(...Location Location, I know.)
This installment is so delayed because it's the one on which I have the fewest interesting thoughts. Mostly it's personal stuff, without much room for philosophical explication. But I'll try.
I thought I was eligible for a visa in London, but the laws changed and I'm very much not. The day I got this news (not quite 2 months ago), I was devastated. The day after I got this news, I was over it. I hadn't been happy there. No career momentum, very few real friendships, and a general feeling that the Brits were not my people--most of my thoughts on representations of race, gender, and sexuality were dismissed as "precious," a word I have come to absolutely LOATHE.* While I rarely felt that I was being discriminated against because of my gender (which sped my blogging decline), I felt that my gender was discriminated against by the culture at large, and that this was going completely ignored by a complacent population--even by the cool, educated, artsy, liberal people with whom I was surrounded. I was planning on mining this for blog posts, but the ideological and social isolation was too great, and the idea was depressing. I didn't have a lot of friends in London, and there weren't even a lot of people I WANTED to be friends with.**
Moving to London the first time, eight years ago, was the scariest thing I've ever done. When I said good-bye to my family and got through security, as I was putting my belt back on, suddenly I was paralyzed. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how I would physically get myself to the departure gate. It was a strange sensation. I finally decided that I would move my left foot, and after that I would move my right foot, and then I would move my left foot again, and that if I kept doing that, eventually I would find myself on the plane. It worked. Moving one foot after the other, no matter what your brain is telling you, is now what I think of as adventure.
Moving to London this time didn't feel like adventure. To be totally honest, it felt like cowardice. Part of me knew I was stalling, that I didn't know how to start my career here in New York, that I had no forward momentum, and sticking myself in a grad program felt safe. I wouldn't have to worry about it for a year--and LAMDA's admissions process didn't require me to direct in front of a panel, which to me was a terrifying prospect. And London! I loved London! Theatre was more relevant there, and more accessible, and being a New Yorker would make me different and new! But it didn't work out that way. I got a pretty good (not great) education while I was there, and it was worth it in so many ways, but I wasn't building as much career momentum as I'd thought.
And to be totally honest, the guy situation was disappointing. The first time I lived in London, it seemed that I'd suddenly found the city where guys found me attractive. Looking back, it probably helped that I was a spirited 20-year-old girl, with the caché of being American. Or maybe acting students are less exciting. Or maybe it's that, the first time around, I mostly knew American expats, who inherently have a thirst for adventure--my amazing flatmate Lacey had a knack for making friends wherever she went, including the blues bar we frequented (we would occasionally throw barbeques, which would involve lots of old blues musicians bringing their instruments over and jamming on our roof); I randomly ran into a college friend, in a club, and fell in with his squatter friends that HE'D met at a club; I briefly dated an actual Brit (a DJ and musician I met at a club, when my friend Michelle came to visit), and he and I are still friends. But for whatever reason, the seven months I lived there were really hard and really fun and really special, and it was, in many ways, when I became an adult. The year-and-change I spent there just now was productive, and has set up good things for the future, but was probably the least fun year-and-change I've ever had. Seriously. Even years that have had more misery at least had fun parts as well. Fun is important to me--I need it in order to work as hard as I want to work, and to function creatively. Things weren't working out.
And then I found out I had to leave, and suddenly things were working out. I met a young American producer/director/actor with whom, as she puts it, I "share a brain." We've agreed to work together this summer--and then she's probably moving back to New York. Perfect. Also, I'd been having some great talks with an up-and-coming director friend who was her own company, and she made clear that if I came back to New York she'd help me get something started. And as for the guy thing...it's funny, because it's what you always hear: as soon as you stop looking, something turns up. And I was specifically not looking for anyone in New York this whole past year. I wasn't looking for casual hook-ups, so they found me***. And I certainly wasn't looking for a relationship, in this town where I no longer lived...and slowly started to realize there'd been someone wonderful right under my nose. So when I got the bad news about my visa, it quickly started to look like good news. And I stopped wasting time.
So, in the end, this was an important year. It made me realize what I want, in a lot of different ways. Perhaps I needed to view my life from a distant shore. I suppose I even recommend it.
*Also, there is no iced coffee and the city itself is hard to get around.
**Then there were the people I liked who seemed really into me, but could not be corralled into getting together ever. It occurred to me only recently that most of the people I knew thought of me as a Director...and thus not entirely as a Person. The vice-principal of the school once told me that Directing students were sort of halfway between student and staff, and that might have effected people's ability to see me as Potential Friend. This didn't hurt my flatmate, of course, but she's a fit blonde Nordic lesbian who sometimes fucks guys. Hard to compete.
***More on this soon.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Birthday Reflection Series Part 2: Location
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Birthday Reflection Series: Age
[This started as one post, but it felt overly long and I found myself persistently not posting it, so I decided to break it into three easily digestible chunks. Enjoy!]
Two weeks ago, I turned 28. (Or, if you're in the theatre industry, 27 again.) That makes this a good time for looking back/taking stock for three reasons: age, location, and blogging. I'm in London currently, but in 4 days I'll be back in New York, permanent-style, and drastic moves (or even less-drastic moves) tend to inspire reflection. Also, my (slowish) return to blogging has had me combing through my own archives, rereading old posts and thinking about how I've changed since I wrote them. So, in case you're interested:
Age
Twenty-seven was my scary age. For whatever reason, it was the first time in my life I was unhappy about getting older. It wasn't entirely the age itself, but also the fear that I wouldn't be where I was supposed to be at that age. I set goals: by my 27th birthday, I had to have STARTED something--the options being grad school, a career, or a serious relationship. Those things, to me, indicated progress, growth. As the big day reared, things were looking good: I was in grad school, in my chosen career field, and I had just started dating someone whom I (erroneously) believed had LTR potential. When I woke up on my birthday I was a little depressed for a few hours, but then it passed and I had a lovely week of festivities*.
