In Other "News," Turns Out Women Like Getting Laid, Too

"It is by now pretty well understood that traditional dating in college has mostly gone the way of the landline, replaced by “hooking up” — an ambiguous term that can signify anything from making out to oral sex to intercourse — without the emotional entanglement of a relationship.

Until recently, those who studied the rise of hookup culture had generally assumed that it was driven by men, and that women were reluctant participants, more interested in romance than in casual sexual encounters. But there is an increasing realization that young women are propelling it, too." —"Sex on Campus: She Can Play that Game, Too," by Kate Taylor

“Sex on Campus: She Can Play that Game, Too,” an article published in The New York Times on July 12, begins with a description of a young woman called A. When “A.” finishes her night’s worth of studying, she texts “her regular hookup, the guy she is sleeping with but not dating.” As the article goes on to describe: “He texted back: Come over. So she did. They watched a little TV, had sex and went to sleep.”

Apparently, it’s noteworthy that college women are more interested in pursuing their degrees, partying with their friends, and getting laid than falling in love and being in a relationship. While I see the good intentions behind articles such as this—women are driven; women want to have sex; women like to work hard and then party hard—ultimately this article, like many others on this topic, leaves me only rolling my eyes and feeling angry.

Why am I rolling my eyes? I’m rolling my eyes because in 2013 it’s only “an increasing realization” that women are propelling casual sexual encounters. I’m rolling my eyes because of women like Susan Patton, “the Princeton alumna and mother who in March wrote a letter to The Daily Princetonian urging female undergraduates not to squander the chance to hunt for a husband on campus,” who said:

“I thought, ‘My gosh, what have we come to that these brilliant young women are afraid to say that marriage and children are significant parts of what they view as their lifelong happiness?’ ” Ms. Patton said.

“They have gotten such strong, vitriolic messages from the extreme feminists saying, ‘Go it alone — you don’t need a man,’ ” she added.

First off: Plenty of brilliant young women truly don’t view marriage and children as significant factors to their lifelong happiness. It's not that they're afraid to say it. They actually aren’t interested. Shocking! Second: LESBIANS. They exist. Fucking acknowledge that. Not every woman is straight. (Maybe the group she talked to were all straight women interested in marriage and children, but that is simply not representative of every woman.)

But then we get to the “strong, vitriolic messages from the extreme feminists” and I just have to laugh. As this article points out: “But, in fact, many of the Penn women said that warnings not to become overly involved in a relationship came not from feminists, but from their parents, who urged them to be independent.”

(So none of these parents are feminists? Sounds to me like parents who urge their daughters to be independent and driven are exactly that.)

Now, why am I angry? I’m not angry because of this article. I’m angry because this article has to exist in the first place. I’m angry that the first young woman interviewed for this story was only comfortable being addressed as A., which is not even the initial of her first name! The need for anonymity was so important that she was only comfortable using her middle initial.

And why?

“Because they believed that talking publicly about sex could come back to haunt them — by damaging their reputations at Penn, their families’ opinions of them or their professional future — the women spoke on the condition that their full names would not be revealed. Most are identified by their first or middle names or by a middle initial.”

Reputations. Family opinions. Professional futures. These are the things at stake if women dare to not only be free with their sexuality, but are free to speak about it openly. And even with the anonymity, A. was still not comfortable revealing how many sexual partners she has had!

Perhaps articles like this are a step in the right direction for women, and our right to be sexual beings, just as men. But I long for the day where these articles aren’t necessary.

Where women who say they “hook up” rather than pursue relationships because they’re focused foremost on their studies aren’t, in turn, scared that this choice would jeopardize those future opportunities, should their identities be revealed.

I’d like to read an article about women hooking up that doesn’t include the inevitable rape plotline, with the underlying message that women must be wary about getting too drunk, because then what might have been a casual hookup could turn into a casual rape.

I’d like to read about results of a sociologist’s study that doesn’t result in saying that men aren’t focused on pleasing women in hookups because of the sexual double standard, “which sometimes causes men to disrespect women precisely for hooking up with them.” And that women aren’t judging other women for their sexual experiences and reputations!

Enough already!

Now let’s listen to En Vogue!

FREE YOUR MIND.

Teenage Terrors, and Why Girlfriends Are So Damned Great

It used to be a joke, of sorts, between my brother and me, about my lack of close girlfriends. I’m happy to say that it’s no longer a joke that fits—and to be clear, I always had some female friends, but for a long time, I never really felt like I belonged in a group of women.

