I don't feel like offending anyone today so let me state, at the beginning of this post, that what I will be talking about today is the stereotypical male fantasy as I see it. Whether this fanciful ideal is the same as most men's (or any man's for that matter) is completely up for debate. It probably isn't. Still, on the off chance that it is, I've got some pretty solid reasoning why women should actually want to be this male fantasy. Don't worry, ladies, it's not for him; it's for you.
The way I see it, the ideal woman is part homemaker, part sports fanatic, and part sex kitten.
1. Suzy Homemaker
Now, this doesn't mean that you drop everything to go make your boo a sandwich. You also don't need to wear a dress, heels, jewelry, and full make-up in the kitchen. And it definitely doesn't mean that the kitchen is your sole domain. This is not the 1950's, jeans and a t-shirt will more than suffice, as well as a business suit. My point is that if your man looks to you for guidance in cooking related matters, he's willingly forfeiting control. And what should do with that control? Take it, honey.
Let's be real: if you don't do the cooking, he will. And by "will" I mean "will heat up some frozen mush in the microwave or order in pizza." Both options are not good for the wallet or the waistline. Of course, there are exceptions to this rule. Some guys are great cooks. However, the ones whose only wish is to have a woman cook for them probably first made this wish after one too many burnt Hot Pockets. Personally, I like cooking because I'm a health freak. I like to know exactly what I am putting into my body, so I'm no stranger in the kitchen. But you don't have to be a health freak to be a domestic goddess. There's just something so fulfilling in nourishing yourself and the ones you love, and nothing does that as well as a homemade meal.
2. The Girl Who Looks Great in An Oversized Jersey
Okay, so I really don't have a heck of a lot of experience in this one but, oddly enough, I want to. I'd love some guy to take me to a baseball/football/soccer game just because I like to be passionate about things. I had a discussion recently with one of my writing teachers in which we talked about how we are taught to be passionate but at the same time taught not to get too attached to the things about which we are passionate. If you're afraid to get too attached to the make or break things you love in your life, then you should at least be open to become crazy obsessed about one sport, one team, one player. If you've forgotten what it's like to really care about something, becoming a sports fanatic might just do the trick. Nothing gets the blood pumping more than accidentally catapulting a bowl of chips off the table because your favorite player on your favorite team just made an amazing score. You don't necessarily need to embrace your guy's favorite sport or team; in fact, it's better if you don't. Remember, this is for you, not him. So what if you fall in love with his team's arch enemy? Rivalry is sexy.
3. The Freak in the Sheets
This doesn't mean that you give it up on the first date or even in the first month of the relationship. However, once you think that it's the right time with the right person, there's no shame in getting busy. The only problem with relationships, in my opinion, is staying busy. It's a commonly held belief that great sex is the key to a great relationship. Of course, there's a million other factors, but sex is an important one. So, I think that us women should stop witholding sex and using it as a bartering chip.
First of all, I'm pretty sure that's a type of emotional extortion. And if we've learned anything from Cleopatra, who treated both Caesar and Marc Antony as her playthings, it doesn't end well. But more importantly, if you withold sex from your man, you also withold sex from yourself. Sure, there are plenty of ways to get around the nether region embargo, but you lose the emotional connection that makes sex worthwhile. Maybe it's easy for some women to withhold sex because they aren't being fulfilled by their partner. In my opinon, practice makes perfect, as well does telling the other person what you like. I think that women need to become more comfortable in their sexuality so that they can feel free to express their preferences to their partners. The history of women is a history of sexual repression, and nothing needs to be fucked in this world more than that idea.
What I want women to take away from all of this is that sometimes the best version of yourself is someone you never expected. Beyond that, the best version of yourself is the one that pleases you first. And if, by pleasing yourself, you happen to please someone else, well then all the better. You don't have to be the ideal male fantasy to be an amazing woman. You just have to take that fantasy, distort it until it properly aligns with your own...and who's to say it wasn't yours in the first place?
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Thursday, January 31, 2013
For Schulum
Today, in my creative writing class, we had a free-write exercise in which we had to write a 78 word story. The exercise was inspire by a contest Esquire magazine did two years ago to celebrate their 78th birthday. This is what I have to show for it.
For Schulum
He was a microwave man. He loved his wife's cooking, nuked after midnight and a long day. He had become accustomed to eating alone.
In the summer, his daughter came home and worked just as long as he did. They often shared a midnight snack. "You know how you live to be a hundred?" he said. "You never run for a train."
"Yes, but you don't get anywhere standing on a platform."
