Usually these kind of speeches are made by Winifred and I nod, to say, Yes, but it isn't like that, can't I enjoy it anyway? I foolishly did that with The Dangerous Book for Boys thinking foolishly that The Daring Book for Girls would actually be The Dangerouns Book for Boys II, you know, a "We made an error! Here's more exciting stuff! And fun things are for both genders!" I was wrong. So when Feministing linked to Gender Inequity in 'Whoville' I thought of Winifred, who would have been irate about the film's newly added plot.

It makes me wonder how she fared through Disney princess movies until Beauty and the Beast was released when I was seven. Until then Winifred had little to say, probably because I was interested in dog movies (Lassie, 101 Dalmatians, Benji), but when Belle arrived, with her nose in a book, Winifred spent years expounding on how wonderful it was that Belle Saved the Day, the Belle Read, that Belle Was Independent! It was true. Belle didn't need no man. Buzz off Gaston, I'm Reading!

Except this is very much a rant from The King. I told myself I'd leave The King out of the blog, because The King sees Blogs as A Means For Your Own Doom, and didn't sign up for this, but I think it's worth saying today that The King is like Peter Sagal. The King has standards and it would be better to meet them. I could hear the king say this:

Have the clowns who made this movie ever met a daughter? Have they dated one? If they did, did they meet the daughter's father? Did they then ask that daughter's father if there was anything more dramatic, interesting, arresting, and moving to him than his relationship with his daughter? Did they ask him if he might find that a close relationship with said daughter might be something he would care about? What do they imagine that we do — sit around, and watch our daughters grow and change and suffer and fail and triumph — and idly wish for something more INTERESTING?

Segal then goes on to list popular media--Harry Potter, The Matrix, Peter Pan, ET, Star Wars, Lord of the Rings--as having boys saving the world. Of all of those features, on Harry Potter has a female character worth emulating. The other females (if they're there at all--LOOKING AT YOU, TOLKEIN) are all pretty dopey. I always wanted Princess Leia to step up! Darth Vader is her father too! But instead her few moments of badassery are restrained to a bikini. And Han, the rogue with a heart of gold (le sigh) has to bumble his way into saving her. I love Han, but really? Leia, you couldn't have done that on your own?

I had a friend in town a few weeks ago and he asked if I was going to see Whoville. I snorted and said I couldn't see a movie that would butcher the classic. Now I'm glad I was too snobby to see it, because I'd probably go out of my way to ruin it for everyone else.

It's On the Box. We Verify and Ship!

