Tag: women

Reasons Why I want To Be Tina Fey

MissM1 Comment

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Recently, I stumbled upon Bossypants, a gem of a book written by the delightfully comical Tina Fey. It was one of those books that you read cover-to-cover in one night, regardless of the fact that you have two finals to take in the morning and haven’t done a lick of studying. If you haven’t read it yet, you really need to figure out what time-waster needs to be eliminated from your life and get reading. 

It’s quite possibly the best piece of feminist literature since The Declaration of Sentiments.  

Now, without further ado, here are the reasons why I want to be Tina Fey. 

1. Her flawless Sense of Humor: A trait we both have in common. Seriously, though, I’m pretty sure the general public can come to a consensus that Tina Fey is a master of comedy. From playing Sarah Palin on SNL to Kate from Baby Mama, she  can get a sincere laugh out of just about anybody. Not only in a professional, scripted setting, but in her everyday life as well. Her entire book is her narration of real events from both her normal and professional life. 

2. She Acknowledges Her Shortcomings: Throughout her book, Tina Fey distinctly illustrates her flaws. She is fully conscious of her limitations. Fey narrates significant events from her life starting from childhood, and throughout the pages, she anecdotes times that she admittedly screwed up. 

3. She Embraces Her Flaws: Fey mentions multiple times how weird her feet are. Personally, i’ve never seen them, but apparently she was given some deformed feet. But you know what? Not once does she wish she had normal feet. She even says she wouldn’t trade hers for the most beautiful feet there ever were. She talks about her “gut” and how she’s a pasty-dough ball. What she doesn’t do is wish for a perfect, model body. She knows that she is human. 

4. She’s Part-German: This implies that she’s also part-fiery and harsh. If you read back to my bio, you’ll find that I, too, am part-German. Deutschland ist das beste! 

5. She Can Laugh At Herself: One chapter is entirely dedicated to her responding to her own hatemail. Rather than retaliate by getting offensive and defensive, Fey goes along with her anti-fans’ insulting words and even (sarcastically) admits to their claims. And THAT is how class and wit is done. 

6. She Has A Daughter And Her Dream Job: At one point in her book, she talks about how there was a time when she was trying to get Oprah onto her show 30 Rock, plan a Peter Pan birthday party for her daughter, and write for SNL all at the same time. All three events were equally important to her, and she even finished planning details of her daughter’s party in between shoots at 30 Rock and SNL. 

7. She Has Fantastic Legs: Need I say more? 

8. She Knows How To Identify Sexism In The Workplace: Rather than play the victim, Fey brings to her readers’ attention the gender stereotypes in the world of comedic actors and writers. She knows that there are ignorant people out there who claim that women can’t be funny the way men can, and should stick to playing the role of the ditzy cheerleader or supportive housewife. But she doesn’t let that stop her from continuing her work the way she wants to do it. She doesn’t care if you like it. 

In short, Tina Fey is my idol. 

Now go forth and read Bossypants, my dear readers. 

M. 

 

A Pint of Broken Dreams

MissM3 Comments

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Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of stress-eating, due to finals week, my beginning of two new jobs, and a variety of other stress-inducing factors. Like many other members of team ‘eat your feelings,’ one of my number one go-to foods is, of course, ice cream.

In effort to save my waistline for the upcoming swimsuit season, I decided to purchase some kind of light version of frozen dessert, when I stumbled upon this little gem: Arctic Zero Frozen Desserts-chocolate peanut butter flavor.

I never thought I’d see the day that ice cream would disappoint me. But this imposter surely has.

So now, not only am I 5 dollars poorer, I had disappointment for dessert, and my sweet tooth has not been satisfied.

Readers, I’m telling you this because I love you. If you’re going to indulge, get the full-fat, cookie dough-loaded, peanut butter-drizzled stuff. You deserve it, and You’ll be happier in the long run, I promise.

M.

The Most Vexatious

MissM1 Comment

Have you ever wondered, “How can I effectively piss off (insert acquaintance/friend/co-worker, what have you) for the rest of his/her day?” Well pull out a pen and paper, because I’m about to lay out some extremely effective methods. 