That September was brisker than usual.
For Schulum
He was a microwave man. He loved his wife's cooking, nuked after midnight and a long day. He had become accustomed to eating alone.
In the summer, his daughter came home and worked just as long as he did. They often shared a midnight snack. "You know how you live to be a hundred?" he said. "You never run for a train."
"Yes, but you don't get anywhere standing on a platform."
That September was brisker than usual.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Happy Birthday to Me
I'd rather not share the reason why I am awake at seven a.m. on my twentieth birthday. If there's anything I've learned over the past two decades, it is that we need a little mystery in our lives. That being said, let me reflect on this past score of years and begin my new one with a short story. Warning: this story is rather tragic so if you are predisposed to be tears, have your tissues at the ready.
Once upon a time there was a little girl who really liked the smell of rubber. No one, including herself, quite knew why, but the scent of such elastic entities tingled her senses. This little lady (who was not actually a princess but knew that if, given the chance, she would have been just darling at it) began a collection of small rubber animals which, although of various colors, were called "blue noses." She came up with an ingenious way to enjoy her blue noses, holding one under her actual nose while her thumb rested conveniently in her mouth. Soon enough, she began to believe that her face had been designed exclusively for the indulgence of blue noses, and who's to say that it wasn't?
At Christmas time of her third year, she wanted only one thing. To this day, her favorite Christmas present remains a veritable rarity. The gift in question was a Water Baby-- a baby doll made completely of rubber which one filled and refilled with water periodically. To most little girls, the appeal of such a toy was that it made the doll feel like a real baby. To me, the doll was a giant blue nose. You see, the little girl, having a propensity to carrying blue noses with her wherever she went, thereby had a tendency to leave a trail of blue noses behind her. She reasoned, in her toddler mind, that so big a blue nose would be impossible to lose.
On Christmas Eve, she was in a wrestling match with her winter coat and the closet which held it hostage when an unwrapped box fell down. She knew it upon sight. It was a perfect pastel colored box with a convenient cut out part covered in plastic. Through this plastic, she saw, for the first time, the face of perfection. A small button nose rested over sweet pink lips, only to be looked over by sparkling pink and purple eyes, all of which was blanketed by painted on golden swirls. It was love at first sight.
Of course, because their meeting was premature, the little girl put the doll back into her hiding place. That night she pretended to sleep, tossing and turning in anticipation of their official introduction. In the morning, she squealed with delight and feigned surprise at the newest addition to her family, Abigail.
From that day forward, smelling Abigail became her favorite recreational activity. Over time, her tan rubber skin began to shine, the blondness of her hair began to fade, and she lost a couple of fingers. Still, the little girl's love for her endured. Years passed, other presents came and went (including a second water baby that ended up being neglected and eventually went through an identity crisis and sex change), but Abigail was always by her side.
They remained this way for the next sixteen years. Not too much had changed in that space of time. The little girl had gained a younger sister, found her life's calling, fallen in love, but everything pretty much remained the same. Although she no longer sucked her thumb (and had already gone through an intense braces stage because of it), she did, indeed, still love her water baby and slept with her every night. It was after one such night that tragedy struck.
She was on a family vacation in San Diego. It was a two-week vacation, far too long to even think about being separated from her child. The first night, they fell asleep in each other's arms, like they always did. In the morning, the family packed up all of their things to go to a different hotel. Over the past nineteen years, she had gotten to so used to taking Abigail with her everywhere she went, it was second nature to put her safely in her suitcase. Yet, that night when she was unpacking it, she could not find the small, familiar rubber body. She searched the entire suitcase, as well as the rest of her family's, but Abigail was nowhere to be found. The realization was deadening. The entire family was sympathetic and involved in the search. Her father called the hotel four different times to try to see if she had been discovered but to no avail. The little girl left her doll, and part of her heart, in San Diego.
The next few months were difficult. Frequently, she went to bed ready to snuggle with her baby doll, only to remember the unfortunate, recent events. One time, there was even a split second when the not so little girl thought she felt Abigail while she was asleep, but it was just a knickknack. In the morning of her twentieth birthday, the not so little girl had a dream. She found Abigail hiding in a corner of her sister's room, and she could not have been happier...until she woke up. And as happy as she was on her birthday morning, she couldn't help but feel like something was missing.
So this is what I'm thinking about on the morning of my twentieth birthday. Not some party, some presents, or even some guy, but my favorite baby doll.