A bunch of good things happened today, and I am convinced that the heavens smiled on me because it is Emily’s birthday, and because they know how lonely I am Without Her, they said, What the heck, while make some good things happen. Because last week? Bad things Happened.
First, the sky opened on my walk from my bus stop from my apartment, showing a big blue sky. I would have accepted this and called it a good day without anything further. (See? BAD THINGS, people BAD THINGS.)
Then, after a quick shower, FedEx arrived with a package. Last week FedEx would have arrived during the shower and the box would have been in the front office for two weeks. I was glad that FedEx arrived when I could sign. I thought it was some art supplies I ordered last week, but I was wrong. (I would like to know where those supplies are though, Montana.) It was my graduation dress!
I’m not a Dress Person. In fact, when I had a swanky work party and, with money in hand, could not find anything satisfactory. Part of the problem was me, and we’ll get to that, but part of the problem is that I’m not very good at finding dress clothes. I’m very good at finding clothes for other people though.
The other, slightly aforementioned problem is me. I’m vaguely unsatisfied with my appearance. To be honest, and this is “hard” (the brain says: DO NOT SHARE, DO NOT SHARE), I was sort of hoping I’d lose some weight and order a size down. Well, shit, I ordered my usual size, but unlike Target, it’s really cute. Appearance is something I struggle with it. A big part of it is just me, bowing to a harsh, shallow, and vapid patriarchal society that asks that my waist be the same size as Ma Ingalls and sees myself as much larger than I am. And a big part of it is that I really like cookies. It doesn’t help that I am surrounded by skinny friends, many of whom have worse images of themselves than I do, and judge “larger” people as a means to cope, so then, in this nasty little circle, I feel like the…nevermind. The end. SO THIS DRESS, IT CAME IN THE MAIL. It came and I ordered a few days ago! And, the best part? It fits. Part of that joy is because it was made by a woman, a woman who knows how to make You Look Good, and she did it using red and black and some nautical stars and an anchor, so now I look Really Good, plus a little bad ass, but mostly just cheeky.
But wait! There’s more! Winifred was in Baltimore today, so I showed it to her, and she loves it. We agreed that because it is strappy, I will wear a cardigan to appease the old people in our family. Also, because according to Delia’s, cardigans dress up a casual dress. She asked if I had a “shrug” from when I was in Laura’s wedding, and lo, I reached into my closet, pulled it out, and put it on.
I win! Well, I win above the ankle. I want to wear my old crappy red Chucks with the dress. If I have to sit for six hours and listen to the President of my University blab about social responsibility and environmental awareness (I agree! But not for so long.) and our success as people, I should get to wear footwear I personally enjoy. Also, I think I’ll bring a Bic and write every band I’ve ever heard, just to make a juvenile point. You’re boring me dude, hand the diploma, like a fourteen year old asks for the bell to ring in math class. Don’t look at me like that, I know you wrote 80085 on your calculator. Winifred asked if I wanted a new pair of Chucks, but I don’t want real Chucks, remember?
And with that conversation done, we decided where to eat dinner.
But wait! There’s still more! Before we ate dinner, I checked my e-mail. Before Winifred arrived a woman from school e-mailed me to let me know that I was eligible for a scholarship renewal. The school still e-mails me about registering classes by default, so I said thanks but I’m out of this place in May lady. She said no, we want to give you the money anyway. I called her right there, and she asked if I intend to pursue the career I did last year, and I said, heck yes I do, and she said cool, that’s what I thought, the money’s all yours. We’ll “cut you a check” when you graduate and you can pay the money to those nasty loan people. Hip hip hooray! It’s like money fell out of the sky!
Winifred was so excited she almost fainted, so I left the room to give her some air. When she regained consciousness we went to Bel Loc diner, where we dined, ate cake in honor of Emily (it was good, with orange essence!) and dragged Biscuit to a lecture by Marjane Satrapi. Marjane was everything I thought she would be, and I desperately want to meet her one day, be witty and smart, and have her realize we should be friends. Over cocktails we will discuss the evil patriarchy and then drunk dial my ex-boyfriends.

Now that I’m done wallowing in my own glory, I’ll make up for it with a story about Emily.

When I was little I would whine until she agreed to walk me to the playground near my house, where I would force her to push me on the tire swings, stand at the bottom of the slide to catch me if I went to fast, and cajole me into hanging from the monkey bars without hands. It didn’t take too much whining to do anything, because I am spoiled. (Except the monkey bars. I still can’t do it without burping out my heart, and then I don’t hang for long before I wuss out.) On a warm night we walked to the park after dinner, before it was too dark, and on the way out, Emily announced that tomorrow, she would be thirteen.
And I panicked, begging her to stay twelve until I could catch up and do big things too. She refused, on the grounds that physics won’t allow for it, and that duh, she wants to be thirteen. Really, who doesn’t want to turn thirteen? My angst amused her, and she asked why it was a big deal, and I told her I was afraid that if she turned thirteen, she would get snobby and mean—because that’s what kids on Nickelodeon did, never mind that Charlotte was already past thirteen by two years—and then we couldn’t go to the park anymore, or the pool, or any of the fun things that she let me do by agreeing to hold my hand and supervise.
I was wrong. The next day, she waited long enough for me to wake up to open presents, and then I think she may have even taken me to the park again after dinner, and wouldn’t you know, she held my hand and supervised all kinds of things.

In fact, she taught me math, how to drive, how to make my essays appear longer by using teacher-sanctioned typefaces instead of fudging the margins, and in high school, took me to movies at the cheap theater and the regular theater. Because every post-undergrad twentysomething wants to hang out with her little sister, a sophomore in high school! (And she did!)
And when Annie got married, we had to do some sticky family things, and in nudging her with my elbow, briefly grabbed her hand to say Holy cow, these people are all crazy. You're my witness.
Happy Birthday, Emily! Thanks for not getting snotty like those jerks on Fifteen.