Twenty-eight brought no such fears, either in theory or as it approached. There are various possibilities as to why: my 27th year was a lot better and more engaging than the last few months of my 26th, one or two people in the theatre industry had told me that I was at a good place in my career trajectory, when people tried to guess my age they guessed 25 anyway, and when the day came around there'd been some lovely recent developments in my personal life. But most likely, the Fear of 27 was the aberration, brought on by life uncertainty that I then got over a bit. And I have progressed, or potentially progressed, in a few important ways, so that's always nice.
My psychopharmacologist once told me that she wished she could put everyone to sleep at age 18 and wake them up again when they turned 30--because the 20s suck. Someone else once said that your 20s are about figuring out what you want, and your 30s are about figuring out how to get it. Which makes one's 30s sound a little less like a cake walk, but still--I have figured out a lot of what I want, and, as a result, good things are starting to happen in both my personal and professional lives. It's shaping up to be a very interesting year.
*My birthday celebrations typically involve at least 3 events. My 27th included: cake with extended family in Virginia, dinner at a nice restaurant with my dad and sister (my mom had something important), cake with them plus mom, Official Fun Bar Party with all my friends, and a small dinner party with my oldest friends and the out-of-towners who couldn't make the bar party. This year involved bar party, fancy family dinner outing, drunken Mexican food hijinks with my housemates from Junior year (aka the awesomest year), and being taken to my first British panto by my flatmate over here.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Technical Difficulties
...with my life rather than with this blog.
I learned on Monday that I am in fact NOT eligible for a post-study work visa, or indeed any visa at all. Medium-length boring annoying story. Anyway, I have to return to the States post-haste. The return is a good thing; the required haste is kind of traumatic.
So, I haven't forgotten you, dear readers, and in the next few days I will post again. I have two or three posts half-formed in my head, but writing them will need time and brain cells I cannot at the moment spare.
In other news: Happy Hanukkah!*
*Normally I prefer a C-h beginning, but for this phrasing I like it when the Hs match. If that's something you'd like to ponder further:
Friday, December 4, 2009
Why It's Been So Long
A year is a long time to be silent. Essentially, I told you all I was going out for a pack of cigarettes, and never came back*. So...why?
The reasons I left off blogging have a lot to do with the reasons I started in the first place. So let's deal with that:
When I moved back to New York there was a bit of a culture shock when I realized that, outside the bubbles of small liberal arts colleges and tight-knit regional theatre communities, not every nice, smart person had the exact same outlook on feminism and gender roles as I. Yeah, you heard me right: that came as a shock. To me it had always been Dumb Sexists versus Smart Feminists, end of story. But, we grow up. We discover that color called grey, we learn that the word "spectrum" applies to more things than rainbows and sexual identity. This blog was a good way to explain and exemplify my principles to the new people in my life, and to express my various frustrations with the world. I had also become sexually active again after a two-year period of abstinence**, which really brought sex into focus for me, making it an important part of my life and, I found, a rich field for exploration and analysis. And my friends seemed to like reading about all that, so, bully for me.
Oh, and also there was this little election going on, during which the subject of gender arose once or twice. You probably wouldn't remember.
Then I moved to London. To a drama grad school. I knew exclusively artists, who do not, for example, give a fuck how many people I sleep with. There were more women on my program than men (though at 3-to-2 it wasn't what you'd call statistically significant). The election was over, my friends and readers were far away, and for various reasons I didn't feel like writing about sex anymore***. I was very busy, and not feeling particularly oppressed. And things petered out.
So why now? Excellent question class. The reasons are, as I said, not entirely different this time around. As I've gotten to know the people around me a bit better, I've repeatedly been shocked by the clashes in worldview--perhaps even more so than before. I'll get into this more in further posts, but the main thing is that I myself am having to think about these things from new angles, because some of my basic assumptions aren't shared. All of which is starting to sound a bit histrionic--I'm in ENGLAND after all, not the uncharted Amazon Rainforest. But perhaps that's whence the shock.
So, here I am, once again trying to work out how I feel about the world, about myself, about the constant negotiations between the two. Please enjoy.
*Particularly deceitful as I don't smoke.
**The first half intentional, the second half not so much. I think I just got rusty after a year off.
***Fodder for another post.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Getting To The Root Of Things
Jezebel's awesome Dodai just wrote an interesting post on her dislike of mirrors--or, more specifically, her discomfort in being confronted with her full reflection. This instantly reminded me of the brief period of time when my hair was pink:
(Strangely, not a well-photodocumented part of my life.)I dyed my hair pink in the winter, just as I was turning 23, during a time when I was SEVERELY depressed--like, Panicked-mother-screaming-at-my-pharmacologist depressed. I don't know if this was rationally, consciously my reasoning at the time, but I needed a pick-me-up. I think I was remembering a Times Magazine "Lives" piece from many years ago (which I have not been able to find) about a young Asian woman who dyed her hair pink and discovered the joyful effect it had on people around her. It made people smile. And I remember the time I first noticed my own cotton candy tresses having this effect--on myself.
Sometime before or after an appointment with my therapist, I went to DSW to look for cheap-ass shoes (another form of anti-depressant). I was unshowered, unkempt, my hair in a messy ponytail and some old show shirt on my slumped torso. I glanced up and accidentally saw my reflection in the mirror. And I smiled. It was the first time, perhaps since childhood, that I felt attractive. Attractive unto myself--not just, oh I look good today because of my hairstyle, because this top is flattering, because of my make-up, because I'm having a good face day, but actually like it didn't matter what I did in the morning, or what I wore, or any of that. I felt like if I were messy and poorly dressed, as I was that day, I looked like an attractive person who hadn't showered rather than an ugly hopeless wreck. It was an amazing feeling of relief.