Maybe it’s due to growing up with two older brothers, and that awkward transition from being a proud tomboy into, what, exactly I don’t know—me?—but for many years I felt like I was missing something inherent to being female. In high school, when I’d be in a group of girls, I felt like I was playing a role, and not doing a good job of it.

And then, the little betrayals among us girls: the talking behind each other’s backs. The jealousy. The sheer meanness of teenage girls! Is there anything scarier than a teenage girl? I can’t think of a thing. (Oh, wait. I can. THIS.)

I didn’t trust other girls. The same girl that would be nice to me in youth group one Sunday would call me a slut when I passed her in the hallway at school on Monday. When a girl I didn’t know that well would act nice, or compliment me on something, I would be wary, thinking to myself, “What’s the catch?”

Maybe it’s because I was guilty of it, too. One of my deepest disappointments in myself as a teenager was the way I turned my back, and friendship, on someone I’d been close with since I was in elementary school. Maybe not entirely, and I guess she and I could both agree that we had different interests, and different circles of friends in high school, but I remember in junior high, as I started becoming friends with another girl, the little betrayals I enacted upon her. They were so slight, so subtle, that only she and I would be able to recognize them. Now, I’m delighted to say we are close, close friends again—she is more than a friend, she is family—but I saw an ugliness in myself that I wasn’t proud of, and didn’t like. Chalk it up to teenage angst and insecurities, but it still added to my general distrust of the female population.

Were we all poised to attack each other at any moment? And if so, why?

Today I was delighted to read this article by the incomparable Tavi Gevinson, a teenager and founder of Rookie Mag. She talks about why it’s so common for teenage girls to be jealous of each other, and hate each other. I loved every little bit of it. I wish every 15-year-old girl could read it.

But it made me think of these girl problems I used to have. It wasn’t just my crazy, secret competition with another girl in my class, who happened to also play all the same sports with me, was my top competitor for the top grades, and generally just got in my way. My girl problems escalated to serious degrees in high school, when the rumor mill got the best of me, and suddenly I went from being an innocent, smart tomboy to the whispered-about SLUT that everyone had just heard some story about from the past weekend.

Sophomore year, if I wasn’t crying in the guidance counselor’s office, I was busy pretending I couldn’t hear girls exclaiming, “There goes the slut!” as I walked down the hallway, or avoiding a confrontation with an angry girl who’d show up at my locker with three of her friends demanding to know JUST WHAT I THOUGHT I WAS DOING GOING AFTER HER BOYFRIEND.

Look: I wasn’t completely innocent of everything. But be guilty of one thing—just one thing!—and suddenly, everything that’s said about you, high school kids deem to be the real deal.

It has taken me years to get over some of the shit that happened in high school, and I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t still sometimes get a little angry thinking about it. Once, when I was visiting my brother—and he was in graduate school by this point—we ran into one of the girls that had been mean to me in high school. She said hello to me, and I stormed back over to Jay, saying something like, “How DARE she be nice to me?” He looked at me, took a drink of his beer, and said simply, “Al, get over it. It was high school.”

He was right. But to me, it wasn’t just high school! It was everything. It was how these girls made me feel so, so low. That’s a hard feeling to shake.

I hated everyone. I trusted no one.

Except for my mother. She was the only person—and more importantly, woman, I knew, wholeheartedly, that I could confide in and trust. She wouldn’t betray me; she wouldn’t use my secrets against me at any point. Most importantly, she did not judge me.

As I get older, these are the traits I cling to, and search for, in my female friends. (And, of course, with men, but that’s a whole other issue to tackle, isn’t it?) I found these traits in Diana, my amazing college roommate, who sat on a curb with me outside a fraternity party while I drunkenly and crazily sobbed about how my mother had just died. I found them in Abby, my dear friend I met waiting tables one summer in college, who wouldn’t blink an eye when I told her about some stupid thing I’d done the night before.

By some lucky twist of fate, I went to London, and found this entire group of women who I could laugh with, explore with, and just be me. For the first time, in a group of females, I no longer felt like I was playing a role. I was so lucky to move to Chicago, where one of these girls, Beth, also lived. She has continued to be the best confidant I could ever ask for, and someone I can always trust.

And when I first moved to Chicago, I got a job at a neighborhood bar. As soon as I walked in my first shift, those high school feelings started sparking up again. The entire staff consisted of pretty, hip girls. MY WORST NIGHTMARE. I sat at a back table, filling out my paperwork, and stared, terrified, at one of the servers. She was wearing bright red lipstick, a cute little hat, and was covered in tattoos, walking around like she didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought of her.

