It's the end of the semester and I'm finding myself fussing over my creative writing portfolio, and hopelessly trying to decide which grad school to apply to after I graduate next year. Here are some humorous career options I've compiled for aspiring writers turned cynical :p
10. Babysitter – It lets you spend time with people who whine almost as much as you.
09. Janitor – Free access to a dumpster, which will come in handy for your piles of terrible scripts that need disposing.
08. Video Store Employee – If it’s good enough for Quentin Tarantino, it’s good enough for you. The only difference is that unlike Tarantino, you’re going to be a lifer, but that’s a minor technicality, right?
07. Copy Clerk at Staples– That way if you can’t write your own bestseller, you can steal it from the writer who brings theirs to make copies for mailing to publishers.
06. Satirical News Writer – When you’re feeling insecure about your own shitty writing and lack of wit, you can take cheap pot-shots at other aspiring writers like yourself.
05. Carpenter – With so much experience creating wooden characters, you’d be a natural. And if you’re going to bang your head against a wall every single night of your life, it helps to have a spare hard hat.
04. Proofreader – You’re not very good at analyzing important things like story and structure, but you’ve got a keen eye for spotting spelling errors. Good for you.
03. McDonald’s Cashier – It feels wrong, but at least you can pretend to be ‘slow’ and then everyone will leave you alone despite your crappy writing skills.
02. Bus Driver – When thoughts of suicide overwhelm you following your latest rejection, the prospect of taking 20 or 30 strangers with you off that cliff might be just enough motivation to not go through with it.Your lack of command of the English language might also come in handy in traffic jams.
01. Proctologist – Succeeding as a writer will probably involve an intimate knowledge of kissing other people’s asses, so you might as well make sure as many of those rear-ends as possible are in good working order.
(adapted and modified from an original list, posted at http://hollywoodroaster.wordpress.com/2009/09/25/the-top-30-day-jobs-for-aspiring-writers-and-why/)
Share a laugh with other beloved writers, my friends!
A.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Shakespearian sonnet.
Mother
My hand drawn happy faces on our napkins
would fade as their smiles wiped your tears,
late at night while you packed peanut butter
& jelly sandwiches, in my school lunch box.
Older I have grown but your tears renew
each day the Black Dog maniacally persists,
ripping to shreds the last of my fragile youth,
and despite his presence, I soothe you to sleep.
The ageless stray mutt menace leads recklessly,
so in the neon-lit room, limp you now lay on a bed.
I gulp bile back as the suction pump whirs inside you,
your gaze cast downward, into our tightly held hands.
Mother, when I see that look in your eyes,
I know that you're my only child.
My hand drawn happy faces on our napkins
would fade as their smiles wiped your tears,
late at night while you packed peanut butter
& jelly sandwiches, in my school lunch box.
Older I have grown but your tears renew
each day the Black Dog maniacally persists,
ripping to shreds the last of my fragile youth,
and despite his presence, I soothe you to sleep.
The ageless stray mutt menace leads recklessly,
so in the neon-lit room, limp you now lay on a bed.
I gulp bile back as the suction pump whirs inside you,
your gaze cast downward, into our tightly held hands.
Mother, when I see that look in your eyes,
I know that you're my only child.
Peristasis poem
Home
She slammed the door.
On picture day, she slammed the door in my face.
I had spent all morning picking a dress, but she slammed the door.
She grimaced at my unruly hair, even though I wore a pretty yellow dress I spent a whole morning choosing for picture day.
I felt cold.
She slammed the door in my face, her big camera hanging
from her neck.
The camera hung from her neck and I felt cold, but she didn’t take my picture, and just slammed the door in my face.
She slammed the door in my face.
“Mixed children make bad school photos,” she shrieked sharply.
I whimpered as she slammed the door in my mixed face, sorry I’d make bad photos.
Through tearful eyes I watch straight-haired 3rd grade classmates smile, shortly after she slammed the door in my face.
She slammed the door in my face.
“Not Black or White: no picture for you!” she repeats.
Neither White nor Black, I hear “go back where you come from,”
before she slammed the door in my face.
She slammed the door.
On picture day, she slammed the door in my face.
I had spent all morning picking a dress, but she slammed the door.
She grimaced at my unruly hair, even though I wore a pretty yellow dress I spent a whole morning choosing for picture day.
I felt cold.
She slammed the door in my face, her big camera hanging
from her neck.
The camera hung from her neck and I felt cold, but she didn’t take my picture, and just slammed the door in my face.