1. Be A Snowflake: I’ve coined this term as a “combination of both a flake and a cold-shoulder giver.” (clever, eh?) In order to execute this method effectively, commit to plans with your victim. Make sure you’re the one who sets it up for maximum results. I’d recommend about a week and a half in advance. Then, as time draws nearer, just cut off all communication with said victim. Don’t respond to text messages/phone calls/snapchats/facetimes/whatever else you kids use to communicate nowadays. And certainly don’t initiate a conversation with your victim, either. Don’t offer excuses as to why you will no longer be able to attend these plans, don’t apologize. This way, your victim will be left waiting by his/her cellular device all day, waiting for the cue to meet up with you for those plans that you made that you’re no longer going to participate in because you’re a snowflake. 

2. Be A Debby Downer: be the raincloud that travels to everyone’s parade and unleashes a downpour of negativity as it travels through. Best friend got your crush’s number? Remind her of her cankles, and assure her that he has no interest in girls with cankles. Co-worker got the promotion you wanted? Make sure he knows he only got the gig because he’s the boss’s distant cousin. Just pour out the negativity. You’ll feel better about not getting what you wanted, and your victim will wish he/she never got it, too. 

3. Be A Pinhead Pilot: Make sure that when your SUV hits the highway, it’s in the way. Take your time turning right. If some punk teenager is trying to pass you on the freeway, just stay right in front of that traffic-law violator. It’s a public service, you interfering with them breaching the speed limit. And that turn signal? Forget about it. You wouldn’t want someone to follow you home, would you? 

4. Be A Solutionist: Come home to see your daughter bawling on the floor? Make her realize that whatever is wrong is a consequence of her behavior, and immediately offer your all-knowing wisdom and provide her with ways she can solve her own problems. That’s what she wants from you, right? To show her how to fix everything? Kids don’t just want to talk about their feelings to a good listener, anyway. Plus, sympathy doesn’t solve anything.

5. Be A Morning Person: There is a time for hyper-happiness. And that time is 6:30 in the morning, at the breakfast table, when your family is slumped in a daze of sleepiness and most sensitive to loud noises and smiling faces. Emerge from your sleeping chambers in song. Give each family member an ear-to-ear grin and make sure you wish them a fantastic day, in your best “Disneyland employee” voice. They’ll be longing to punch you in the jugular region for the remainder of their morning. 

6. Be a Narcissistic Patron: You’ve been waiting at IHOP for 32 minutes, and the family that arrived ten minutes after you gets seated first. Who cares that they have a crying newborn and a set of toddler-aged twins? Your party was there first, and you deserve to be seated in the order in which you arrived. Make a scene. Give that hostess a piece of your mind. Make sure she knows that you won’t ever be consuming IHOP’s stuffed french toast again, and that her manager will be hearing from you shortly. Add a snarky comment about how she’s the worst hostess in the history of hostesses. She might shed some tears then and there, if not, she’ll wait till the car ride home. 

I hope some of my ideas helped, or at least generated some other ideas in your little brains of how to piss off the people in your life. Now go forth and conquer, my friends. 

M. 

 

Chagrin

MissM2 Comments

It has arrived. The inevitable finals week. Unfortunately, my supply of motivation has run dry with the arrival of this dreaded phase in the semester, and my productivity level has dropped significantly. 

Yeah, i’m only a sophomore, and I am fully conscious of the fact that it only gets worse from here. But honestly, i’m not worth a lick of academic work for the remainder of the semester. I’m at the point where I bring my Little Mermaid coloring book to History. (I guess that explains why history 1700 is my lowest grade.) 

I know, really whiney of me. Boo-hoo, poor girl has to endure post-secondary education so she can make a career and establish herself as an independent woman in this world. Which is why I will cease complaining this very instant. 

I don’t really have a point for this post, really I’m just writing because writing brings me solace. (Gatsby.)

Ha kidding. Rather, I am procrastinating writing my 5-page mass communications paper on algorithms. ALGORITHMS. 

I’m still not 100% sure as to what those are. 

But on the plus side, I get 2 Oreo’s per page I finish this evening. Positive reinforcement is a beautiful motivator. 

