I Am Woman, Hear Me Giggle With My Friends!

As time goes on, my quirky take on feminism will be revealed, and it will become clear that I follow an edict that is beautifully stated in one of my favorite books, If Women Ran the World, Sh*t Would Get Done by Shelly Ranchanow:  it isn't about "male-bashing" so much as "female-applauding."  And today has been a "female-applauding" type of day.

Media has always been speculative about female relationships, and it bothers me to no end when women cannot be depicted simply as friends.  They are either constantly stabbing each other in the back with a smile (The Women, anyone?) or some other underlying, sexual insinuation haunts their companionship.  And unfortunately, this sentiment isn't completely false.  There are plenty of girls out there that I would like to kick in the face with my Gianni Bini. 

But there are so many more that I am truly friends with and cherish the bond that I have with them in a completely non-sexual way.  Women understand each other; we know how you feel.  Remember that time you ate 7 gallons of ice cream and didn't know which was worse:  getting dumped by your boyfriend or hanging your head in the toilet while revisiting all the ice cream you just ingested?  Yea, we've been there.  Remember when you were in college, and you thought that making a statement was shaving a passage from Vagina Monologues in the back of your head?  Yea, we've all made bad hair choices.  Remember that time when you were feeling so lonely because no one in this world understood you?  So do we, and we were just as happy as you were when our best friend came over and listened to all the venting we had to do while just nodding and telling us she understood.


Today, I had the blessing of realizing the value of my girl friends.  During work, I was reminded of the bond my grandmother, Mary Rae, and I had while she was alive.  She was, and still is, one of my greatest role models.  I learned how to be a woman from her and my mother.  They taught me some of the most valuable lessons I know.  I was also asked by one of my co-worker's 13 year old daughter to help her find a style.  While I was flattered, I also saw it as an opportunity to connect with another female and impart some worldly advice on her that only another woman could share (I told her that while looking fine and enhancing our personalities should be a priority, that none of it matters if we don't have the brains to pull off that much sass.  Being intelligent will always be in style).  And tonight, I had a 3 hour coffee rendezvous with one of my closest friends, M.  M. is one of my favorite people because she is such a good listener and never tries to tell you what to do.  She only tries to understand.  She is also my music soul mate, but that is another blog for another day.  Over coffee, we talked about everything- from books to boys, hiking to hang ups.  And I can't tell you how many times the phrase "I know EXACTLY what you mean!" was excitedly punctuated with a fist slamming down on the wobbly, metal table crowded with lattes and purses.


The point is, I find power in numbers when it comes to feminism.  The more women that I connect with, the more confident and powerful I feel as a woman.  The women (old and young) that I encountered today not only made me aware of the importance of those kindred spirits, but it flat out made me proud to be a woman.  And as I close this tonight, with my 11 year old sister asleep beside me, I look at this tiny woman-to-be and pray that she will be as fortunate as I have been in my platonic, female relationships to realize how wonderful and powerful it is to be a woman.

Facebook wins again

Ok, so I usually try to ignore all of the little ads on the sidebar of Facebook whenever I log on, as I feel they are either A) begging to steal my credit card number or B) promoting that week's "hit" show featuring 4-6 teenagers well above the poverty line and well below the high school reading equivalency.  But there has been one that has caught my eye over and over because of their sly advertising of putting cute little dresses up that need a good home and someone to love and fawn over them.  What I am wondering is, before I spend my next month's rent on a few of these little beauties, are they of any quality?  Am I going to take them out of the package and have them disintegrate in my hands?  The website is Mod Retro, and they specialize in Indie and Vintage clothing.  If you have ever owned anything from this place, I would love to know about your experience. 

And just in case you were curious, here are some samples.  Look and them and TRY not to fall in love.  It's like trying not to tear up during a Sarah Mclachlan ASPCA ad. 

The Japanese Cherry Blossom dress is my fave... It reminds me of the famous picture of Edna St. Vincent Millay.

The Problem with Not Being Omnipresent

One question has been buzzing around inside my head like a fly that has is stuck in between the blinds and the window...How the heck do you find a job in a city that you don't yet live in? My original plan was to move up to Boston (which I have unhealthily began to fantasize as a land of wine, honey, and Gerard Butler look alikes) and find one as soon as I could. But the closer I have gotten to the moving date, the more paranoid I have become that I am going to get up there and be the next victim of unemployment. Does anyone have any suggestions? Has anyone made a big move like this and waitied until they got there to find a job?