She slammed the door in my face.
“Mixed children make bad school photos,” she shrieked sharply.
I whimpered as she slammed the door in my mixed face, sorry I’d make bad photos.
Through tearful eyes I watch straight-haired 3rd grade classmates smile, shortly after she slammed the door in my face.
She slammed the door in my face.
“Not Black or White: no picture for you!” she repeats.
Neither White nor Black, I hear “go back where you come from,”
before she slammed the door in my face.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Re-Vision of the “Concept, Form, Voice” piece!
Hello folks-- wow it's been two weeks of mid-term madness!
I have now resurfaced, and have managed to re-vision one of my pieces, which still felt a little incomplete when I last read it. I hope this semi-breakthrough makes up for my lack of blogging these past two weeks.
If you're reading this you've most likely also made it through, and I warmly congratulate you! Leave it in the comments section, and don't forget to take care.
Pure love to all,
A.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Here it goes!
Re-Vision of the “Concept, Form, Voice” assignment.
Unctuous foamy cream slowly being lathered on by an “attractive” (read barely clothed and outrageously skinny) made-up woman, splashing hot water, and an expensive five blade razor. Those are the basic elements typically being advertised to women by marketers selling the work (note that I deliberately use the more negatively connotated word “work”, and I’ll come back to the reasons behind this at a later point) of leg shaving. However, I have recently come to view with a brand new set of lenses, the conscious gender role performance that is the action of removing hair off one’s legs.
It all started when I was approached by a 20-something man I didn’t know, half way through my usual workout at the O’Keefe Fitness center on campus. In loose silver shorts with a hefty tuft of chest hair protruding from his overly revealing v-neck muscle shirt, he walks up to me and says
“If you move your feet like this while lifting the weights, you’ll get a lot more out of your training.” Resenting this unrequested “expert’s help” interruption, I took my earphones off to politely decline further interaction, but before I even had a chance to say anything, he had already bent down and reached for my legs. As his hand briefly came in contact with my lower calf, he exclaimed “Holy shit! Your legs are hairy!”
Uncertain that I had heard correctly, I asked him to repeat. As his statement sunk in a second time, I shrugged with indifference, and then found myself responding with a defiant “Well, so are yours."
“It’s not the same: I’m a guy, and I’m supposed to have hairy legs. For a chick, it’s sick-looking and not right,” he replied. Not missing a beat, I fired back “And why not?! I have killer legs, and hair naturally grows there just like it does on a man.”
“Women are supposed to shave, so they look hot and smooth, and can be pretty enough to find a boyfriend or a husband. I’d never shag a girl if her legs weren’t taken care of,” he arrogantly added.
WOAH!
“Who the hell do you think you are, to believe you have the right to judge, police, and govern women’s bodies like that?!” I shouted, attracting the curious glances of all nine other people in the gym.
“Well—”
Cutting him right off, I made it clear he had chosen to get his macho on with the wrong girl, if he expected me to sit back and nod in agreement with his offensive bullshit. This, of course, led him to abruptly exit the premises calling out “Crazy bitch,” leaving me alone to think about all this, and pretty blue in the face.
A few months ago, as the summer sun slowly shied away, it was mostly laziness that got the best of the little leg shaving ambition I ever possessed. I’ve always been a lazy winter leg shaver—that’s nothing new. But as September progressed, shame and guilt-free for the first time ever, I began embracing the idea of hairy legs, because it meant less time in the shower and more time for breakfast part two, or morning writing. And this, year-long (here I come, Spring booty skirts!) However, when this guy bent down for my legs to get personal, he head-butted pretty hard into the political.
The systematic come and go of the blade as it glides from ankle to thigh seems fairly insignificant in itself, and so does applying hair removal cream or strips. Although, when you stop to think of it, this simple action is profoundly ingrained in our society’s standards of female “beauty,” which dictate that only hair-free legs can be beautiful. And who’d possibly want be viewed as other than proper and attractive, right?
On my way home from school later in that afternoon, I pondered “Why?” “Why did I ever bother to shave my legs in the first place, if it always felt like such a chore?” Did I ever really believe only leg hair-free women are beautiful? Or is he right, and I’m in a hairy denial process because I will indeed be single my whole life?
It’s while waiting to cross the street at a red light, that I remembered my delight (which now only seems like a really alien feeling to have in the context) at age 12, when I shaved for the first time. Mama had bought me a pink two-blade Bic razor, and to my father and brothers’ despair, I had occupied the only bathroom in our four bedroom house for a whole hour.
