Dammit, Hubble!

Ohmyfuckinggod, you guys.

So, I haven't blogged in a hundred years (or, a week and a half) but that's because I've been busy. Busy feeling lots of feelings. Busy writing Groupon deals about fish pedicures and cider houses and laser hair treatments. Many of these deals happen in Canada, which means I've also been busy plotting my escape to Montreal, where I will read novels and eat biscotti in quaint cafes and I'll parle francais and be so very, very chic. I've also been busy celebrating the birth of Santa, which means I've been drinking egg nog, baking cookies, and snuggling with the cats. Basically the things I normally do, except I get to listen to more Mariah Carey than usual.

ANYWAY. The point is ... THE POINT IS, my waitressing shift was cut short today due to the fact that it's post-Jesus' birthday party, and everyone is hibernating in their homes because they're hungover and just gained 10 more pounds from all of the food they've been shoveling in their fat faces. So, I pocketed the whopping ten dollars earned from my five customers, and I took my exhausted ass home.

I had been daydreaming at work about watching an old movie in bed, cozied up with Layla and wearing my favorite sweatpants. And that is exactly what happened, Rainbow groupies!

I just watched "The Way We Were" for the first time.

Oh. Holy. Crap.

Where do I begin? Obviously I already knew all about it, because of this "Sex and the City" episode. ("Oh GAWD, Alison is talking about 'Sex and the City' AGAIN? What kind of feminist IS SHE?" SHUT UP. It's my thing. I love it. Moving on.)

Oh, Katie.

But how could I have known just how incredible Barbra Streisand was as Katie? She has big, big hair and is political and wants to save the world. She has embarrassing, loud, emotional outbursts at parties when people make stupid jokes. She has long, bright red nails and books scattered all over her apartment. And she is completely, batshit crazy in love with this dude named Hubble.



THIS guy:

Hubble!

Now, since I know you're all going to pull up Netflix to find this movie (when you're done reading this, of course, because you're not a jerk), you are in luck. Watch instantly. Observe how Barbra Streisand constantly looks at Robert Redford like she wants to take a big bite out of him. (Like right here.) I mean, of course she does. HE'S ROBERT FUCKING REDFORD. Did you see him? Let's take another look, shall we?

I love it. I love staring at Robert Redford's face and his annoyingly gorgeous blonde hair for an hour and 58 minutes. I love watching Barbra Streisand shriek, "Her husband is DEAD! DEAD! Did you tell the cripple jokes too? Is there anything that isn't a joke to you people?!" (and then throws back a martini while Hubble shuffles his newspaper, embarrassed). I love watching a movie where the couple doesn't end up happily ever after. ("Why did you bring me here? I mean, couldn't we have gone for a walk or sit on a bench somewhere?") Oh, Katie. I feel ya, girl.

Except, umm, you guys? Just cause your marriage failed because Hubble's sort of a philistine and Katie feels too many feelings, does that really mean Hubble just quits the idea of being a dad to their daughter Rachel? C'mon, you two. I think you can put the complicated feelings to the side for the kid's sake. At the end of the movie, when he's with his stupid looking new wife who can't hold a candle to Barbra Streisand's huge-ass hair and gorgeous cat eyes, he asks if Katie's new husband is a good father. Um, NOT GOOD ENOUGH, you gorgeous, shallow moron. You better be using the money from your stupid TV show for child support, cheater. Now go finish your fucking novel, Hubble. You can't ride on those good looks forevvah.

Okay! That's it! I feel better now.

Don't you?

Fine. NOW you do:




Okay, I think I have to stare at young Robert Redford some more.

I'll be sure to let you all know how it goes.

The Art of Timing

The other day, for what might have been the first time in my life, I ran out of shampoo and conditioner at the exact same time. After I used the last of my shampoo, I grabbed the bottle of conditioner, expecting that, like usual, I would still have at least a fourth of the bottle left.

I held out my hand and squeezed the bottle. As the dollop of conditioner shot onto my palm, it made the kind of squirting noise that only happens when you’re squeezing something that’s almost empty—you know, that squirt! that tends to make people uncomfortable for some reason when you’re out to eat and the ketchup bottle does it. (I mean, is it really necessary to always make fart jokes when this happens? It makes me feel like I’m permanently in a high school cafeteria.)

