Oh I Don’t Know…

Call it out of character, but I’m having difficulty mustering feminist outrage against the supposedly “new” phenomenon of pre-teens buying into the “Slutoween” trend by donning tarty costumes made especially for them. 

Why? Well first of all, I have trouble with the idea that pre-teen girls trying to dress older than their years is anything new, or even necessarily something that adults should be overly alarmed about. Adolescent girls have always pilfered mom’s lipstick and changed in the bathroom at the school dance into that shorter skirt the ‘rents wouldn’t let them leave the house in. Yeah, part of that is pressure from society, but part of it is also natural curiosity. Trying to figure out what the hell to do with one’s newly morphed pubescent body is a big undertaking and it doesn’t happen overnight. It takes a lot of experimentation (and plenty of fashion train-wrecks) to figure out your relationship with your budding body. Dressing older (and by association, sexier) is as much about independence to most teen girls as it is about fitting in and being pretty. Instead of trusting our girls to navigate the muddy waters of adolescence and make good choices why do we behave as if it only takes one pair of sparkley fishnets to turn a 13-year-old into a baby prostitute?

Case in point, when I was in seventh grade I saw the movie Clue and decided I wanted to be a French maid for Halloween. My mother tried to talk me out of it. She even tried appealing to my emergent feminism by explaining that French maids are sort of a degrading male fantasy. This tidbit was pretty much lost on me. At that point my budding sexuality did not include any awareness of dominance, submission or other kinks. All I knew was that French maids got to wear frilly costumes, carry feather dusters and speak in smarmy French accents. Who wouldn’t want to be a French maid for Halloween? All mom’s suggestions for other, more appropriate costumes for a thirteen year old (“What about being a bag of grapes!? We can blow up some purple balloons and stick them to a sweat suit!”) fell on deaf ears. I was dug in. I was being a French maid for Halloween. 

Instead of locking me up and throwing away the key, my mother reluctantly took me on a field trip to the local costume shop to pick out the most conservative French maid outfit we could find. She also insisted that I wear a turtleneck under it and drape a shawl over my shoulders, “Because it will be cold out.” I went out trick or treating in the outfit, practiced my smarmy French accent, accosted several people with my feather duster, collected a butt load of candy and came home… without herpes. I did not magically become popular with all the boys. I didn’t even end up dating for another three years. I didn’t ditch my well worn wardrobe of peasant skirts and wool clogs for leather pants and bustiers. The next Halloween I went as Red Death from Phantom of the Opera in pants, a tuxedo shirt, a floor length cape and a mask that covered most of my face. In short, I remained unharmed by my brush with the Slutoween phenomenon. 

Was I just lucky that I didn’t become a statistic? I think not. First of all, I had good parents who wanted to have constructive conversations with me about my choices instead of just slut-shaming me. Because she actually listened to me my mother learned that my interest in being a French maid had more to do with playing a kooky character than pandering to the male sex. In fact, pandering to the male sex wasn’t even on my radar at that age. Even if it had been, I’m sure mom and I would have had a conversation about that too.

Unlike the author of the Daily Mail Article, I don’t believe that, “Parents who allow their offspring to wear this junk should consider putting them up for adoption.” I am so glad that my parents valued me as a person who could make her own decisions instead of thinking of me as a Pretty Pretty Princess that they had to keep pure as long as possible no matter what the cost.

Pre-teens of both genders are thinking about sex all the time and it’s totally natural. What else are you going to do when your brain is totally bathed in hormones? We’d be foolish to think that denying them every pair of tacky earrings or pot of lip gloss is going to stop them from growing up too fast. Guarding your daughters from the trappings of adulthood is a false sense of security. Instead of trying to take away the makeup and the high heels, why aren’t we trying to teach young women that these things don’t have to define them? Because that would mean that parents would actually have to talk openly and honestly about growing up with their kids… and that’s just awkward. Better to call them  whores and ground them until they are 30! 