After that first time, I was never able to muster up the feeling of excitement again. But despite my intense boredom-related emotions, every few days for the next seven years, I’d prop myself up on the bathroom sink, and reduced to invisibleness any hair on my legs. Seven years…That’s a really long time to engage in an action that isn’t really thought out past the “every other girl does it, I might as well too” point.
The little pedestrian guy lights up, and as I cross the street I’m brought back to the language specification I made earlier. I used the word “work” rather than something neutral like “task” to make a distinction between shaving solely out of personal preference for the short-lasting smoothness; and shaving out of fear of being judged as unattractive and/or of being rejected by partners or friends.
And since in my experience “work” typically defines something most people “do” not so much for their personal enjoyment, but more in order to gain something (money, usually, but social approval in this case), I try to mark the two different intentions I think can explain the action of shaving.
Similarly to the confused and pushed around by society 12, 14, or 19 years old me who sat on a sink, the place where these two separate intentions get all tangled and hard to clearly define, is when blinded by neon bathroom lights, women stop (or fail to ever) actively think about the process of shaving. Because we have internalized these standards of beauty, I think many of us don’t exactly know what it really means to shave, or why (as well as for whom), we are doing it in the first place.
Turning the key in my apartment’s door, I realize that as a result, it gets very difficult to differentiate where the personal intentions ends, and where the political of the other starts. The more I think about it the flurrier the lines get, and I find myself wondering whether it’s still actually possible for a woman to completely disregard the social aspects of shaving, and to earnestly think she’s only shaving for herself.
In any case, to help move the Free Hairy Woman’s “cause” along, here’s a newsflash for you, Douche-Bag Gym Guy: it’s one thing to actually believe a woman’s only purpose in life is to make herself attractive for men, but it’s another to openly judge and attack those who don’t conform. And trust me—the last thing on my mind at 9:00 in the morning in a stuffy gym is marriage, let alone to a man (especially such a disrespectful one). So fuck off!
I have now resurfaced, and have managed to re-vision one of my pieces, which still felt a little incomplete when I last read it. I hope this semi-breakthrough makes up for my lack of blogging these past two weeks.
If you're reading this you've most likely also made it through, and I warmly congratulate you! Leave it in the comments section, and don't forget to take care.
Pure love to all,
A.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Here it goes!
Re-Vision of the “Concept, Form, Voice” assignment.
Unctuous foamy cream slowly being lathered on by an “attractive” (read barely clothed and outrageously skinny) made-up woman, splashing hot water, and an expensive five blade razor. Those are the basic elements typically being advertised to women by marketers selling the work (note that I deliberately use the more negatively connotated word “work”, and I’ll come back to the reasons behind this at a later point) of leg shaving. However, I have recently come to view with a brand new set of lenses, the conscious gender role performance that is the action of removing hair off one’s legs.
It all started when I was approached by a 20-something man I didn’t know, half way through my usual workout at the O’Keefe Fitness center on campus. In loose silver shorts with a hefty tuft of chest hair protruding from his overly revealing v-neck muscle shirt, he walks up to me and says
“If you move your feet like this while lifting the weights, you’ll get a lot more out of your training.” Resenting this unrequested “expert’s help” interruption, I took my earphones off to politely decline further interaction, but before I even had a chance to say anything, he had already bent down and reached for my legs. As his hand briefly came in contact with my lower calf, he exclaimed “Holy shit! Your legs are hairy!”
Uncertain that I had heard correctly, I asked him to repeat. As his statement sunk in a second time, I shrugged with indifference, and then found myself responding with a defiant “Well, so are yours."
“It’s not the same: I’m a guy, and I’m supposed to have hairy legs. For a chick, it’s sick-looking and not right,” he replied. Not missing a beat, I fired back “And why not?! I have killer legs, and hair naturally grows there just like it does on a man.”
“Women are supposed to shave, so they look hot and smooth, and can be pretty enough to find a boyfriend or a husband. I’d never shag a girl if her legs weren’t taken care of,” he arrogantly added.
WOAH!
“Who the hell do you think you are, to believe you have the right to judge, police, and govern women’s bodies like that?!” I shouted, attracting the curious glances of all nine other people in the gym.
“Well—”
Cutting him right off, I made it clear he had chosen to get his macho on with the wrong girl, if he expected me to sit back and nod in agreement with his offensive bullshit. This, of course, led him to abruptly exit the premises calling out “Crazy bitch,” leaving me alone to think about all this, and pretty blue in the face.