Which doesn't necessarily make SENSE, because what had changed was, after all, a question of what I'd done to my hair. But I felt like me. No matter how I looked, I was getting across something about myself that I wanted to get across. And I kind of miss it. But the months passed, and as time came to redye, so came time to interview for post-grad jobs, so I went back to the red. Besides, towards the end (as my depression began to be manageable) I did start to feel a little silly. Part of what I'd been combating, with pigment, was how fucking SERIOUS everything felt all the time. But at heart I guess I'm a serious person. Pink was an important place for me to visit, but I couldn't live there.
And life goes on. The last time I saw my reflection and felt truly, inherently beautiful was when I was on Ecstasy, but the mirror and I still have our friendly moments. And I still have fun playing the frosted cupcake now and then--pink has won itself a cherished place in my wardrobe and in my heart. Because part of the fun was, for once, letting myself be a girl. Not acting so tough. I think, looking back, that was important to helping myself heal--embracing both my toughness and my softness. And now of course we're getting into tricky territory because if pink=girl and pink=soft, does girl=soft? I think what I was telling myself was: no. Look. You are a girl, and you are not soft. And You are a human, and you are very soft. So cut yourself some fucking slack. If you don't let yourself be soft, you will break.
So, that's my anecdote. I just wish I had more pictures.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Hold Your Tongue
Okay...has anyone else ever had the urge to apologize for a mediocre blow job?
I know that is the stupidest thing. I'm not even talking about accidental biting or something like that (because then a simple apology is just polite). But when my fellatio is not up to my own standards, I am filled with a heartfelt desire to apologize for wasting the dude's time, and to assure him that I'm usually better than that. Even if he knows I usually do better!
Of course I cannot actually say anything. In general, I am a fan of not apologizing in bed. (Unless, as with above, it's just a courteous "Sorry!" for accidental collision or the like.) For the most part we shouldn't have to apologize for not having orgasms or not being in the mood or wanting to do some things but not others, what have you. It doesn't help, it perpetuates feelings of inadequacy, and often makes your partner feel bad, as though its hir fault for not showing enough enjoyment. So why this remorse over the occasional awkward sex act?
The last time I felt this way, it was with an acute feeling that I was squandering a magnificent erection. I felt like Bush, taking a huge surplus and turning it into a huge deficit. But, dude, shit happens. Move on!
The Third Wheel Gets The Grease. Or Should.
After listening to a bunch of Savage Love podcasts, and watching The Secret Diary of a Call Girl and old episodes of SatC, and now checking around on the internet, I am newly irked by something: Almost anything you see/read about threesomes focuses on the effect it has on the couple...and completely ignores the third person. Askmen focuses largely on how to reassure your "girlfriend or wife," and insultingly advises you to kick the other girl out afterwards. Cosmo terms even offering your man a threesome "a bonehead move,*" and treats the hypothetical Other like a potential homewrecker. Lame and a half.
I've had two threesomes, the first of which I often don't count because it was in many ways a Bad Scene (plus it was just a drunken one-off) and the second of which rates as one of the best sexual experiences of my life**. A threesome has the power to be really life-affirming or really destructive for a single person, and not enough people talk about that.*** And yeah, I understand that there are a lot of issues a threesome could bring up with a couple, but these arrangements can be just as tricky for the non-becoupled one. Attachments can form, complications can arise, and one might wind up feeling used, feeling in the way, or just plain feeling left out.
I never really thought about this until I engaged in a threesome of my own, but one of the things that annoys me the most is that, apparently, some couples want there to be a No Kissing rule****. Why would the person agree to this??? Do you have NO concept that you owe your partner pleasure, as you do any sexual partner, and that ze's not there solely for your own entertainment??? It's important to respect a couple's boundaries, but it's just as important for a couple to make their single friend feel like ze's part of the team. If you can't handle that, you should take Dan Savage's advice, which is to hire a professional.
Dan, of course, answers the questions he gets, and he has in fact addressed questions posed by a threesome "guest star" (as Samantha Jones calls it). And most often he is rolling his eyes at a couple who thinks they're going to walk into a bar and find a hot bi girl who will come home, do exactly what they want and nothing more, and then disappear afterwards. Dan points out that there are plenty of women like this, and they are called prostitutes--if you don't want any strings on your threesome, look one up.
I have found one essay from the point of view of the non-girlfriend, a young woman named Caitlin McRae who finds herself drawn to couples as a general rule. The best part is where she contrasts the "part of the team" couples with the "probably need a hooker" variety:
These aren't invitations to sexual exploration. They're requests for a favor, wherein I'll be a means to an end, a one-time antidote to this particular couple's sexual ennui: I push from the bumper while they pop the clutch. This doesn't do much for my self-esteem, as you can imagine.
So to all you couples out there, remember there are different kinds of threesomes. Figure out which you want. And if you can't afford a good call girl, don't take it out on your friends.
On a side note, Maxim UK offers the worst piece of sex advice I've ever heard: "DON'T, whatever you do, at any point, laugh." I know it's Maxim but, seriously?!?!?! In any sexual situation, however many people it involves, sense of humor is a MUST--the best partnerships I've had are the ones that involved laughing in bed. It's extra important in a multiple partner situation, where there's more room for fumbling and awkwardness and injury.
And I mean, c'mon. It's funny.
*Which it could literally be; three people moving around in one bed can easily result in head-to-bone collisions. Not that Cosmo would know that.
**Interestingly, the first was not with a couple, though one of the dudes had a girlfriend in another state. (Yeah. Bad Scene.) The other dude was basically gay. Totally hot, followed by months of fallout. Definitely in the category of "Glad I made that mistake already so I never have to make it again."
***I will point out that the "bad threesome" was when I was younger and less mature, someone insecure about both my appearance and my virginity. It's totally possible that I couldn't have handled my "good threesome" back then--even as an adult, it's required lots of communication and reassurance. Seriously: people pay a lot of lip service to communication, but it's amazing how helpful it is, even if it seems hard sometimes.