Once upon a time there was a little girl who really liked the smell of rubber. No one, including herself, quite knew why, but the scent of such elastic entities tingled her senses. This little lady (who was not actually a princess but knew that if, given the chance, she would have been just darling at it) began a collection of small rubber animals which, although of various colors, were called "blue noses." She came up with an ingenious way to enjoy her blue noses, holding one under her actual nose while her thumb rested conveniently in her mouth. Soon enough, she began to believe that her face had been designed exclusively for the indulgence of blue noses, and who's to say that it wasn't?
At Christmas time of her third year, she wanted only one thing. To this day, her favorite Christmas present remains a veritable rarity. The gift in question was a Water Baby-- a baby doll made completely of rubber which one filled and refilled with water periodically. To most little girls, the appeal of such a toy was that it made the doll feel like a real baby. To me, the doll was a giant blue nose. You see, the little girl, having a propensity to carrying blue noses with her wherever she went, thereby had a tendency to leave a trail of blue noses behind her. She reasoned, in her toddler mind, that so big a blue nose would be impossible to lose.
On Christmas Eve, she was in a wrestling match with her winter coat and the closet which held it hostage when an unwrapped box fell down. She knew it upon sight. It was a perfect pastel colored box with a convenient cut out part covered in plastic. Through this plastic, she saw, for the first time, the face of perfection. A small button nose rested over sweet pink lips, only to be looked over by sparkling pink and purple eyes, all of which was blanketed by painted on golden swirls. It was love at first sight.
Of course, because their meeting was premature, the little girl put the doll back into her hiding place. That night she pretended to sleep, tossing and turning in anticipation of their official introduction. In the morning, she squealed with delight and feigned surprise at the newest addition to her family, Abigail.
From that day forward, smelling Abigail became her favorite recreational activity. Over time, her tan rubber skin began to shine, the blondness of her hair began to fade, and she lost a couple of fingers. Still, the little girl's love for her endured. Years passed, other presents came and went (including a second water baby that ended up being neglected and eventually went through an identity crisis and sex change), but Abigail was always by her side.
They remained this way for the next sixteen years. Not too much had changed in that space of time. The little girl had gained a younger sister, found her life's calling, fallen in love, but everything pretty much remained the same. Although she no longer sucked her thumb (and had already gone through an intense braces stage because of it), she did, indeed, still love her water baby and slept with her every night. It was after one such night that tragedy struck.
She was on a family vacation in San Diego. It was a two-week vacation, far too long to even think about being separated from her child. The first night, they fell asleep in each other's arms, like they always did. In the morning, the family packed up all of their things to go to a different hotel. Over the past nineteen years, she had gotten to so used to taking Abigail with her everywhere she went, it was second nature to put her safely in her suitcase. Yet, that night when she was unpacking it, she could not find the small, familiar rubber body. She searched the entire suitcase, as well as the rest of her family's, but Abigail was nowhere to be found. The realization was deadening. The entire family was sympathetic and involved in the search. Her father called the hotel four different times to try to see if she had been discovered but to no avail. The little girl left her doll, and part of her heart, in San Diego.
The next few months were difficult. Frequently, she went to bed ready to snuggle with her baby doll, only to remember the unfortunate, recent events. One time, there was even a split second when the not so little girl thought she felt Abigail while she was asleep, but it was just a knickknack. In the morning of her twentieth birthday, the not so little girl had a dream. She found Abigail hiding in a corner of her sister's room, and she could not have been happier...until she woke up. And as happy as she was on her birthday morning, she couldn't help but feel like something was missing.
So this is what I'm thinking about on the morning of my twentieth birthday. Not some party, some presents, or even some guy, but my favorite baby doll.
Monday, November 26, 2012
On the Train
So I'm on the train from Amsterdam to Nijmegen right now and since I'm not doing my homework, I thought I might as well write a short blog post. I spent this weekend in Paris with my family. It was a great time, but I didn't enjoy it as much as I could have because I was so worried about meeting (surpassing) my family's expectations. You can't really screw up Paris too badly, but lil ole deranged me didn't realize that until right about...now. I think that we (or at least I) ruin a lot of things for ourselves. I don't know; I'll write a real travel writing piece about it some time.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- Dutch Wonderland
November 12, 2012
I bet you guys all thought #servergirlstruggz were over. Well, you were...right. I am safe across the good ole Atlantic, having found refuge from the American tyrants of my former restaurant in the Dutch countryside. However, I still haven't been able to shake entirely my servergirl tendencies. Traveling costs money, so when an on-campus job working in our tiny dining hall opened up, I jumped at the opportunity. Of course, this job is a little different than my last one...