I couldn’t believe it. I had used the last of my shampoo and conditioner at the exact same time. Do other people run out of these things at the same time, I wonder? Am I some kind of freak that this is an event? For me, it’s even more unlikely than it was to find a parking spot directly in front of my old apartment building in Chicago. Think about it: does anyone actually use the same amount of shampoo and conditioner each shower? I, for one, don’t keep measuring spoons in my shower. Because that would be weird.

Plus, sometimes maybe I don’t feel like conditioning. Or shampooing. Or maybe I want to use my deep conditioner that day. I don’t know. It just never happens. I stood in my shower and felt like something monumental had just occurred in my life.

After my shower, as I threw my empty Pantene bottles in the recycling bin, I felt so damn pleased with myself I wanted to celebrate. I had accomplished something. For once, I wouldn’t end up with two half-empty bottles of the same conditioner in my shower! When I normally run out of only shampoo, I still buy a bottle of shampoo and conditioner. I can’t stand to buy only the shampoo. They are a pair. A couple. Shampoo plus conditioner. You can’t just buy shampoo! It would be wrong. Who does that?

It’s amazing how rare it is to time anything perfectly in life. Even when it’s something ridiculous, like using the last of your shampoo and conditioner at the same time. I tend to find that my timing in life never makes any sense. Like right now, for example. I’m 26, and I recently moved back in with my dad. Most of my friends from college moved back in with their parents right after graduation. Now, they’re out on their own, making money and being grownups. I, on the other hand, landed a job right after college and didn’t have to do that. My timing was great right then, I had thought. I remember thinking how lucky I was that I didn’t have to move back home. I never imagined that only two years after landing the job I had agonized over for months, I would quit, move to Chicago and, slowly but surely, run completely out of money as I waited tables, interned, and hoped and waited for the full-time job that never came.

The timing of my move to Chicago was ridiculous. It was July 2008, and there really weren’t any jobs to be had. So why, why, would any reasonable adult in her right mind quit a good job with fantastic benefits? WHY? Why not at least wait until she found a job in said city before quitting the good job?

Jessica Valenti is my feminist icon (but I still like Carrie Bradshaw)

I've been singing Jessica Valenti's praises since I first picked up her book Full Frontal Feminism in 2007. I bought it, went home, read it cover-to-cover, and thought, "At last! I've found her! My feminist self!"

She was funny. She was realistic. She said 'fuck' (a lot). But mainly, she was dead fucking on. As I blogged for The Bloomington Alternative after first discovering Valenti:

"The writing is accessible, funny, full of the actual f-word and other profanities, but most importantly, right to the point. She’s not talking strictly to heterosexual, white females; she recognizes that men also face sexist standards; and she addresses issues that young women deal with on a daily basis, whether we’re conscious of it or not."

Finally, I had found my brand of feminism. I was already a dedicated Bitch magazine reader; I'd taken a gender studies course or two; I had read plenty of feminist lit. Yet still not one feminist voice had completely struck a chord with me since my mother, the ultimate and initial feminist force in my life, had passed away in 2002. Valenti was speaking my language. I was in love.

Soon, I was jumping full-force into feminism in a way I never quite had before. I bookmarked Feministing, the blog Valenti founded, on both my home and work computers, and began telling anyone and everyone who would listen about it. I began paying attention to the news, advertisements, and pop culture in a way I never quite had before—and began blogging about it more and more. When I was interning for In These Times last fall, I suggested interviewing Valenti for a Web feature, "20 Questions," and actually squealed when I saw a reply email from her in my inbox. (I didn't actually interview her ultimately, but ITT did run the piece.)

In the last year, I really feel like I've grown into my feminist identity, and I have Valenti to thank for a lot of that. But my feminist identity started at a young age, with my mother constantly expounding feminist rhetoric my way (even if I didn't recognize it as such). I'd be remiss if I also didn't mention my father's role in shaping me as a feminist. He might not use the F-word directly, but damn if he isn't more of a feminist than some of the women I know. Not only did I get a first-hand glimpse of male-female relationships with an equal power balance from witnessing his relationship with my mom, he was always (if not so loudly as my mother) vocal that I could do anything a boy could do. I didn't realize until I was an adult how big of an influence that had, and continues to have, on the way I view relationships and my world in general.

And this is another reason why I so quickly fell in love with Valenti's brand of feminism: She got it! Men are feminists too! As she wrote in Full Frontal Feminism, "The same social mores that tell young women that they should be good little girls are telling guys to be tough, to quash their feelings, and even to be violent. Their problems are our problems, ladies. Men aren't born to rape and commit violence. Men aren't naturally 'tougher' emotionally. These gendered expectations hurt men like they hurt us."