****No one's ever tried this with me, for the record. That's what makes me so incredulous that some people do.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Conquistadoras
I am writing to you from London this week, and in my downtime at the hostel I occasionally get to reminiscing about the time I lived here for a bit. Specifically, my sexual exploits. Oh sure, there were other fun things involving theatre and grizzled blues musicians and friendly squatter junkies taking me in, but mostly, dear readers, I expect you want to hear about the sex. We're kindred spirits that way.
I always remember this show I saw freshman or sophomore year at college. It was a student-written documentary performance piece--yknow, like The Vagina Monologues, based on actual personal stories people had told the writer--and it was called Conquistadoras. The subject matter? Young American women traveling abroad and having lots of sex.
I then remember, when in London, flipping through a humor book at a store--the subject was how to pick up people of various nationalities, with tips on both men and women. In the section on how to pick up American women, all it said was, "Don't worry. They'll pick you up." So that is the reputation we have over here. And it's not undeserved, I think--as they play posited, being a broad abroad* is very liberating. It gives us a sense of sexual freedom to find ourselves without context, without consequence. Perhaps we're even deindividuated a bit--freed from our own identities.
So, my story? I lost my virginity just before the end of sophomore year of college**, and just before junior year started, I changed my mind about school and ran off to London on a temporary work visa. So there I was, having had sex like three times in my life, and suddenly I exploded. I was there less than two weeks when I had my first encounter--a Kiwi I picked up at a dance party at my friend's hostel. Then there was the Canadian who was visiting my friends, the drummer from Rome who played at the bar we frequented, two different Brits (both club pick-ups, the latter of whom I actually dated) and a surprise American***.
So, 6 guys in 7 months. A personal best not to be challenged for another 5 years. When I went back to school, college boys proved very disappointing--in that they did not seem that willing to be picked up. Maybe it was American standards of beauty (Brits don't seem to mind curves), or maybe being an American Girl gave me the sexy caché that book implied...or maybe my anonymity, my untethered floating in the sea of Europe, made me more vibrant, more active, less afraid of rejection. I certainly struck out plenty of times--and I do better in New York than I did in college, as well.**** So I suppose I'm just better at scoring--fucking, loving, the lot--when there are no boxes to break out of. Perhaps I internalize others' pre-conceived notions of me, and can only truly feel attractive when people don't have them, when people don't immediately know the basics of who I am and what my story is. Because in situations where identity is preestablished, the risk of rejection is higher, and so are the stakes--it is that very preestablished identity that is rejected.
Or maybe America just needs to let us fuck already.
Heh.
**And, like two weeks later, lost my girl-virginity as well.
***I say surprise because we were making out before we actually heard each others' accents.
****Even with people who WENT to my college.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Final Thought (Plus Tangent)
Here is why my fuck buddy will always have a place in my heart: I am afraid to tell him how many people I've slept with because he might find the number disappointingly low.
This is now near-inexplicably reminding me of something that happened in 10th grade. I had an ideological antagonist in high school, a self-styled conservative, and we took great joy in provoking each other. One day, while in rehearsal together for a play, I said in front of the other actors, "It's hilarious that [Redacted] thinks I'm the Queen of Sin." While another actor who knew me better, and was somewhat sinful himself, laughed at the very idea, my antagonist said, almost under his breath, "Well when you've slept with half the guys in Manhattan..."My jaw actually dropped, and I exclaimed, "[Redacted]! I'm a virgin!" It was an unusual moment in that I wasn't specifically proud of my virginity (though not ashamed), and it was nice and refreshing to have it be a point of power. And it wasn't that being a virgin was inherently good, like it made me virtuous, it just made the point that you can't assume things about a person's behavior based on their beliefs and, okay, in-your-face attitude*.
Ok, back to the fuck buddy. It's awesome to know a guy, even if I only "know" him every few months, has active respect for a girl who's, well, active. No guy has asked me my number since I was 21, and it was conveniently 3 lower than his own number, so there was no drama. But it was in fact a nice intimate moment for us, asking that question, and I'd hate to think that the answer might one day be a source of contention rather than closeness. So, in summation, there should be more guys out there like my fuck buddy. Which is sort of how I end my "Dudes I Like" posts, so perhaps we should unofficially categorize him there, as well.
*Also I was pretty flattered that he thought me capable of fucking half the guys in Manhattan at the tender, chubby age of 15. Still working on it, [Redacted]!
Monday, January 28, 2008
Things I Did This Weekend
-Acted like a total crazy person and committed several elementary blogging faux pas, the evidence of which has been expurgated.
-Cried about being a crazy person. (Three times.)
-Apologized for same. (I hope sufficiently.)
-Flirted.
-Got laid! My good ol' deflowerer called me up and we had a lovely time. Dearest Sojourner is totally right about the importance of a "winter spoon"--I'd forgotten how great it is to have a warm naked man in your bed on an icy cold day!
-As a result, at least partially got over the need to make a conquest of the famed Guy I Shouldn't Fuck. I needed at any cost to get laid, or at least make out, even if I knew it was a bad idea.* But now I've had my Sex That Goes Nowhere, so I'm a little less driven to distraction. And Nowhere Man is out of sight/mind--at this point, if Nowhere Man were someone I had to see all the time, I'd probably get depressed. It sucks always being back at Square One.
-That being said, I have no will power (see: me being a crazy person). So we'll see what happens.
-Fell on first sight for yet another skinny guy in glasses, this one theatre-affiliated. We smiled at each other! Baby photos to come.
-Tried to explain to a friend why I cared if anyone thought I was a slut. Did a bad job.
-Had a totally good time at a party I was angsty about.
-Fell in love with a specific bagel, but that's really not so interesting.
Now, hopefully, I can start posting anything of substance.