Here’s to B.S.ing yet another essay so I can get one more credit closer to obtaining this cute little piece of paper that declares my graduation from a collegiate institution.

Happy finals week, kiddos.  

 

 

Blandiloquent

MissM3 Comments

One of the most crucial things to realize as a feminist is that ALL people-both male and female- are participants in our patriarchal society. This means that women contribute to their own oppression. 

My Women’s Studies professor brought this to our attention the other week in class, and she couldn’t be more right. My initial reaction was, “why would women bring oppression on themselves? We don’t do that, we all hate oppression.” I had a hard time agreeing with this, which provoked my investigative mind. 

Our class discussion was intended to introduce things like genital cutting and foot-binding in other parts of the world and how oftentimes, it is women, not men, who are committing these acts; rites of passage, as they might be in other cultures. 

But I wanted to apply this concept on a more local level. 

How do women contribute to the oppression of women? I’ll tell you how. We oppress ourselves and the women around us because we hate other women. 

Admittedly, I am guilty of this. I intentionally avoided the entire female population in my high school. I’d never had more than one girl friend in my entire adolescent existence. To this day, there are very few women in my life that I could confidently call a “friend.” I had generalized that ALL girls were stuck up, back-stabbing snots, and I wanted no part in that. 

Also, I’m really good at judging other women-unfeministically (yeah, it’s a word now) labeling girls who wear short shorts or low cut tops “sluts”, girls who make snarky comments or have a bit of an attitude a word-that-starts-with-B, and the like. 

I know, it’s hypocritical of me. But, let’s face it, every last one of us is a hypocrite to some degree. So don’t go judging me just yet. 

The beauty of it all is that now that I’ve realized my wrong-doings, I have the power to decide to change. 

This morning, in the bathroom at the university, while I was washing my hands, a girl who was self-consciously examining herself in the mirror told me she liked my outfit, and it gave me quite the confidence boost. I don’t know if it’s because of the lack of female allies in my life, but I don’t receive compliments from my own gender very often. Perhaps it’s because we tend to see other women as competition or something. 

What I’m trying to get at here is that if girls could learn to treat other girls with the respect and equality that we demand for ourselves, the entire female population would be substantially more empowered. 

Instead of being individual “feminists” who are fighting the good fight against the patriarchy on our own, wouldn’t it be extremely helpful to have some allies on our side? 

I’ve realized that my views on feminism were rather selfish. What I wanted was equality for myself. I wasn’t particularly interested in empowerment and equality for the rest of the women in this world. But that’s all changed now. 

So what do you say, ladies? I think the majority of you will agree with me that we girls can be nasty and hostile toward one another. But what if we all realized that we’re in the same boat, at least in regards to gender inequality, and help each other out a little? 

I’m not saying we should all be “besties” or whatever. But we don’t have to be enemies, either. 

That way, we could be each others’ support system, and actually bring about some progress in eliminating our own oppression.  

Now who’s with me?

M. 

 

 

 

 

The Eloquent Salesman

MissM3 Comments

Hate is a strong word, but I really really really don’t like the kiosk guys at the mall. 

As if the infinite, bombarding advertisements in the store windows weren’t enough, we now need walking, talking, breathing advertisements to shove more products down our throats and suck the dough right out of our wallets. 

Kiosk guys are the most incessant, vexatious breed of salespeople. And just as the best of arguers, I am prepared to abet my argument with viable evidence. 

Kiosk guys choose their targets in a very scrupulous manner. Even when you think you’ve escaped their gaze, they’re watching. Waiting. Constantly pursuing their next dupe. 

But, ladies and gentlemen, I am no dupe. 

Exhibit A: 

There I was, artlessly roaming the mall. Consciously desisting eye contact with the enemy. Gazing longingly through store windows at items that I could only afford in my dreams, subconsciously anticipating the possibility of a sales-pitch confrontation. 

And boy, did I get a sales-pitch confrontation. 

A man leaning against a kiosk, selling some kind of fancy hand cream had spotted me. He watched me from behind his spectacles  as I wandered nearer and nearer to his booth. As soon as the opportunity arose, the hawker snatched my dainty wrist and pumped a coin-sized dot of lotion onto my hand and began massaging it into my skin. 