As a kid I was encouraged to think for myself and stand up for what I believed in and be my awkward, imperfect self in any way that I wanted to be. This didn’t win me many friends in Junior High but in the end I think it made me less susceptible to the junk culture that tells girls their only value is being attractive. I understand that parents have a very real responsibility to protect their kids form predators. I also understand just how damaging it is to sexualize children from a young age. I just don’t think that the solution to the problem is to shelter our children more. I think the solution is to help our children learn to make good choices on their own.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if my mom had refused to let me wear that French maid outfit on Halloween. I certainly would have had less fun dressed as a bag of grapes. Would I have merely snuck out in the slutty outfit anyway? Would fishnets and heels become even more attractive and glamorous once I knew that my mother hated them? Of course! Perhaps the fact that I had permission to experiment with the sexy outfit in the first place also empowered me to reject it in the end. Bottom line… kids are vulnerable, precious and impressionable but they are also a lot smarter than we think they are. Raise your kid well and a little eyeliner (or a slutty Halloween costume) isn’t going to change who they are. 

20 For My 20s

So I just happen to be on the cusp of a very significant birthday. The great 3-0. At first I planned to do a huge self-deprecating retrospective of all the birthdays of my second decade, forever immortalizing the pageant of bad self-esteem, bad boyfriends and bad haircuts that seemed to characterize my 20s. Then I thought better of that idea, if only because I actually rather like the person I’ve become since I turned twenty five. Besides, dwelling on the past is like, so immature. I’m ready for the future.

When I was younger I used to dread turning 30, the proverbial age that all us hip young kids are supposed to hand in our street cred and high tail it out to the suburbs to become soul-less, minivan driving cyborgs. 30 was a completely different universe to us. It wasn’t just that you became old at 30, it was almost as if you ceased to be, or at least ceased to be in any incarnation that we could identify with. Saying someone was “like 30″ was probably the worst insult one could one could drone at another over the bong water. “Dude, that guy is like 30, what’s he doing still hanging out at Manray? That’s just creepy”, or, “Yeah, sure I’ll get a real job, maybe when I’m like 30 or something.” 30. Too old to go clubbing, to enjoy even vaguely interesting music or wear combat boots and a feather trimmed black negligee over your favorite velour mini-dress to your 9am playwriting class. In short, 30 was the end of it all.

Could my black-eyeliner-smeared 20-year-old self ever have imagined I would look forward to turning 30? Would I have ever dreamed that the secret is that I’m actually getting cooler with age and not less so? All of those awesome things that the shy, image concerned me would never dare to try in her early 20s? I’m doing those things now. And what of 30 being the end of it all? Not even close. Get this: I’m not even afraid of things like partnership, starting a family and eventually even moving to a place where every spare inch of ground isn’t covered with asphalt and cigarette butts. I don’t ever have to be afraid of those things changing who I am. In my life I’ve met so many badass women who have still managed to maintain their professional goals, potty mouths and travel habits while being kickass partners and moms, I know when my time comes I’ll be able to do it to– and still be me. And what if I don’t choose a partnered life? That’s OK too. I’ve met countless other women who’ve shown me that there is no credence to the spinster stereotype and that being on your own is by no means the same thing as being lonely. Life… whatever you’ve got coming, I’m ready.

Yet, I wouldn’t be the confident person I am today if it hadn’t been for the me of my 20s, bad at home dye-jobs at all. I spent so much of the last decade trying on different identities, seeing what fit and discarding the old ones like thrift-store finds that I couldn’t quite make work with the rest of my wardrobe. I figured out what worked for me and what didn’t, culled what just didn’t feel right and hung on to what did. I worked my ass off to find my passion, become independent and be good at my job. I had a shit ton of adventures and good times along the way. And I learned a lot, I really did. Every train-wreck and triumph I’ve had over the last 10 years has made me who I am today. So here’s a run down, 20 for my 20s. 20 important things I’ve learned, many of which I’m still working on, but hey, life’s a work in progress…

1) You know that thing you have been dying to try but you’re afraid to because you think you aren’t smart enough, talented enough, cool enough, tough enough or attractive enough to do it? You are.