*As I told Sojourner: "My two main orifices are screaming for me to step on the gas; it's just the rest of me that's whining about the speed limit."
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Drunken Blogging
Well, not actually. In fact, I wish. Tonight was beyond a let-down. I went to the Usual Bar with, literally, condoms in my back pocket. I WAS PREPARED FOR BATHROOM SEX. I was expecting to see Guy I Shouldn't Fuck--there was a small event, supposedly--but he didn't show. He'd Facebook RSVPed for chrissake! Is nothing sacred??? I hadn't decided it was full-on Sexy Time, but I was cruising for at least some covert smooches, and I'd made the bed and done some "personal grooming" just in case. All for naught. Not only was GISF not in attendance, my usual go-to barflies had been there 'till 4 a.m. the night before and were understandably not answering their phones, and everyone else in the area was either working or in bed*.
So I'm nursing my Newcastle, when the cute AWOL dude's onerous roommate walks in. Of course. The last time we were both in the bar together, my roommate attested that he was totally making eyes at me the whole time, which means he is a ridiculous social retard with whom I want nothing to do. So, obviously, he sits down next to me and we chat. I'm half-hoping he'll make a move so I can be mean to him, but if he had his act together enough to make a move we wouldn't even be in this situation, so no luck there**. I take two sips of my second drink and go home to watch my cat have an awesome fucking time with a piece of wire and some cardboard. I wish I were so easily satisfied.
I'm sure there is some lesson or moral here. Actually, I'm not sure of that at all, but I feel guilty writing about myself without having a larger point. Perhaps it is that some people just don't know how to behave themselves, and one is better off without them. Perhaps it is that one should only get pedicures for one's own enrichment, and not in anticipation of a non-guaranteed hook-up. (Fortunately, a pedicure is pretty much ALWAYS self-enriching.) Perhaps it is that one should never restrict one's dating pool, and I need to find a new bar.
Or perhaps I should just try fuckin JDate. Oh woe.
*At 10 P.M.! That is an outrageous hour for both of those activities.
**To be fair, I was making a conscious effort NOT to touch my hair or send any other IOIs, and mostly had my hand over my mouth, which I'd heard on the radio once was body language for "Do Not Enter."
Monday, January 14, 2008
But More Importantly, Let's Talk About Me
Enough of this politics crap, am I right? You all want to know what's going down with Susan B. So, a recap:
-I'm leaving my job at the end of the month. Which totally means I should finally ask out my workplace crush, and I totally won't.
-Goddamn he is dreamy. His smile is Obama-calibre, but with the addition of crinkly, twinkly eyes.
-Due to the anxiety caused by quitting my job, I've been smoking pot every night just to fall asleep. Which basically works, though I am kept up an extra hour by the fact that the pot makes me really horny, and I am visited by visions of the non-sugarplum variety. Last night it was S&M fantasies of surprising ferocity.
-Karaoke birthday party was this weekend. My dad got adorably trashed, took the mic, and sang along with every song. Even ones he didn't know. Even "Let Me Blow Ya Mind." I've discovered my new jam, and it is "Special" from Avenue Q.
-I'm mentally preparing myself for a party two weeks from now at which way too many Guys I've Slept With will probably be present. I attempted to secure a female beard*, to no avail. So instead I'm going to re-wear my birthday party dress, which should honestly do the trick in terms of not feeling like a self-conscious tool.
-My longish-distance friend and I have vowed that we will not see each other again until we once again look as skinny as we do in my Facebook profile photo. I have yet to formulate any strategies for achieving this goal, but Time Out New York recommends chasing pigeons.
-Having been blown off by that guy I made out with has for some reason awoken the old urge to have sex with someone random in some bathroom somewhere. And the night I started having these thoughts, the Guy I Flirt With But Should Totally Not Hook Up With made a joke about us having sex in the bathroom, so I'm seriously in trouble. Also, he is the first guy's roommate.
-It occurs to me that the reason the encounter has triggered these thoughts is that this guy was supposed to be a fix-up and total Boyfriend Material, and since that was a flop I'm kind of going, "Screw you, guys who are Boyfriend Material! This scene is lame-and-a-half! I'm out of here!" And the roommate, I'm told, doesn't date Jews, which is maybe what makes him appealing because I know upfront how things would go**.
-Also, after a disturbingly long time not doing so, I've started masturbating again, and I realized I haven't posted much on masturbation so I should probably get on that.
-This guy I hooked up with forever ago, and hate for various reasons (I NEVER hate guys for simply not wanting to date me, but there were some serious Circumstances here) found out that I hate him, and now doesn't want to be around me, and at first I felt really bad and pathetic about this but then I learned more about how he discovered I hated him and I felt better because it was sort of exactly how I hoped it would happen. I am SO not used to these long-term vindictive feelings but I guess it happens to plenty of people at some point.
That's all for now.
*Cuz a male beard would just be pathetic!
**Not to imply that I could actually get this guy's pants off. Let's not jinx things.
Monday, January 7, 2008
All Years' Resolutions
Looking at Nerve's "Scanner Emily's Top 10 Lessons Learned in 2007," one thing jumped out:
4. If you suspect a guy is blowing you off, he is. No matter what your friends say.
This is SOOOO not news but I feel it bears constant repetition. I think my friends and I have learned this lesson to the point that we don't actually try to convince our friends they're not being blown off, but I know I still have that little pipsqueak voice in the back of my head that tries to make excuses. One has to constantly remind oneself that if a guy likes you, he will try to keep you from screwing other guys by at least calling you now and then.
Neighbor Steve was in fact helpful on this front recently, when an attempted set-up by a well-meaning friend resulted in me totally hitting it off with* this guy and then he never called. A few days later (Monday--->Saturday), Neighbor Steve and I, being just about the only ones not out of town for Christmas, went to our local bar for a drink, where there were 3 other people (bartender included). Then, of course, Monday Dude walks in. Awkward wave. That's it.
