I’ve been thinking about compromises a lot lately. I understand that a number of people in my life believe me to be uncompromising—which is lovely and I am awed that people think that of me. But a) I’m a human being and b) I’m a practicing feminist, so I actually compromise like woah. However, for a long time I didn’t use the word compromise; I thought of my concessions as failure on my part—being too vain, too indulgent, only committed when convenient, and so on. Read more...
Kotex has just released a new line of tampons: how exciting! Not really, I know. What people (mostly women) are stoked on regarding this new line of tampons is the accompanying advertising that is refreshingly wry and clever. In the first commercial that was released for the line, a jaded young woman mocks traditional pad and tampon advertising: she drips sarcasm as she explains that she just loves dancing and hugging soft things while she’s on her period.
When I first watched, I chuckled. Who amongst us hasn’t re-enacted the rose-tints-my-menstruating-world ridiculousness of those ads? I laughed, but I also made “that face” (in which you can see the storm clouds brewing in my mind), meaning I thought something was off. Read more...
When I get really angry, I cry. I’m not talking about a quick-flash-of-outrage anger or momentary-eye-rolling-exasperation anger; I mean anger that is so deep and pervasive and overwhelming that it’s almost numbing. When I’m experiencing that kind of anger, tears come a’splashing and I stop talking while I grind my jaw, trying to calm myself the hell down.
I hate having this reaction. In my ideal world, I wouldn’t cry when uber-angry. Crying is so often perceived as a sign of weakness. Crying is distracting—it makes people think my feelings have been hurt, not that I am furious. But when something happens that is so absurd that it defies logic, that I can’t argue against because it simply doesn’t conform to the laws of reality, I cry. Read more...
The Backstory:
A few months ago, I found a copy of Cosmo lying open on my living room coffee table. In an article’s subtitle, emblazoned beside Megan Fox’s slinky form, was the word natch. Natch? I have a pretty crackerjack vocabulary, if I do say so myself, so when I saw this unrecognizable word, I wondered if natch was the latest euphemism for vagina. I figured that was likely—it was Cosmo after all, the magazine that manages to essentially reprint the same article on how-to best blow your man issue-by-issue, if not every fourth article. But then as I muttered the full headline out loud, “Now that [Megan’s] acting in her first true starring role—as a hellacious man-eater, natch—blah blah blah” I realized that natch is an abbreviation of naturally, spelled phonetically. (I also felt really slow on the uptake.) Read more...
Saturday, January 2, 2010
It’s that time of year when oh-so-many of us sit down to draft a list of life-changes we are pledging to make during the new year. It’s a an understandable ritual: gorged on regret after the excesses of the holidays and fueled by vigor inspired by the impending changing of the annum, we are ready to pledge to be better, wiser, and slimmer. Read more...
Thursday, October 29, 2009
“So, what kind of slut are you being for Halloween?” a male friend of mine asked me this week.
I wasn’t taken aback by his question, because it’s a reasonable one. Nowadays, Halloween, for women, is basically all about being as slutty-looking as can be.
I know this isn’t exactly news. Many of us have made this obvious observation. A character in the film Mean Girls summarized the situation quite astutely when she explained: “In the regular world, Halloween is when children dress up in costumes and beg for candy. In girl-world, Halloween is the one night a year a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it. The hardcore girls just wear lingerie and some form of animal ears.” Read more...
Thursday, October 22, 2009
“Pray to end abortion.”
That’s the mantra of the religious, anti-abortion campaign that’s currently taking place across the United States and Canada, including an effort focused on Fredericton’s Morgentaler Clinic.
The campaign, 40 Days for Life, began in a lone Texan town in 2004, but has grown significantly since then. Now, anti-choice activists in cities across the U.S. and Canada and a few overseas adopt the bi-annual campaign and simultaneously carry it out in their own locality. The campaign, based on the biblical theme of 40 days as a time of transformation, involves 40 days straight of fasting, praying, awareness raising, and constant prayer vigil outside of facilities that provide abortions. This fall campaign began September 23 and carries on until November 1. The campaign has a singular goal: to end abortion. Read more...
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Last week, a friend and I ventured to the Rockin’ Rodeo. We wanted a girls’ night to drink and dance, and it was student night at the Rodeo (meaning that as university grads, we were cougars) so off we went. At the bar, we sat down and not a minute later were pounced upon. Yes, pounced.
I’m always surprised when I get checked out at meat-market type bars. It’s not that I have such low self-esteem that I think myself undesirable even to the most thickly beer-goggled. I just think that what I’ve got going on for hotness has no currency in that setting. Read more...
Friday, September 11, 2009
Writing about the difference between women and men may not be the best inaugural article for A Boston Marriage—but we’re doing it.
We recently heard a story that left us wide-eyed and speechless (not an easy feat), and offered us such insight into men’s reality that it seems a shame—nay, a crime!—not to share it.
Here’s the situation: out to dinner with two male friends, a female friend of ours had the opportunity to take part in a conversation where one male, we’ll call him Justin, complained that he had recently received a “half blow job.” The other male winced, but the female asked for clarification. Justin explained that his partner performed oral sex, but as he neared climax, she gave up. Read more...
Friday, September 11, 2009
(As in breasts, and idiots.)
Last week, I took in Moncton’s AC/DC show. I saw a lot of boobs.
Don’t write me off as a humorless prude. I’m not puritanical. I’ve danced in burlesque numbers and publicly performed orgasms in The Vagina Monologues. Also, I’m no concert virgin or rock’n’roll hater. I’ve enjoyed many riotous shows and eagerly anticipated AC/DC. Earlier this summer, I saw libido-drenched KISS and last summer I saw the lascivious George Thorogood—I ate up both shows. The last reason not to write me off without a fair shake: I like boobs. Not just in the self-affirming “women have beautiful bodies” sort of way, but in the I-roll-around-with-men-AND-women, so-I-like-like-boobs way. Read more...
Friday, September 11, 2009
I lost my tweezers two weeks ago, but I didn’t want to buy new ones right away because I thought the old ones would turn up again. Do you know what happens if I don’t have tweezers for two weeks? My high school eyebrows grow back. That’s right. It looks like two caterpillars are crawling across my face. What was I thinking in high school? My parents owned a mirror. I looked in it every day as I brushed my teeth. Was I never startled at two fuzzy insects crawling along my face? Read more...
Friday, September 11, 2009
Polly Precautious was a pragmatic gal when it came to copulation. She monitored her cycle, submitted to annual pap tests, took The Pill with regimented regularity, and ALWAYS used condoms—until she started fooling around with women. Polly was so surprised at this development that she didn’t pause to consider protection. Besides, with men she only broke out barriers for what she thought of as ‘actual intercourse’ and, in lesbian land, she figured no penis meant no problem. Oh, Polly. Read more...