2) While we’re at it, you know all those people who are already doing that thing you want to do? Most of them aren’t any smarter or more talented than you. Chances are the only difference between you and them is that they decided they could do it.

3) It is not your job to make everybody you know like you, agree with you and think you are smart and wonderful and right all the time. In fact, chances are that if you are living your life according to your principals, everyone around you isn’t going to like you agree with you or think you are smart and wonderful 100% of the time. That’s OK. You don’t need to define your worth in terms how much others like you.

4) It is perfectly OK to spend time focusing on the relationships in your life that are mutually beneficial and to let go of those that are not.

5) Don’t ever waste time dating or being friends with someone who makes you feel “less than” or someone you can’t trust our be yourself around.

6) It’s OK to be busy sometimes with lots of different projects. Someday you’ll look back on your life and say, “I can’t believe I did all that cool stuff!”

7) It is also OK to say no to things and unplug your computer, turn off your phone and pretend to not be home for a night.

8. Self care is not vanity or self-indulgence. Taking care of yourself does not mean you are weak and lazy. In the end, your mental, emotional and physical health is all you’ve got so do your best to preserve it! If you are healthy you will do better at your job and be a better partner, lover, friend, artist, etc.

9) Taking time to connect with your true friends is worth it, even if it always seems like there is never enough time.

10) Following your curiosity is always worth it. Money spent on travel and education is also always worth it. That being said, don’t live on credit. Figure out what you can live without in order to afford living that adventurous lifestyle you crave.

11) Don’t let somebody else’s dreams or expectations of you define what you want to do with your life.

12) Don’t dwell on your most negative interpretation of yourself. If you spend too much time being self-critical, you’ll never learn what your strengths are or become a better person.

13) Identify a few core things about yourself that you are proud of, things about you that will never change regardless of your life situation. Use those things as a touchstone to come back to when you are questioning who you are, when somebody else isn’t treating you right, or you need to make a major life decision.

14) Learn to like the body you are in. Work on trying to love it.

15) Never ever be afraid to speak up for yourself.

16) Everything you need is right inside you. You can’t always get what you need from other people, so learn how to achieve goals and feel good about yourself independently without somebody elses’ approval or support.

17) That being said, no woman is an island. Learn how to ask for love, care and support when you need it. Sometimes your loved ones can’t read your mind.

18) You are smart, don’t downplay your accomplishments. Just stand securely with them.

19) If you are itching to take a risk or make a change, chances are it is a good risk or change, chances are you will be successful in your venture. Don’t ever be afraid of the future. Just do it.

20) You always deserve to strive for more, be it more happiness, more life fulfillment, more love, more adventure, a more satisfying job, whatever. If you want it and you are willing to work hard to get it, you owe it to yourself to go for it. Settling for life being just OK is never enough. Strive to be enormously satisfied with everything you do, set realistic incremental goals and don’t be too hard on yourself if you don’t get exactly what you want right away. In the words of Cheetah Rivera, “Try not to take yourself too seriously, but always take your work seriously.”

Well That Was A Great Christmas, Time To Blog About It!

Its become a habit. I’ll have a memorable experience, start writing the blog entry in my head before I’m even through with it and possibly even cut the experience short, just to go home and blog about it while its still fresh. What can I say? It’s a disease.

So it’s Christmas. I’m at Cape Cod with the fam. To begin with, there is something deliciously special about being someplace when you’re not supposed to be there. That’s what made sledding at the golf course or heck, even going to school at night for the spaghetti supper so cool when I was a kid. Or maybe I just didn’t get out enough. Who knows.

The Cape is a summer place for my family. Right now when I look out the window it’s sunny and bright, if I didn’t know better I might think it’s summer out there. But it’s a little quieter. There’s no boats on the water, no bikes on the street. Everything’s a little barer, whiter, more zen.