So, Neighbor Steve and I do the requisite check-in. Did he think Steve and I were on a date? Nah, we were SO not acting datey, which he would've seen had he been looking for signals, and more importantly, if he'd been interested he would've called by then. Did he get an extension due to the holiday weekend? Steve thought a minute and determined that, had he been interested, he should at least have texted me an "R u in town this wk?" Was it because I'm Jewish and he's all Church-Going Master's in Theology? Apparently he has a long history of choosing the Chosen. So, no more excuses: he blew me off. Tant pis. Neighbor Steve was quite indignant on my behalf, which is all a girl can ask.
I will stop here, since I am trying to NOT just go on and on about my life but to actually have a POINT, which is this: we often need reminders of things that we know we should know, but we're only human so sometimes we allow ourselves to forget. The end.
*Fine, "making out with."
Susan B.'s Words To Live By: An Ode to Fucking
A bit of a preamble on this one.
Trite though it may seem, Susan B. has a fuck buddy. Or perhaps a booty caller--once or twice a year we get together and have awesome sex*, and then we don't see each other for at least six months. The interesting thing about this guy (I mean, there's more than one, he's an interesting guy, you know what I mean never mind) is that he was my aforementioned first. He did not know this fact until afterwards, and was surprised by it, and the next time he saw me seemed a tad guilty, like he thought he should've called, and I was all "whatever dude" and we did it again.
Though I feel weird posting too much detail (I actually had written more on the subject but changed my mind), suffice it to say that this guy was not any kind of boyfriend, and I sort of took the initiative, though really he made the first move. (Something for which I am eternally grateful.) I left feeling extremely empowered, like I'd thrown off the tyranny of "Someone Special." As though, with his assistance, I'd taken my own virginity.
During our last rendez-vous, about a month ago, he brought up for the first time the whole I-deflowered-you thing. After making it clear that he thought that was awesome, he said something like, "You've probably fucked tons of guys by now." I froze up a little, and he quickly said, "Or not..." And I realized that he'd meant it as a compliment. He thought I'd frozen up because maybe it was untrue and I felt lame or something. I remembered that before I'd even (seriously) entertained the idea of hooking up with him, I'd heard that he, well, got around. To him, a well-notched headboard was a thing of beauty.
And that's when I developed these words of wisdom:
"Some people were born to fuck."
If you'll pardon my language.
This is a slight plagiarism from Love In the Time of Cholera--I think the quote is something like, "Some people fuck and some people don't," but that implies a certain superiority that I do not mean. Plenty of people fuck. I did not invent fucking. But some of us have a different attitude. It probably doesn't even require a high number--you can be Born To Fuck and still like serious relationships. In High Fidelity (the movie, anyway), Lisa Bonet describes fucking as an inherent right. For some people, sex can be a genuinely beautiful thing even if you don't have strong feelings for the other person. Fucking can be beautiful. Fucking can be fulfilling**.
"Fulfilling" is an important word, because I've heard it used by two not-so-into-casual-sex people I know. As in, "How can that be fulfilling?" At the time(s), the question didn't actually make sense to me. Fulfilling of what? And why did it have to be fulfilling? Does everything you do on a Saturday night have to satisfy a spiritual need? But having really thought about it, it really does. Satisfy a spiritual need, I mean. When I moved to London for a year, I called it "running away from home," but my mom called it my Walkabout. And I decided that I had, in fact, found my spirit animal***. Sex was my spirit animal.
What the hell does that mean? Well, probably you either get it right away or you don't. Maybe you get it even if you don't feel that way, I genuinely don't know. There was a recent study suggesting that promiscuous people are either extremely emotionally cold or emotionally warm towards their partners. I guess I fall into the latter category. Unless something went actively wrong, I tend to think of my past partners with great affection, even when I didn't know that much about them****. It is especially wonderful, I realize looking back, when two BTF people cross paths. Maybe that's what made my first time feel so special. It was a meeting of the minds. And other things, obviously, but the important part: maybe we were, in some way, kindred spirits.
I don't know if this idea has any "ramifications." I'm sure, for example, that there are happy pairings across types. One thing I learned from growing up in Greenwich Village: not everyone is the same. Nor should they be. So, however many digits your number is, and however thick your black book, good luck and God bless. May you always be fulfilled.
*The kind that often requires a few days' recovery and a lot of cranberry juice.
**And not just literally.
***Culturally mixed metaphor, but bear with me.
****For example: their last names.
Monday, December 10, 2007
She Brings Home The Bacon, He Fries It In A Pan
Please excuse my long absence guys--I've had tonsillitis! Yes, I am almost 26 years old and have tonsillitis for the first time. I got to hear my doctor use words like "necrotic" and "foul-smelling" in reference to things in the back of my throat. Fun! Anyway.
This week's advice-themed Time Out New York has a mini-article on how our parents' relationship teaches us what we know about love. (Sounds obvious, but whatever, it's like half a page.) My first reaction to this, as always was, "What did my parents teach me about marriage? That sex is what keeps it together." They didn't teach me this by example (I don't even know what that would entail, but it sounds pretty scarring), they taught me this by saying it, repeatedly, over the course of my life. I think it makes total sense--if you're gonna fight about things like finances and in-laws, there's gotta be some incentive to patch things up in a timely manner.
But then I remembered a conversation I had with my mom semi-recently, when I told her about my "going dutch" post. Since shortly after September 11th, when law firm he worked for closed its doors, my dad's been self-employed and working from home. This has had an unimaginably positive impact on my dad*, but also on my parents' marriage. The big thing was that he took over the cooking almost entirely. My mom had done the bulk for about 20 years, but it turns out my dad not only loves to cook, he's awesome at it. He's a real gourmet, he loves ingredients, he loves shopping for quality food.