I gave him a befuddled look and attempted to pull my hand back to my side but he resisted. The man didn’t speak English well, but his sales pitch went something along the lines of how his product would enhance and rejuvenate my fair, dry, and cracking skin. I decided i’d humor him, and inquired the price of his miracle cream. The man wanted 29.99 for a 3-month supply of his lotion. Outrageous. 

Do people actually pay that much for lotion? I buy the Equate brand from Walmart that costs me about six bucks and it gets the job done just fine. Plus I only run out of it biannually. 

Continuing with my anecdote, I allowed the kiosk guy to finish verbalizing his rehearsed spiel of reasons why I needed his product. (Mostly because he was rubbing my hands the entire time. Which beyond creepy and made me a captive audience.) I nodded and thanked him for the free handful of lotion, and continued, rather irritatedly, on my way. 

This whole encounter took up roughly five minutes of my valuable time. (Kidding, it’s not really that valuable, and I had nothing better to do.) And the kiosk guy clearly overstepped his boundaries by physically forcing me to listen to his live infomercial. If I remember correctly, I hadn’t shown an ounce of interest in purchasing hand cream that day. 

This aggressive method of selling not only makes me want to visit malls less, it makes me totally resistant to purchasing anything from a kiosk ever in my entire life. 

My words of retail shopping wisdom: Keep your limbs in tight and your eyes on the floor. 

That’s Hot.

MissM7 Comments

MEN: This may come as a surprise, but I just thought i’d casually bring to your attention that NOT EVERY ASPECT OF MY LIFE IS INTENDED TO PLEASE YOU.

Ready for my real-life example?

The other day, I was discussing my career plans with a man friend. I told him I was considering a career in English teaching or journalism, to which he bluntly responded, “That’s hot.”

Umm, okay?

What’s hot about my aspiration to become an English professor? Or a newspaper journalist? Is that some kind of joke? Or do people really have fetishes for those with a fondness for language arts?

This sort of makes me feel as though my man friend wasn’t taking my career plan seriously.

If this conversation had been an intelligent, two-sided conversation in which both participants were genuinely interested in what one participant was expressing, it would have gone a little more like this:

Me: “I’m thinking I want to be an English professor.”

Man friend: “Oh, really? What made you decide that career path?”

Me: “Well, I love to write and learn about literature, and I think it’d be a fun, challenging career to teach students how to write.”

Man friend: “Well that sounds like a great choice for you, then!”

And then it could continue in the same manner.

But, this was indeed not a two-sided conversation in which both participants were genuinely interested in what one participant was expressing. It was a boy belittling a woman’s intelligence and ambition.

I wasn’t trying to be hot. I was trying to answer his inquiry of what I would like to become when I grow up. Did it ever occur to him that maybe it isn’t my constant goal to impress him and gain his approval when we talk? That maybe I was trying to have a person-to-person conversation and express what my aspirations were?

It all comes back to shallow, physical attraction, doesn’t it?

Because Heaven forbid some guy would actually want to know what my passions and interests were, just for the sake of getting to know me better.

Another lad and I were having a similar discussion earlier today. In an effort to flatter me, he asked if i’d ever considered modeling as a career. I told him that I hadn’t because I do not advocate the fashion industry and media’s glorification of physical beauty and skinny-ness.

His response? “Well, maybe you could try acting then?”

Arg. Another point completely missed.

He thinks I have the looks to be displayed and manipulated in the media as an icon of what “ideal beauty” is. Which, frankly, I don’t take as a compliment at all. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that maybe I had no interest in a career in the media.

This is just a prime example of the objectification of women. The belief that my physical beauty should be used as a commodity to promote and sell physical items, as well as a skewed and artificial icon of what a beautiful woman is.

There is way more to a woman than her physical appearance. I have far more to offer than my looks, thank you. And I intend to pursue a career that suits my interests and puts my intellectuality to good use.

M.

Undamaged

MissM7 Comments

Some lessons are best taught by 9-year-olds. 