I was scared shitless. I looked down at my boring outfit and compared myself to her coolness. She terrified me. The other girls, who’d already been working together for a few weeks, laughed together and teased each other. I wanted to die. I would never fit in.

As it turns out, that server was Rachel, who has become one of my closest friends. And it didn’t take long until I was laughing and joking with the other girls. What was I so afraid of, anyway?

It didn’t take too long until I was reminded. On my birthday the following year, I had finished my shift and was having a drink with a guy friend of mine when a new girl, Lauren, started her first shift. I had ridiculously made up my mind already that I wasn’t going to like her, for no other reason than my manager had given her my coveted Wednesday night closing shift. I watched her waiting tables, looking nothing but cute, nice, and eager, and I thought, “Hmmph.”

Oh, Alison. Luckily, it didn’t take me long to come around. She and I had only worked together a few shifts, and I hadn’t talked to her all that much, when one weekend morning, we opened the restaurant together. I didn’t know her at all, but as I was talking to her about making iced tea or something, I saw it in her eyes. Something had happened. Something was wrong.

Next thing I knew, she was telling me about what had happened to her the night before. Let’s just say, without telling anyone’s secrets here, that it was reminiscent of things that had happened to me in high school that sparked rumors. I felt so horrible about my ridiculous, quick judgments of her. Duh. I had been jealous of her! As she talked, and was clearly fighting back tears, I knew we were going to end up being friends. I felt good that she sensed something about me that she could trust. I told her I’d have her back, and I did. And she did the same for me not much later, following me into the bathroom one day when I was crying over some stupid dude.

What's really great about all this is the fact that I could keep going, and going. I haven't even mentioned some of my closest female friends! I'd love to, but I think you get the point, right? 

That’s what’s so great about other women. If only you let them, they can be your best allies. And not only that, the best kind of female friends will remind you of what the brilliant, young Miss Tavi said, something that both girls and boys, men and women, can benefit from:

“No one can be a better version of yourself than you.”

It's Women's History Month! Let's Party. Er, Read.

Today marks the start of Women's History Month! Who's ready to party? I know THIS guy is:

what a dick!

Just kidding! We all know Rush Limbaugh hates women. We also should know he's a raging lunatic undeserving of our time. And as such, I promise never, ever, to put his ugly mug on this blog again.

Now, back to the important stuff: Women's History Month. 

[via feministing]

So, how to celebrate it? History is so borrrrring, after all. Hmm. Lucky for you, I have an idea.

READ! (A Book. Written By a Woman.)

I personally like to celebrate my geekiness things such as this with some great reading. I recently started Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook, and seeing as how it makes my bag weigh approximately 50 pounds, I imagine I'll be reading it for much of the month. Now, if you don't really feel like committing to a 640-page book at the moment, maybe don't read that one. But I've been staring at it for the last year as it sat on my bookshelf, so now is the time for me.

Can't think of anything you'd like to read? Never fret, my dears. I have some suggestions:

For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf, by Ntozake Shange
This book was the inspiration behind the title of my blog. 'So what?' You say. 'I saw the Tyler Perry movie.' I say, WOOF! He ruined it. Read the choreopoem instead. Here's one reason why.

I Am No One You Know, by Joyce Carol Oates
One of my all-time favorite short story collections, by one of my all-time favorite writers. Her story "The Girl With The Blackened Eye" will haunt you for days.

Emma, by Jane Austen
A classic! And then after you read it, you can watch the movie. And then watch Clueless. You're welcome.

Mighty Be Our Powers, by Leymah Gbowee
A moving memoir about the Liberian Civil War, and how Gbowee led an army of women to help bring her nation peace. This woman's strength and courage will blow your mind.

Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) by Mindy Kaling
Because you're going to need a good laugh after reading that memoir.

I have plenty more suggestions I will gleefully talk about at exhausting length, so if these aren't doing it for you, tell me and I'll promptly give you five more ideas. That's right. FIVE.

And ladies, if the 'War on Women' is bringing you down, just remember to always say:

Happy reading! (I hope.)

Thoughts after my tour of North Milwaukee Avenue.

I left work at The Media Consortium this afternoon (Yes, work, not interning. Don’t use that dirty word in my presence) and braced myself for the headache that would ensue.

I was about to brave traffic at 3:30 on a Monday afternoon. Why would I embark on this silly adventure, you might ask.

Two crucial reasons:

1. Ran out of birth control pills.
2. Needed to exchange shoes at the Gap outlet.

Before you start complaining to your computer screen that I’ve now crossed the line to talking about my contraceptives, slow your roll for a second. Or maybe you’re appalled that I’m not only shopping at the Gap, but mentioning it on my blog.