All this I knew. What my mom pointed out to me, which I hadn't realized before, is that my dad is actually in semi-retirement. He'll take on a case, and it might take a year or two, and if he wins that winds up being about15% of my mom's salary. My mom, you see, is for the first time in her life, "making what [she] would make if [she] were a man." Apparently, they sometimes joke that he's her househusband.
I am not conflicted about this. My dad is 65 years old and worked hard all his life. This semi-retirement wasn't quite planned, it just worked out well. I'm not sure my mom would be happy that way--she isn't, either. (She envisions herself someday dropping dead in the middle of a conference call.) I'm tempted to muse over, "Is that what it takes for a happy marriage?" But I know better. They were happy beforehand, just more stressed--it's not secret that, for the bulk of our lives, we work hard and are under a lot of strain, and then if we're lucky we get to enjoy our latter years in relative relaxation. But I do wonder about the model my parents have set. I always assumed-slash-hoped I would end up much like my mom...which presented a problem because I, like her, loathe cooking. It's no coincidence that, before my family went on a health kick in 2001, we ordered in or ate out 2-3 times a week. Now when they order in it's because my mom worked late. So the question is, will I be able to find a husband** who will cook for me?
And that, my friends, is the real American Dream.
*He got a dog!
**[cough]at all[cough]
Monday, November 26, 2007
So True Who Cares If It's Original
Jezebel just posted on "the streak"--dry spells followed by sex sprees. This has been the story of the last three years of my life. I was celibate for almost TWO YEARS (the first year by choice, the second one less so). And then came the infamous "Party Night Trifecta"--a hook-up Saturday, Friday, and Saturday again, three different guys* in three 'consecutive' nights. And of course, the rain began to pour--old F Friends suddenly called, cute strangers appeared in bars, Irish rock climbing instructors knocked on my hotel door at 2 am**. More than 1/3 of my 'number' can be attributed to the last 7 months--which is not the most flagrant streak ever, but is for sure statistically significant.
This had no cause that I can figure out: this was a full seven months after moving back to NYC, three after Roommate Katey proclaimed 2007 the "Year of Susan B.***", I think before I got that gym membership (or at least at the very beginning), and not proximate to any change in medications, therapy, government regime, or the relationship statuses of friends.
Okay, I suppose the answer is, in fact obvious: once I broke the seal, I remembered how (and why) to get back on that horse again. That first hook-up after a long walk through the desert can seriously whet your thirst. Spark-to-tinder, chink-in-the-dam, etc etc other clichés. After a certain point, who cares? I try to enjoy the ride.
*Though the first one was just making out in a friend's kitchen. On Purim! We may have knocked a pan off the wall (sorry Jake!).
**Ah, the rhetorical device. If only it had in fact been multiple rock climbing instructors.
***Sounds better if you know my real name†.
†Which you all do cuz who else reads this?
Crisis of Faith
Time to get autobiographical again:
Semi-recently, I hit it off with a guy (friend-of-a-friend) at a party. We exchanged numbers, agreed to get together the following Friday. Awesome!, I was thinking. I felt like a normal person. Someone who could make a date without hooking up! Then I took him home with me.
I wasn't sure why. Moreover, I wasn't sure why I felt bad about it. My friends, the next day, pooh-poohed my ambivalence--which meant something, seeing as I am probably the sluttiest* among them, and they are mostly relationship types. I think part of it was that they liked the idea of me dating this guy, and I was already sensing it was not to be. But also I felt weird because I wasn't sure WHY I brought him home. It was totally my doing, but the situation did not demand it--I wasn't feeling particularly randy** and, as I said, I'd been excited by the chance to NOT hook up with someone. I believed he'd call. I later pretended to think that, because I'd slept with him, he now wouldn't call...but actually I was 10% hoping he wouldn't. And I spent the day genuinely feeling BAD about sleeping with him, and, of course, bad about feeling bad. (My specialty.)
I was thinking about it this morning. And then, providentially, a link via Feministing to the blog of a Women's Studies teacher at a community college. This particular entry recounts his students' reactions to Jessica Valenti's Full Frontal Feminism, which I have sadly not read (because, as I've said, I grew UP on feminism and am only now actually reading theory), though it's next on my list. Anyway, here he describes the response of one student, who's sexual past sometimes had her labeled a slut:
Now, I'm no adolescent, and my recent history does not involve "humiliation and hurt," per se, but it's good to remember that just because I write a stupid blog and have long been people's Feminist Friend, that doesn't mean my every action--and reaction--has to be exemplary. I'm still not quite sure which I'm talking about--the hook-up or the regret--but both are instructional. Frankly, getting laid used to be difficult (thanks Dalton and Wesleyan!), and I think I'm still not used to the idea that I could like a guy without immediately boning. I have, once or twice this year, not-been-in-the-mood, which is a new experience. But I don't recommend screwing out of habit. And that's my lesson of the day!
*I know, I know.
** I know, I know.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Book Wyrms
The Guardian had a feature last week in which women discuss what book opened their eyes to feminism. It's a good read.
As for me: I've been a feminist at least since I was 5 years old* and, I grew up in a feminist household against which, aside from baseline adolescent obnoxiousness, I found little reason to rebel. (The world outside provided plenty of jerks--I didn't need to create them at home.) To probably-misquote Stoppard's Coast of Utopia, regarding England's ability to have liberty without formulating lots of theories about it first, "They like freedom because it's freedom." So it's not really until the past year or so that I'm actually READING feminist texts. (And I can't stress enough how great Manifesta is.)