IT'S WAY BETTER. There's a reason why I titled this post "Dutch Wonderland," and it's because I currently work in one.
First of all, the people with whom I work are great. Yanto, Nellie, and Stephan are the sweetest people in the entire world. They always ask me about where I'm traveling, joke with me in English, and even explain to me the things I don't understand in Dutch. Stephan also gives me special treatment in the dining hall now, assisting me on my daily quest for the perfect apple. Even though they don't understand how my classmates and I can consume so much peanut butter (apparently we eat more than previous years), we still get along swimmingly.
Another reason why I prefer this job is that it is far less stressful than waitressing in an American restaurant. Here, I am a dining hall assistant, meaning that my main duties are bussing tables and putting away plates and glasses. Compared to the constant sprinting/fetching/computing/fake smiling/hating my life I did this summer, my autumn job has been heaven. I only have to focus on one task at a time, and I'm even allowed to talk to my friends on their way out of the dining hall.
So of course, everything about this job is perfect, except for me. Sure, I wowed Stephan by taking initiative by putting food away and cleaning counters without being asked, but that probably doesn't make up for yesterday's incident.
I broke a pepper shaker. The tables at the dining hall have been newly decorated with long vases filled with water and flowers. While I was bussing a table, I accidentally knocked one of these vases over, which, in turn, sent a pepper shaker flying. Besides the obviously audible crash, brown powder covered the floor. I was waiting for a stern look, some rolled eyes, maybe even a bit of backstabbing chatter but was greeted with good natured laughter. Nellie smiled at me, Yanto shrugged his shoulders, and Stephan assured me, "Don't worry; happen all the time." I guess they must have found my American ineptitude adorable. Even so, I felt bad for my mistake and my mess, so I quickly grabbed the brush and dustpan and got to cleaning. No scolding was had, no report was made, no suspension was given.
In fact, we're all still good friends.
I bet you guys all thought #servergirlstruggz were over. Well, you were...right. I am safe across the good ole Atlantic, having found refuge from the American tyrants of my former restaurant in the Dutch countryside. However, I still haven't been able to shake entirely my servergirl tendencies. Traveling costs money, so when an on-campus job working in our tiny dining hall opened up, I jumped at the opportunity. Of course, this job is a little different than my last one...
IT'S WAY BETTER. There's a reason why I titled this post "Dutch Wonderland," and it's because I currently work in one.
First of all, the people with whom I work are great. Yanto, Nellie, and Stephan are the sweetest people in the entire world. They always ask me about where I'm traveling, joke with me in English, and even explain to me the things I don't understand in Dutch. Stephan also gives me special treatment in the dining hall now, assisting me on my daily quest for the perfect apple. Even though they don't understand how my classmates and I can consume so much peanut butter (apparently we eat more than previous years), we still get along swimmingly.
Another reason why I prefer this job is that it is far less stressful than waitressing in an American restaurant. Here, I am a dining hall assistant, meaning that my main duties are bussing tables and putting away plates and glasses. Compared to the constant sprinting/fetching/computing/fake smiling/hating my life I did this summer, my autumn job has been heaven. I only have to focus on one task at a time, and I'm even allowed to talk to my friends on their way out of the dining hall.
So of course, everything about this job is perfect, except for me. Sure, I wowed Stephan by taking initiative by putting food away and cleaning counters without being asked, but that probably doesn't make up for yesterday's incident.
I broke a pepper shaker. The tables at the dining hall have been newly decorated with long vases filled with water and flowers. While I was bussing a table, I accidentally knocked one of these vases over, which, in turn, sent a pepper shaker flying. Besides the obviously audible crash, brown powder covered the floor. I was waiting for a stern look, some rolled eyes, maybe even a bit of backstabbing chatter but was greeted with good natured laughter. Nellie smiled at me, Yanto shrugged his shoulders, and Stephan assured me, "Don't worry; happen all the time." I guess they must have found my American ineptitude adorable. Even so, I felt bad for my mistake and my mess, so I quickly grabbed the brush and dustpan and got to cleaning. No scolding was had, no report was made, no suspension was given.
In fact, we're all still good friends.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
A Vegan In the Land of Temptation
(Originally Written for iEatGrass.com)
Chocolate and waffles and fries, oh
my! Sorry for the corny intro, but that was my first reaction when I
went to Bruges, Belgium this weekend. While the scenery was as
beautiful as the land of Oz, vegan food was almost as elusive as the
Wizard himself. Luckily, I found my Emerald City in Royal Frituur &
Veggie Eetboetiek. This was a tiny, but amazing, vegan restaurant
with a hazelnut burger that was heel-click worthy. Topped with apple
slices, lettuce, and tomato, this burger was the foodie highlight of
the trip.