Either way: Bear with me. For one thing, I like the Gap. I can’t help it. Their sweaters are comfy and brightly colored! Hooray!

Second, and more importantly: the birth control pills. Because I no longer have the luxury of IU health insurance and my fabulous ob-gyn in Bloomington, once my prescription ran out earlier this year, I had to resort to what I did in my poor college days—becoming a patient at Planned Parenthood (PP).

In order to get the sliding-scale cost, I had had to go to the only location in Chicago that still has the funding necessary to make these services possible. (Note that I said the only location. In all of Chicago.) And how lucky for the women of Chicago, this location is in a pretty bad neighborhood that made my K-town bred self a little frightened in broad daylight. Seriously. I felt like a police officer should have escorted me into the building.

Although when I was there, the receptionist took one look at me and argued that I wasn’t eligible for the reduced rate—maybe I was wearing an especially brightly colored Gap sweater day?—after I showed her my miserable paycheck, my situation improved. I was able to get my annual exam, STD testing, an HIV test, three months of pills, and more condoms than anyone could possibly need in a lifetime, all for free. Yes. FREE.

Mondays, Mums, and Mom

Because Mondays are my day off, for me, it’s always a disconcerting way to start the week, one totally devoid of any real responsibility or need to be anywhere outside of my apartment. By early afternoon, I’m restless, irritable, and feel useless: Shouldn’t I be doing something?

I miss Monday afternoons at my old job, because even if I didn’t have a pressing deadline, or a meeting to go to, I was still needed somewhere. I had a responsibility. What I wouldn’t give for some metadata to work on right now! Because even though that was the most boring and mundane aspect of being a content specialist, it still was important for each website. Now the most mundane aspect of my job is a toss-up between stuffing napkin holders and refilling ketchup bottles. Yeesh.

So in recent weeks, I’ve developed a new routine of heading out of my apartment, into the real world, every Monday afternoon. Usually, like today, I take a book to Starbucks. If I’m feeling ambitious, sometimes my journal gets pulled out of my bag and I attempt to write. Just an hour sitting in public, drinking my chai (or my pumpkin spice latte, this week), and reading my book, and my restlessness begins to calm, and I don’t feel quite so useless. I should probably be taking this time to apply for jobs, but that has the opposite affect on my psyche.

But today my Monday ritual got me so fired up that after two hours of reading, I finally had to put the book down. (I’m reading The Women’s Room, by Marilyn French.)

Cry me a river.

"Ladies, if you're in the habit of driving yourselves home after having a few, convinced you can talk your way out of a DUI -- think again."

So starts Zach Christman's article regarding escalating DUI arrests of women in Chicago. The Sun-Times reported that the rise in arrests of women "probably reflects a change in attitude by police."

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for it. I think it's ridiculous that a police officer would let a woman get off from a DUI for simply being a woman. Certainly, you shouldn't be able to cry your way out of a ticket. It only perpetuates sexist treatment of women if we take advantage of the system in such a way. Of course, I'm sure I probably would burst into tears if I got caught drinking and driving--but not because I'm a woman trying to talk my way out of it. I'd start crying because I would know my dumbass was in some major trouble. But that's beside the point. I cry if my cat looks at me the wrong way. I'm a crier. Yet I do understand that some women admittedly purposely try crying to get out of tickets. I'm not pretending this doesn't happen.

HOWEVER. Is it really necessary for this writer to start his article with such a condescending tone? If you're going to talk about women crying their way out of tickets, you better back it up with evidence, as the Sun-Times did when the article mentioned video surveillance. That's fine. I get it. It happens: Some women cry. Some women try to beg their way out of tickets. But I'm pretty sure if I asked my brother Tom, a police officer, he'd tell me that men try to plead their way out of tickets too.

So can we cut the patronizing bullshit, please? This is so unnecessary:

"Women who plead and cry don't get a break like they used to.

So ladies, if you're getting behind the wheel, keep the tap closed -- both on your water works and the one behind the bar."

Thanks, buddy. I'll try to keep the tap closed on my water works. Even his use of the term "ladies" feels insulting to me. Insulting and annoying.

So, LADIES, here's my advice:

Don't drink and drive. Obviously. Cabs are lined up outside bars in Chicago for a reason. Use them.

Don't ever feel bad for crying, but for God's sake, don't do it to weasel out of a ticket. I want to be treated equally ALL the time, not just when it's convenient for me.

Okay. Whew. I feel better now. I haven't ranted about anything in a week or two. I was actually a little excited when I felt those first twinges of annoyance as I read this article.

I'M BACK!