfect is boring.

-The plot skeleton was pretty intriguing. The cops are on the trail of a huge drug bust. Kinda one of the less important rings of investigation? (According to me, who, you know, doesn't know anything about the worst impacts of coke economy.) I guess it's comedy, so murders aren't the best bet. But, still...something about the women succeeding at a pyseduo-fruitless mission...Hm.

-For a female-centric movie, there were still a lot of dick jokes. But, part of standing up as a woman is making aiming some guns at guy crotches.

-No one ever made fun of Melissa's weight or even alluded to it. #SoFreakingHappy

-Mainly, SO COOL THAT THE WORD "MISOGYNY" IS JUST CHILLIN' IN A SUMMER BLOCKBUSTER!

Things are happening, and I feel really excited for the future.

Still Missing Muffy Very Much :(

First night of the trip. I was immensely sleepy.

A text exchange I screen-shotted for some reason at some point:

For besties, we have a surprisingly scarce texting relationship. Makes the ones we do send treasures.

And there's no one who knows and there's nowhere to go.

There's no one to see who can see to my soul.

Season Two of Girls (Spoilers)

This fall I was anti-Lena for two reasons:
1. The girl don't actually know what she's talking about. You can't write about being poor and cut-off in NY if YOUR PARENTS FUNDED A MOVIE POST-GRAD. But, I got over this. Because she's doing it well. So, like. I needed to get over that.
2. She's rocking best of both worlds. She's her character Hannah--totes love to hate and poster girl for single, awkward, fun 20s. But in real life, Lena is dating a dang rockstar. Again, cred is shot. What's with these females in TV and movies who are total messes who we can LOVE from our couches and laptops, but in real life are just as glamorous as the stars in People. They just have worse teeth or something, But, again, for me to mandate that Lena stay an unloved troll forever in order to please her fans? Not fair. I was particularly upset by the Donald Glover plot because I just kept thinking, "This is unfair. Donald Glover is way out of Hannah's league. This is not believable at all. You can't show a super-normal girl and ALSO have her nab all da hotties." But WOW, ALICE. That's on ME. Just because that's not "normal" now doesn't mean it can't be! And prolific artists need to be showing us  80% of what is and 20% of what SHOULD be.

-People keep wiggin' about Marnie + Charlie, but don't you see? He's never going to love her again. They are never ever ever. Getting back together. (For real at least).
-Hannah eatin' Cool Whip from the tub. It makes me feel solidarity yet jealousy that we both do this. (Lena Dunham is making a jajillion dollars from it.)
-I GD love Ray. Especially when he asks for a promotion to impress Shosh.
-Shosh was right on about him hating everything, and I can't wait for his transformation.
-Laughed out loud at Hannah's vmail to Jessa.
-"SHIRI OPERATE" was best part.
-Adam's new gf: it's unsettling and incredible that their scene made her normalcy absolutely putrid. I hope we see a little more of how she is warranted in her demands for respect.
-My heart was absolutely fluttering when Adam kicked down the door. Even though they're stupid together, sometimes impermanence is good for the time being. My editor tweeted yesterday, "For me the season finale of Girls was about making a bad decision, knowing it was a bad decision, but feeling good in that moment." And I so agree.
-So many people are so close to us, and, yet, the person who really tells you what's what is probably your ex-junkie neighbor.
-The credits rolled to fun. A nod to real life romance. I dig it. I do.

:( Girls and Mirrors :(

Last week in Methods of Teaching Theatre class we learned a good jumping-off point exercise for devising student work. Everyone in class stands in front of the mirror a few moments and fills in this sentence. "Some days when I look in the mirror I think _____________." Then, everyone goes on to freewrite a mini-monologue. You add movement. You arrange the various actors. Bada-bing, you have...something.

My class is eight women--grad and undergrad. Ages 20-40. In our monologues all eight of us talked about how old we felt when faced with ourselves.

Tear Count Arizona 2011-12

First semester, I only cried one time, and that was because my grandfather passed away. For a while it looked like I was going to stick with the one cryfest per semester average. I already spent my crying card in February when my sister visited. We got into an argument during Sunday brunch at one of my favorite restaurants of all places (Cornish Pasty whaddup), and suddenly...waterworks. It was a brief emotional explosion that, in hindsight, we realized was probably due to accidental dehydration and sleep deprivation. Boops.

I was almost home free! One final portfolio due today, final Theory presentation tomorrow, fatty stack of grading, but whatever! I was feelin' stressed, but not freaking out. And next thing I know, it's 7 AM, and my greasy pigtails are sopping up my mucus because I'm bawling outside the library. Why? Oh, I had trouble printing. I mean, it's more traumatic than that, but also not. Luckily I have Pookie, who I texted "Meltdown" to, and despite being in a meeting, she called me immediately. Talked me off the crazy ledge: "No one is going to steal your social security number." (Believe it or not, this was legitimately part of the printing kerfuffle.) I sobbed, "MY FINAL THEORY PRESENTATION IS TOMORROW AND I HAVEN'T STARTED."

She said, "Your Theory presentation on criticism of female characterization in theatre? I don't think it's fair to say you haven't started when, as far as I can tell, you've been preparing for this presentation your whole life?"

This made me laugh, and then I had to go to work, and I worked twelve hours with a smile on face.

Photoboothed myself right now. HELLO, BOYS!

So, yeah, I've cried three times since I moved to Arizona.

Also, since I'm spouting embarrassing truths: While I biked home tonight I listened to B*Witched.

Say you will, say you won't, say you'll do what I don't.
Say you're true, say to me--C'est la vie!

EDIT: Oh, yeah, I cried a lot during Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, but that doesn't really count.