We used to beg my parents to let us come down the Cape for Christmas, but there was always some excuse. It’s too far, it’s too much work, we’re expected to host people at home, yada, yada, yada.

But this year is different. To begin with, my mom made seared Ahi Tuna and crabmeat sushi for dinner last night.

That’s right, my uber-Italian, pasta making, never met a spice she liked, never met a dish that she didn’t think could be improved by red sauce made Asian food for dinner. Normally my mom won’t touch anything made with seaweed in it with a ten foot pole. In fact, she’s known for being so food unaventurous that it’s become sort of a tradition that every time my mom goes out of town my dad, sister and I find the most unusual restaurant we can and order the weirdest, spiciest things off the menu. One time we went to this Malaysian place in Harvard Square where my sister got an entire pan fried trout with the head on and everything.

But last night, instead of making raviolis, we all fumbled around the kitchen making sticky rice, slicing avocado and rolling Nori. It was a blast. Then we trimmed the fake tree! Seeing a Christmas tree glimmering in the front windows of our summer house is quite the trip.

Then dad and I drank too much wine. We all went to bed snug with the wind howling around us outside.

The next day we woke up and decided to walk to Stage Harbor Light.

I think it’s kind of rad that the lighthouse used to be used as a secret stash for liquor during the prohabition days.

As always when I walked there, I imagined what it would be like to live all the way out on a sand dune in a lighthouse. I pretended that I was a heroine form an L.M Montgomery novel. Why not? Cape Cod 100 years ago must have looked very much like Prince Edward Island did 100 years ago. And there was nothing Emily of New Moon loved more than a solitary ramble. And hey, doesn’t the below picture of Harding’s Beach look just like the opening shots of the Anne of Green Gables mini series!? Cue the heartwarming music, this plucky young teen is about to teach the town curmudgeon to believe in kindred spirits again!

My sister ran about on the dunes documenting everything with her new camera.When we finally got home, mom had a pile of Italian anise cookies to decorate. The kind of soft, melty ones with the chocolate kisses on the inside. KO and I dipped them in homemade frosting and all sorts of different sugary toppings, just like we have since we were kids. Just like back then, I still have to resist the urge to put a single red-hot at each sugary crest, thus turning them into boob cookies. Mom still doesn’t think that joke is funny.

Now we’re hanging out by the tree, watching the CNN interview with Barack and Michelle Obama and making dinner and yes, blogging. I’m liking this whole guilt free, adult Christmas thing…

There’s No Do-Overs in Democracy!

As I stand there in the voting booth with my ballot and special voting marker in my sweaty little hands, I’m always momentarily gripped by an irrational fear that my hand is going to be overtaken by some sort of psychotic, masochistic impulse and I’ll fill in the wrong bubble, accidentally voting for my most hated candidate. I’ll realize what I’ve done and beg the poll workers to let me rip up my ballot and try again but to no avail “There’s no do-overs in democracy!” they’ll shout, and force me to tearfully cast my vote for Romney or Huckabee or whomever. This has to be some sort of residual test taking anxiety left over from my SAT days when no matter how much I knew I was gonna rock the analogies I’d still end up with stomach cramps at the mere scent of a freshly sharpened number two pencil.

Yet for many voters the feeling that their hand and their vote has been hijacked isn’t an irrational one. The other thing I always think of in the booth as I carefully blacken the appropriate bubble is how lucky I am that I live in a state where voting is simple and straight forward and I am not deliberately confused and intimidated at the polls. As I neurotically double check that I voted correctly I can’t help but think of the Florida butterfly ballot voting scandal and how my grandmother came back from the polls still unsure of exactly who she voted for. This is pretty ironic considering that the main reason why those ballots were made confusing in the first place was supposedly so that people who were more likely to vote liberal would end up casting the wrong vote. People like my grandparents who’ve been voting straight Republican since dirt was new are exactly who They (whomever they are) wanted to vote correctly, so joke’s on you, They.