PLUS, please excuse the sloppiness of the blog. I am currently trying to tidy it up and give it that, "New age flapper/sophisticated scholar look." I am also taking suggestions on that. :)

Secretarial Reflections

So I have just recently found another job to help me pay for my big move to Boston. Starting at 9 am, I go to work as a secretary at an insurance firm. I stay there until 3:30, where I promptly drive across town to work as a secretary at my church's gym. (Yes, we have a gym. Don't judge.) I am there until 9 pm. On busy days, it goes by fast, and I end up at home tired but satisfied that I have contributed to the "An Adult Child Living with Parents is a Mortifying Expeirence so Said Child Must Move as Far Away as Possible" fund. But today it has been extra slow, reminding me that I am not taking regular lunches to earn more money and that I'm not making that much money.

But today, I have also taken all my down time to do some thinking. And, let's admit it, when things get busy, we really don't have time to just simply think. And alot of the time, that's a good thing. A relief. But other times, it's nice to just hang out and ponder for a while. So I started thinking about my grandparents and how crazy their lives were. I'm currently trying to write a book about my grandmother, and I got to work a little on that. And then I found this picture that I took of my grandfather's hands this summer. And I just wanted to share it. It speaks for itself.


What do our bodies say about our lives? Looking in the reflective, quarter sphere camera staring down at me in the gym, mine says (slightly mussed hair with half drooped eye lids) I am tired from working hard for something I want very badly, (mostly long nails, with some that have been broken but yet to be filed) I am torn between my extremely feminine side and the tomboy that lives within, (my rather round hind end) that I am indeed one foxy lady at the end of the day.

So there are my reflections for the day. Seeing as it is only 6 pm, and it is raining (who really wants to go to the gym soggy?), methinks I may post again later. Only the unexercised masses can tell.

Plus, here is my mother's new kitchen that I am obsessed with!
Before


After

Gianni Bini be mine.

Plus, I love these shoes.

The Southern Peach goes to Beantown

So I have finally decided that yes. I am definitely moving to Boston, which is, as my favorite time-traveling movie crush Marty McFly would say, "heavy." For a Steel Magnolia such as myself, who has never lived more than two hours from my hometown in South Carolina, going up North is the equivalent to a mortal sin to some of my friends and family. But I was never one to stick to the rules all the time. And I have had the distinct pleasure of reading two great biographies that have fueled the rebel that lies within: Savage Beauty (Edna St. Vincent Millay) by Nancy Milford and Anita Loos by Gary Carey.

Edna St. Vincent Millay has been one of my favorite writers since I took a class in college called "Sophisticated Ladies." The tongue in cheek title of the class should have been a hint to me what an amazing class this would be, but at the time, I knew nothing about 1920's women writers. Millay was one of the first that we covered, and I fell in love with her the moment I read "First Fig."

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light.

How could you not like a lady who writes something so sexy and intelligent in a time when women were not supposed to be either. She helped bring both concepts in vogue in the late 1900's. She was always fighting some establishment in her life: loneliness, marriage, sexism, political stances, etc. She marched in for the lives of two prisoners in front of the Boston capital. She made a marriage work that no one thought would be possible. She wan the Pulitzer Prize, something no woman had accomplished before. She challenged some of the leading poets, including herself, on a regular basis. She was a genius who let drugs destroy her mind. But for many years, her light did give "a lovely light."

Anita Loos was not the genius the Millay was, but my goodness, she was just as sassy! She wrote one of my favorite books Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. She also wrote dozens of plays and movies (many things for Clark Gable, Douglas Fairbanks, The Talmadge Sisters, etc.) She was a cutthroat business woman and as witty as they come. Unfortunately, she was not as dominant in her personal life. There were several times I wanted to reach through the pages, and time, and shake Loos. "Leave the crummy mooch!" But every leading lady must have a fatal flaw, and like most of her heroines in the plays and movies she wrote, that flaw was the unexplainable love for a scoundrel. Which, coincidentally, has always been my problem.

I related to both of these women on different levels, but I think it's time to take another page out of their books. I need to do something daring. And I think that that something is waiting for me in Boston. The Sweet Tea Queen is coming to town!

The Conundrum of Change

Men will never change...and that is a scientific fact. Ok, maybe it's not, but anyone with good sense can see that it is undeniably true. Scared of committing themselves to anything more than their fear of commitment, they continue to prove to us over and over again that while we are looking for a good set of genes, what they are looking for is all in our jeans.

This being said, it is equally aggravating that us women also are incapable of change, yet so devoted to the concept (applied to others of course) that we let our hearts be broken over and over again. You know what's going to happen. We are all the idiot in the horror movie that walks toward the ominous noise. You're going to get cut, stupid. It almost makes me feel sorry for men; we keep expectingthem to be something that they have never been capable. Like throwing a cat off the side of the boat and expecting them to like it. Ultimate failure. Come on, ladies. When are we going to learn to just be content with dealing with the hand we are dealt.

Of course, there are exceptions to the rule, on both accounts. There are some women who are not led by their need for companionship, and there are some good men out there looking for something more. But at the moment, concerning the latter, I'm better off going through strange wardrobes in decrepit houses looking for Narnia.