I have the pleasure of playing “mommy” this weekend while my parents are basking in the Floridan sun. One of my parental duties is to get my baby sister ready for school in the morning. It was her third grade class elections yesterday, so I insisted that she get up early so that I’d have time to curl her hair so she could “look the part” while delivering her campaign speech. (Aren’t third graders a little young to be having a student government? Like what are their issues? Broken crayons?) 

Anyway, after forcefully removing her from her bed and dragging her downstairs into my bedchamber, I sat her down in front of my mirror and began taming her bed-head. 

Twenty minutes later, after i’d finished curling her hair, I told her how pretty she was. She responded perfectly. 

“I know.” 

When was the last time you responded to a compliment like that? Can’t remember? Me neither. 

This feisty, little 9-year-old has yet to have her self esteem torn down, ripped to shreds, and irreversibly damaged, despite the toxic environment around her. She doesn’t compare her outward appearance to the girl next to her. She doesn’t look at covers of magazines and think “man, I wish I looked like her.” And you better believe I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that her self-esteem stays untouched. 

How beautiful would that be, if we were all able to have the same confidence as my baby sister? To be able to sincerely accept and believe a compliment. To have an unchanging perception of ourselves, and to love that perception in its entirety. 

I can honestly tell you that I have no idea what that would be like. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t refute a compliment from a stranger, or gaze in the mirror with an attitude of disapproval. 

And also, why is it so frowned upon to accept a compliment? If someone were to tell me I had beautiful eyes, and I were to respond with “I know,” the complimenter would think of me as an arrogant, stuck-up snot. But I say, what’s wrong with expressing that you like something about yourself? I mean, definitely, moderation in all things, but in my personal opinion, there is nothing wrong with agreeing with someone when they tell you they like something about you. 

It’s okay to love yourself. In fact, it’s crucial. 

M. 

The Young and the Faltering

MissM20 Comments

At 18 years old, I feel like life is passing me by. I can’t scroll through my newsfeed on Facebook without viewing an annoyingly-ecstatic ex-classmate’s engagement announcement. THESE CHICKS ARE MY AGE. I’m all for everyone making their own choices and doing whatever the hell makes them happy, but I’m not going to lie, I’m jealous of these girls. Their lives actually seem to be going somewhere. 

Granted, I am nowhere near being ready to make such a commitment. I can’t even commit to a breakfast cereal long enough to buy the Costco-sized value pack. Which is totally fine, especially for someone as young as myself. But let’s be honest, at this rate, all the relationship-worthy men will be snatched up by my fellow pubescent peers. 

Lately, I feel as though nothing is necessarily wrong, but nothing is definitely right, either. I just want some golden opportunity to jump out at me and steer me in some progressive direction. Currently, I am floating through life. Indecisive, uncommitted, and scared to death. 

The decisions I’m supposed to be making right now will determine the quality of the rest of my life. The thought of making a wrong (or lesser) choice terrifies me. I’d like to wave my rights to make any more life decisions, because past experience serves evidence enough that I am not capable of making aforementioned decisions. 

I think the most frustrating part about it all is that at this time last year, when I was still drifting through the breeze that was high school, I thought i’d have it all figured out by now. I was convinced that somehow, upon my graduation, everything would fall into place, and I would discover who I truly am and what my real passions in life are and all that jazz. I could not have been more wrong. 

To be frank, I don’t have the slightest clue of what I am doing. 

All I want is to be happy, and to find people to surround myself with that will help me be happy. I can no longer endure this wishy-washy, floating-around, take-it-day-by-day lifestyle. I want to pursue something gosh dang it. 

And all this talk about preparing for my “future” is ridiculous. We never stop preparing for the future. I seem to have forgotten how to live in the present. Why do all of my actions have to somehow prepare me for this thing we call “future?” Why can’t I just do something that brings immediate satisfaction every once in a while? 

In summary, I think i’ll pass on the whole “growing up” thing. That way, I won’t have to deal with watching disgusting couples be happy together, choosing a career path, the patriarchy, or anything else for that matter.