Mean Mom

Winifred is obsessed with the Meanest Mom story. Apparently it's all over the Today Show but I wouldn't know. Because some people? Some people go to class every morning, do their homework every night, schedule free time around The O.C.'s two-hour airings on SoapNet, and go to bed.
At least that's what the kids who aren't the Dumbest Kids on the Planet do.
In short, a spoiled teenager was given permission to drive a car--which was purchased, owned, and covered by his parents--provided he didn't drink and drive.
Jane Hambleton, the mother, checked his car, found alchohol, and placed the following ad in the Des Moines Register:

"OLDS 1999 Intrigue. Totally uncool parents who obviously don't love teenage son, selling his car. Only driven for three weeks before snoopy mom who needs to get a life found booze under front seat. $3,700/offer. Call meanest mom on the planet."

She says the ad cost her a fortune. Hambleton is a copyeditor and has received a buttton of attention for the ad.

When I was finally allowed to get my license at 17 in 2003, days before my senior year of high school began, I wasn't allowed to leave town behind the wheel for more than a month. (I was told I had to wait one full month but come November I was desperately negotiating permission.) My town is 4.3 miles, mostly farmland, and has nothing to do for a high school senior. I was fortunate that I was allowed to drive Winifred's car at all, and one morning a month for six non-consecutive months I was allowed to drive Winifred's car in the morning for newspaper day which required that I arrive a little after 6 a.m., before most of the faculty. Every month that she agreed, I spent the next five days kissing her butt. Because she was the nicest mom.

Oh, but I digress in the face of spoiling parents and their children! Hambleton's son says it was left by a passenger. ...If I allowed alcohol into the car at all I would have been lucky to live. It wouldn't matter who left or was drinking it. At 19 and out of college I wouldn't be allowed to argue that my 21+ friend left it behind. I knew what the driving laws were and I knew what my parents said, and that was what was obeyed, period.
I'm not sure that Winifred would revel in her new fame. I'm also sure that I'd be yanked out of school and out on my own. And if Hambleton were as mean as she claims, she'd do that too.

I'm a harsh woman.

With These Ice Packs Removed

I'm a busy girl. I have big city jobs to go to, big city jobs to apply for, blogs to write, French fries to eat, films to articulate, and trains to catch. I am not exactly running after men--I am not trying to bag a boy, net a husband, or tackle a suitor. At a comment through a family e-mail--made by a non-family member--that someone, somewhere, anywhere, was, I responded, at large:

It's not like I have sneakers strapped to my feet so I can chase down a man. UGH.

I mean, puhhhleease, homegirl has things to do! And The King, recognizing this, set out December 19, 2007, the night the e-mail was sent, to find me a pair of sneakers for Christmas.
...Because the Quimby's celebrate a woman's singlehood, mmmhmm.
The King is not one to settle. No, he showed refined taste as Winifred suggested various options, which were too bland, not red, not bright, not Captain, unable to balance on a skateboard, too flimsy, incapable of allowing flight, etc. A pair surfaced, not red, but sturdy and most decidedly Captain in its prominent use of plaid (and its name "BEAR KITTY") wad especially fitting.
The streets in the city grew wet the following weeks, and running after a train and a bus through puddles and over hills, slogging through damp detritus, and parading around a sullen town seemed inappropriate for the inaugural outing of shoes that were purchased for that very use.
So they lived under my desk until yesterday, when suddenly everything went seemingly right.

First, the sky opened to reveal a bright blue sky. It beckoned 60 degree weather and a number of spontaneous adventures with Biscuit when my work was unexpectedly finished in little more than an hour: lunch at the Ikea milk bar (we wanted to be more European), an odyssey of Consumer joy through clearance minimalist mass produced products, a secret ninja mission within the blue and yellow walls, unrestrained fantasies of our adult lives beyond college (real jobs, benefits, motor vehicles, painted interiors, unabashed freedom, albeit more bills), a film screening, etc. The earthly joys of 20 somethings. But the air was filled with the promise of good things, and I knew it was either the shoes, still squishy in newness, or, it was The Cake.