So. My first influential book? Dealing with Dragons. But I don't like the new cover as much as the one from MY old copy:
Anyway. I reached this book in, I think, 4th grade? Patricia C. Wrede wrote the kind of stories I didn't know I'd been waiting for--smart, witty books with smart, witty heroines. There are four in the series. Dealing with Dragons, the first, introduces us to Princess Cimorene, who is sick and tired of being a princess--she has to take embroidery and country dance lessons, and generally sit around being silly and proper. Rather than moping, she sneaks in fencing, Latin, and magic lessons on the side (until she gets caught). When she discovers she's been betrothed to a really annoying prince, and after some advice from a talking frog, she runs away from home and becomes the personal assistant of a fascinating dragon named Kazul. (Kazul is also female, but gender differences are apparently irrelevant amongst dragons.) She then has adventures, kills things with swords, fireproofs herself, melts some wizards, helps some friends, and makes a lot of chocolate mousse. In future books she goes on to find love and all of that, all in the course of her regular adventuring, and all with a level head.
The books are great. The writing is vivid and mature, and often very tongue-in-cheek, with winking references to famous fairy tales. (In one book we meet a man who is clearly a Rumplestiltskin, but who has become SO overrun with kids he's changed his name to Herman, in the futile hope that mothers will manage to guess it.) Two of the books are from the POV of a woman, two from a guy, and all are filled with wonderful powerful female protagonists, all of whom are in someway unexpected, all of whom casually and simply deviate from whatever norms and stereotypes govern them.
If you like YA fiction, read them! If you know kids who do, give them as gifts!
And you can always throw in some Simone de Beauvoir while you're at it.
*More on this some day.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
From Susan B's Archives: Sluts
Hi gang! Here is one of my favorite essays from Nerve. It came out some time ago, but I wanted to share it with you all. To sum up, it's about the backlash against young women actually making good on their sexual liberation, being instigated chiefly by second-wave feminists who are maybe a little jealous. It's from the perspective of a recent college graduate, and it's both thoughtful and frank, with an appropriate dash of glib thrown in. An excerpt:
[Please keep in mind that I think a "Golf Pros and Tennis Hos" party sounds like the lamest thing ever, but if I insert some of the parties I did frequent at Wesleyan*, my alma mater, it makes sense.]
The essay pretty much speaks for itself. But basically, I'm tired of this shit, of Katie Couric going on TV and decrying blowjobs, tired of articles that remind me of the Feminine Mystique-era studies saying that college education made women unsatisfied with being house wives, so maybe they shouldn't go to college. As my good friend Alden once said, "I sort of can't understand why people wouldn't like hooking up. It's like not liking ice cream." Of course, an excess of ice cream can sometimes be bad for you, but everyone has their own limit. And people don't cluck their tongues at you if you eat ice cream without wanting to marry it.
How does this apply to me, you may be wondering? I don't like to get TOO autobiographical, but suffice it to say that I don't date much, and my number of belt notches, if you will, is totally sane and reasonable and also way higher than that of almost everyone I know. To my mind, my sexual history is no better or worse than my friends'--in college, as now, I hooked up on my own terms; sometimes drunkenly**, sometimes randomly, always safely and sans victimization. There are some hook-ups that seemed stupid later on, but I never actively regretted them. "Walk of Shame" was always considered a tongue-in-cheek term, as it most often seemed a Walk of Gloating. (The morning after I lost my virginity I got to walk home in heels, a long black evening gown, and a big ol' Austrian crystal choker. Oh, and a big ol' smirk. It was a red-letter day and I wanted people to know, damnit!)
I have a problem with this idea that sex should only be had with someone "special." Cuz, you know who's pretty special? Me. Sex is often better when BOTH parties are special, but that doesn't make it the only brand of peanut butter on the shelf***. I'm now thinking of the recent Onion article, "Study: Casual Sex Only Rewarding For First Few Decades." And again, smirking.
I hope I'm not sounding OPPOSED to people who don't have casual sex. But now that not everyone I know is a Wesleyan kid, I've run into people who are weirded out by those of us who DO. I don't get it, guys--what's the big deal?
*Naked Parties, The Sex Party, Queer Prom, in general most parties at Eclectic, that one Chi Psi party I randomly went to and announced my plans to get "drunk as an unrequited poet" (and succeeded, with shady results...)
**if by "sometimes" you mean "usually"
***What?
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Experiential Feminism
As you all know, this is a new blog. So it was only the other day that I realized exactly what it was that this blog is "about." In trying to explain this to two of my friends last night, the best words I could come up with were, "Experiential Feminism."
(Or maybe "experiential feminism." Capitalization might be a little much here.)
Here's what I mean: this is not a blog like the wonderful Feministing, which brings you regular news of what's going on with feminist issues around the world, forming and informing feminist theory. Nor is it a dating blog, or even as personal a blog as Diary of a Mad Blacktress. What I really aim to do here is chronicle what it's like, on a day-to-day basis, being a young feminist in New York and in "today's world"--reconciling and melding the feminist ideals I grew up on with the realities of being a woman, making my way, etc etc.
What are these ideals, you may ask? And what these contradictions? That's fodder for a longer post (or several). But here are some of the basics: both my parents are self-avowed feminists, who had the habit of giving adult answers to any question I asked, supporting me in all my endeavors, and banning from the house anything bearing the word "diet. " It was good. Then puberty hit, and life got harder. Being smart and strong and vocal, and not obsessively counting calories, suddenly seemed totally at odds with getting boys, who were suddenly interesting to me. The older I got (get), the more I struggled (struggle) with the double-whammy that girls don't get as much respect as guys, but if they DO get respect then no one wants to sleep with them. (Or so it seemed.) And when I'm bombarded with negative messages about guys, how do I even get it up* to want one? Putting aside those kind of identity issues--how do I change the injustices? How do I cope with the fury that they, and my powerlessness, cause me?
I want to write about all this and more. I want to write about my life in part to figure it out as I go, but also to demonstrate (to myself and others) that feminism is a growing, malleable thing. I want to write about the myriad different ways in which we all make it a part of our everyday lives.
Also, The Pickup Artist.
*So to speak.
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