Even as it was delicious, the hazelnut
burger was obviously processed, as is most Belgian food. For some
reason, the Belgians have an ongoing love affair with the deep fryer.
So Belgium may not be the best country for traveling vegans, but I'm
determined that you can replicate all of its delicacies in a healthy
and vegan way. The hazelnut burger can easily be made much healthier with this recipe.
Of course, another Belgian staple, the
waffle, can be made vegan and healthy as well. This recipe is packed
with whole grains and natural sweetness.
I always thought that french fries,
although unhealthy, were at least vegan. However, in Belgium, most
are made with animal fat. I humbly offer a healthier and happier alternative.
(And if you're lucky enough to live in California and still have
access to avocados, avocado fries are a must.)
Finally, if Belgium is known for
anything, it's chocolate. Obviously, because of chocolate's milk
content, we vegans need to find another way to get our fix. As with
many cocoa related recipes, it's Chocolate Covered Katie to the
rescue. If you're not into baking, there are tons of vegan chocolate suppliers and
products.
Although my trip to Belgium was
amazing, when it comes to vegan food—sometimes there really is no
place like home.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Free Write #2 -- Aushwitz is not a Day Trip
So, seeing as my last free write went over pretty well with you guys, I'd thought I'd start sharing them. (Daring, I know.) But on a practical note, my free writes are usually about my travels, and since I don't have any time to write actual quality travel posts, these might just suffice. (I know that in a few years I'm going to be kicking myself for putting this unedited shit on the internet, but, at the moment, I find these pieces kind of darling so...)
For the next one, the only prompt was that it had to begin with the line: "Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted."
Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted. I thought I wanted to explore my family's heritage, and what I got was a ten hour train ride that I didn't know how it was going to end. I've said it once and I'll say it again-- Auschwitz is not a day trip. Warsaw to Krakow, no problem. Krakow to Oświęcim, fair enough. Oświęcim back to Krakow, fuck you guys. That was what I imagined the ticket machine had said to my best friend and I as we were trying to select our return journey. The machine said that there weren't any available trains back. Still, having faith in things working out, we got on the train to Oświęcim, hoping to find a way back once we arrived.
If I could sum the day up into one Yittish phrase, it would be "oy vey." That was how my feet and ass were feeling by the end of the night, when we were finally back in our Warsaw hostel. Considering the idea of sleeping on a park bench had been a very real possibility only hours before, I was more than thankful falling into my hostel bed.
Still, we got to go to Auschwitz, and even though we didn't have enough time to do a proper tour, it left its mark. I'm still haunted by the giant pile of hair that looked exactly like mine. I could have been realted to anyone to whom that hair belonged, and I probably was. There's this joke among Jews about how every Jewish woman hates her hair, and I'm no exception. But on that day, I loved my kinky, frizzy, brown hair because it was mine and so many others, and because no one could take it away.
For the next one, the only prompt was that it had to begin with the line: "Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted."
Sometimes what you get is not what you thought you wanted. I thought I wanted to explore my family's heritage, and what I got was a ten hour train ride that I didn't know how it was going to end. I've said it once and I'll say it again-- Auschwitz is not a day trip. Warsaw to Krakow, no problem. Krakow to Oświęcim, fair enough. Oświęcim back to Krakow, fuck you guys. That was what I imagined the ticket machine had said to my best friend and I as we were trying to select our return journey. The machine said that there weren't any available trains back. Still, having faith in things working out, we got on the train to Oświęcim, hoping to find a way back once we arrived.
If I could sum the day up into one Yittish phrase, it would be "oy vey." That was how my feet and ass were feeling by the end of the night, when we were finally back in our Warsaw hostel. Considering the idea of sleeping on a park bench had been a very real possibility only hours before, I was more than thankful falling into my hostel bed.
Still, we got to go to Auschwitz, and even though we didn't have enough time to do a proper tour, it left its mark. I'm still haunted by the giant pile of hair that looked exactly like mine. I could have been realted to anyone to whom that hair belonged, and I probably was. There's this joke among Jews about how every Jewish woman hates her hair, and I'm no exception. But on that day, I loved my kinky, frizzy, brown hair because it was mine and so many others, and because no one could take it away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)