We celebrate Three King's Day in Winifred's C + E Catholicism, the results of which yielded a batch of carrot cupcakes and fluffy cream cheese icing. Inside Winifred baked a small, round blue stone, which I received in my cake, theoretically promising a year of good luck. ("A Red Letter Year," I sleepily mumbled on the return trip to Baltimore.) Offline I am not a believe in superstition but...it was either the cake or the shoes. I thought I'd see what happened when I wore other shoes in the printmaking studio.
You know where this is going from the subject, don't you? Everything went horribly awry. Far past so-bad-it's-funny-years-from-now. I'll be bitter when I'm 82 about January 8, 2008. Long after everything went wrong, I accidentally sent my fingers through a printmaking press. They didn't break, but my spirit did, and I bounced from grumpy to near-yarking/sobbing through the rest of the day.
Winifred made me promise to slowly back away from the keyboard, find a couch or bed and TV remote, and reconnect with an ice pack. I did, and later, I reconnected with Chipotle's burritos with carnitas sour cream, rice, corn, and salsa. She also said to wear The Shoes.
Later, to show her camaraderie, Winifred dropped a steak knife, slicing a sizable gash in her foot. The King bandaged her, and I hope, dried her tears. He used Band-Aid brand big band aids, not that sticky stuff from Target that gives me hives, and is probably looking into steel enforced house slippers.
Tomorrow I'm wearing The Shoes to class; if disaster befalls, I'll probably have to wait for another six years before I get another Red Letter Day; either way I'm owed a crown for my Epiphany win, Winifred. That's what Wikipedia says. In return I'll host Candelaria Day next month and serve whiskey. Unless you were dying for Atole?


(Thankfully I already started to type this post last night. Instead of nothing you get a 2-for-1 special!)

Lest I Find Another Feminist Harangue

It's Christmas in my parents' house, and I know this because there are oodles of cookies--some from Winifred, many from Charlotte--caramel rolls have been baked, and most notably, I am schlepping through the house in the King's oversized slippers. Luckily, he has several pairs, and thusly, we all have toasty feet.
But there are also rolls of wrapping paper in the living room, because as important as it is to "Keep Christ In Christmas,"we are Present People. I have looked high and low in this house for a puppy but haven't found one yet, but my sorrow is overwhelmed by The Washington Post writers who were given gender specific gifts and used white dolls ("You Call That a Gift?!").
The most heartbreaking of these stories is the the woman who didn't get the set of race cars:

Was Santa Sexist?
It was the 1970s. I was around 8, and what I really wanted that year was a race car set. I had my eye on a fleet of tiny, dazzling cars that came with their own looping, twisting track. You pushed them along the track by hand, and if you used just the right amount of force you could get them to spin through a full corkscrew without flying off-course. My cousin, three years older than I and the coolest person I knew, had some.
But he was a boy. And I was a girl.
I never got the cars, even though I spoke to Santa several times about them. I started to think Santa was a chauvinist.
A few years later, I finally got a toy car: a Barbie camper. It wound up in a terrible wreck. Barbie kept trying to pop wheelies.-- Robin Givhan

Under our tree were both dolls and trucks, hand held video game toys featuring Ariel and tool sets, stuffed bears, Give Me Convenience or Give Me Death, and for several years running, K'NEX sets. (Ultimately the K'NEX building was left to the efficient Emily, who was able to complete roller construction in one evening.)
And I inherited two serious sets of race cars--I got Charlotte and Emily's cars, their sets and ramps; The Parents were so gung ho when they were young that ever car was marked with a splash of pink nail polish on its underside, lest one of the neighborhood boys try to swipe one (and those little rats did). Of course I have a speed/force problem--my cars were incapable of making tight turns because I'm more interesting the the clattering catastrophe of metal cars on bare floors.

I could go on, but I just found a Tori Spelling holiday movie on Hallmark; I think it's one of the ones wherein she finds the holiday of the season as the result of a Good Man. Awesome. I should probably find my own shoes because slippers to C and E Mass is probably inappropriate...