Of course I’ll never know for sure if my grandma was truly as confused as she says she was or if she was feigning it in order to conceal her conservative voting habits from her hopelessly liberal family, but that’s beside the point. The point is that having only ever voted in MA I look at the ballot and think, how could anyone possibly screw this up? That’s the way voting should be, simple and straightforward. A cardboard ballot that needs no instructions with bubbles right next to your candidate’s name and a black indelible marker. None of this fancy-shmancy butterfly electronic hoo-ha dangit! When I see how transparent the voting process is in my state and how easy it is to cast an honest, unadulterated vote, I get furious at the thought that other people aren’t given the same chance to voice their opinions. We’ve cast paper ballots in MA for years with no problems. Especially with the fact that electronic ballots are so easy to tamper with, why would you even take the chance of using them in the first place? The only reason why would be if the integrity of the results wasn’t your number one concern.

I’m a daughter of the technological revolution just as much as any other 20-something but as far as I’m concerned paper ballots is one tradition that can’t be improved on. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to retire to my rocking chair and my knitting, children.

Dye, Dye, Dye My Darling…

(Originally posted on 11/26/07)

Cue the getting to know you music…

Part The First, Wherin Our Heroine Has A Hair Emergency:

Caution…

I’m having a quirky fictional character moment.

At the ripe age of almost 30 I should be having significantly fewer of these.

Anne Shirley was an adolescent when she accidentally dyed her hair green, much like I was too when I dyed my hair magenta for the first time and ended up dying my scalp my fingers and the back of my neck hi-liter pink in the process. I had an excuse then, I don’t now.

I got the idea in my head that I wanted to dye my hair bright red for the winter. I wear so much black once it gets cold out that I can’t stand the idea of my hair being black too. So I went out and found the brightest, “Don’t try this at home unless you are a trained professional”, red I could find and slathered it on my head tonight. And of course… I succeeded only in dying my roots bright, Raggedy Anne Crayola Red. The rest of my hair is still decidedly black.

So I did what any impulsive fictional character did, I decided to mitigate damages my giving myself a haircut. I figured the contrast would be less noticeable if there was less hair on my head.

Let’s deconstruct this sentence a little more.

I. gave. MYSELF. A haircut.

Now there is a reason why I never became a hairdresser and I’ve known it ever since I decided to give my Barbie her first haircut at the age of 5.

I suck at it, and my ability to deftly wield scissors has only marginally improved since I was wee.

I gave myself the most uneven haircut you can imagine. I had to actually force myself to stop trying to make it even because every snip was making me look more and more deranged.

The hair is in fact, reminiscent of Angela Chase nee Claire Danes in the My So Called Life episode when she dyes her hair that ubiquitous mid-nineties bright red that all rebellious teenage girls dyed their hair in those days.

I could try and rock this as if I am ironically bringing the 90s back in that self-conscious, self referential way that we Gen-Yers love to do. While I’m at it I’ll bust out dad’s old flannels too. Yet again, may I point out that it is not as attractive on me because I am not a slightly awkward yet poised beyond her years adolescent girl with an unnaturally attractive make out buddy. (God bless Jared Leto in those years before he got all bloaty and pouty!) Unlike Claire Daines, I have not blossomed into an articulate and well heeled ivy league graduate. I am a spastic perpetual student and sometimes teacher who often feels hardly more mature than her students and will look hardly more mature than her students with her hair this way.

This tragedy couldn’t have happened at a worse time. It is Thanksgiving. I have to see my parents the day after tomorrow. Surely this will not go unnoticed by my mom who last time we saw each other felt the need to point out that my pointed Bettie Page bangs were “uneven”. Like Ramona Quimby I informed her that my bangs weren’t uneven, it was a pixie cut. Unlike Ramona, I was not rewarded for being precocious. That doesn’t work for me any more.

So here I am, nearly ten years out of teenage-hood and still wanting to slump against my locker in a strop. Here I am practically old enough for wrinkles and yet still living in dread of parental digs about my hair of all things.

You know all that stuff they told you about becoming a grown up? I’m officially here to tell you that it’s all a lie…