I think instead I’ll go back to the days when the hardest decision I had to make was whether or not I wanted sprinkles on my ice cream cones and I could spend hours outside playing in the sprinklers with the neighborhood kids, and nothing was a waste of time. 

M. 

But A Number

MissM3 Comments

The other day, my little sister McCall and I went on an adventure to the Holy Krishna Temple to participate in their Festival of Colors. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s basically some religious celebration in which people gather at this temple in the middle of freaking nowhere to bond together over the throwing of chalky, neon-colored powder. I highly recommend this event, it’s the cheapest, messiest form of entertainment I’d ever participated in.

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There we are, all pretty and tinged. (I’m the short one.) As I mentioned before, this event was boisterous, in the best kind of way. Strangers became friends (or enemies, based on your mood) by flinging handfuls of color at each others faces, limbs, and glutes. I’m For some reason, being in a crowd full of people covered head-to-toe in neon chalk gives you all the confidence in the world.

Everywhere you looked, you’d see strangers kissing strangers, guys slapping random girls’ butts, homeboys holding “Free Kisses” signs, and, my favorite, photobombers. 

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I don’t have a clue as to who this guy is. Maybe he cleans up well. We could totally be a couple.(: 

It is a rare person who escaped that event without having her personal bubble ravaged by some dude who thought she had a nice tush. 

However, it’s even more rare to be asked if you’d like a “handprint on your ass.” Yes, kids, that’s a direct quotation. A spirited young fellow literally asked me if i’d like his handprint on my butt. No thank you, sir, I’m golden. 

My sister and I were approached the second we got out of the car by two thirty-something man-children who informed us that we were pretty and gave us each a lingering embrace. 

We’ll never see handprint guy or the tenacious huggers again, which makes it all okay. 

McCall and I took multiple laps around the Holy Krishna, sprinkling our chalk on strangers, taking selfies in front of the temple, and getting cat-called and smothered in blues, greens, yellows and pinks. Having the time of our lives. 

One particular bloke had shown his fondness for my appearance by throwing multiple handfuls of color in my face, over my head, and at my tummy. Later that day, he’d found me again, but this time he didn’t throw anything at me. Instead, he said “Hey, how old are you?” 

My typical response to that question is “how old do I look?” 

He hesitated, but finally responded that I looked around sixteen or seventeen years old. This typical of strangers. Can someone please tell me what it is about me that makes me look like I’m still in high school? Please and thank you. 

A little annoyed, I bluntly, and rather sassily, informed him that I was nearing my nineteenth anniversary of life. He reacted exactly the way I would have expected; he asked for my I.D. I looked over at McCall, who was grinning from ear to ear. She gloats in the fact that nearly every stranger we encounter assumes her to be the elder. She really doesn’t look older than me, though. I’m convinced that the only reason for this nonsense is the fact that she is a solid four to five inches taller than me. Her superiority in height seems to entitle her to an attitude of condescension toward me, which I do NOT tolerate well. 

I was huffing with exasperation at this point in our brief interaction. This stranger sensed this, uttered an apology, and assured me that he believed that I was telling the truth about my age. Then, he granted us the opportunity to reconvene later that evening for a hot-tub sesh, and insisted that I save his number in my phone. I humored him, and typed his digits into my contact book, and later cleared that entry. 

This is just one of multiple flustering events  in which people mistake me for being much younger than I am, which is extremely frustrating when my maturity level indicates otherwise. People always tell me I’m going to love it when I’m forty, and people think I don’t look a day over thirty. And that may be true. But right now, it SUCKS. (For lack of a better word.)

When I tell you I’m almost nineteen, don’t question it. I get that this fellow was trying to validate that I wasn’t “jail bait” or whatever, but once I told him I was no longer a minor, that should have been the end of that conversation. Geez. 

Other than that incident, McCall and I had a very enjoyable afternoon. However, it takes DAYS to completely cleanse yourself of all that chalk. It. Gets. Everywhere. 

And also, it dyed my golden locks a murky, purplish-green color. Which I am just not edgy enough to pull off. Seven shampooing treatments later, and no sign of it fading. I’m a plum-head.  

I AM THE OLDEST SISTER IN MY FAMILY GOSH DANG IT. 

M.