A few months ago, as the summer sun slowly shied away, it was mostly laziness that got the best of the little leg shaving ambition I ever possessed. I’ve always been a lazy winter leg shaver—that’s nothing new. But as September progressed, shame and guilt-free for the first time ever, I began embracing the idea of hairy legs, because it meant less time in the shower and more time for breakfast part two, or morning writing. And this, year-long (here I come, Spring booty skirts!) However, when this guy bent down for my legs to get personal, he head-butted pretty hard into the political.
The systematic come and go of the blade as it glides from ankle to thigh seems fairly insignificant in itself, and so does applying hair removal cream or strips. Although, when you stop to think of it, this simple action is profoundly ingrained in our society’s standards of female “beauty,” which dictate that only hair-free legs can be beautiful. And who’d possibly want be viewed as other than proper and attractive, right?
On my way home from school later in that afternoon, I pondered “Why?” “Why did I ever bother to shave my legs in the first place, if it always felt like such a chore?” Did I ever really believe only leg hair-free women are beautiful? Or is he right, and I’m in a hairy denial process because I will indeed be single my whole life?
It’s while waiting to cross the street at a red light, that I remembered my delight (which now only seems like a really alien feeling to have in the context) at age 12, when I shaved for the first time. Mama had bought me a pink two-blade Bic razor, and to my father and brothers’ despair, I had occupied the only bathroom in our four bedroom house for a whole hour.
After that first time, I was never able to muster up the feeling of excitement again. But despite my intense boredom-related emotions, every few days for the next seven years, I’d prop myself up on the bathroom sink, and reduced to invisibleness any hair on my legs. Seven years…That’s a really long time to engage in an action that isn’t really thought out past the “every other girl does it, I might as well too” point.
The little pedestrian guy lights up, and as I cross the street I’m brought back to the language specification I made earlier. I used the word “work” rather than something neutral like “task” to make a distinction between shaving solely out of personal preference for the short-lasting smoothness; and shaving out of fear of being judged as unattractive and/or of being rejected by partners or friends.
And since in my experience “work” typically defines something most people “do” not so much for their personal enjoyment, but more in order to gain something (money, usually, but social approval in this case), I try to mark the two different intentions I think can explain the action of shaving.
Similarly to the confused and pushed around by society 12, 14, or 19 years old me who sat on a sink, the place where these two separate intentions get all tangled and hard to clearly define, is when blinded by neon bathroom lights, women stop (or fail to ever) actively think about the process of shaving. Because we have internalized these standards of beauty, I think many of us don’t exactly know what it really means to shave, or why (as well as for whom), we are doing it in the first place.
Turning the key in my apartment’s door, I realize that as a result, it gets very difficult to differentiate where the personal intentions ends, and where the political of the other starts. The more I think about it the flurrier the lines get, and I find myself wondering whether it’s still actually possible for a woman to completely disregard the social aspects of shaving, and to earnestly think she’s only shaving for herself.
In any case, to help move the Free Hairy Woman’s “cause” along, here’s a newsflash for you, Douche-Bag Gym Guy: it’s one thing to actually believe a woman’s only purpose in life is to make herself attractive for men, but it’s another to openly judge and attack those who don’t conform. And trust me—the last thing on my mind at 9:00 in the morning in a stuffy gym is marriage, let alone to a man (especially such a disrespectful one). So fuck off!
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Eavesdropping jewel of last week
Girl #1: Can you move left? Your hair’s blocking my view of the screen.
Girl #2: Why don’t you move your chair some, it’s not like the prof’s gonna care…
Girl #1: You never know, he could undercoverly suffer from O.C.D for like… perfect chair order. His mental health seems fragile enough as it is, and I don’t want to tempt him.
Girl #2: Wait. What? What are you talking about, he’s crazy?
Girl #1:Well, crazy’s a strong word, but haven’t you noticed he’s worn the e-x-a-c-t same outfit to all the classes of both courses he teaches us? That’s weird as hell. And he rambles to himself a lot, which is also suspicious for mental stability.
Girl #2: Ha. He doesn’t smell, so I figure he’s just like one of those cartoon characters; you know how in shows they open their closets and have a million of the same outfit on hangers? … And I don’t think undercoverly is even a legit. word…
Girl #1: Sure it’s a word. I just said it. Hahah, yeah. Maybe colorblind, style challenged, and strange cartoons do. Sure. Hey, listen, there’s really not enough room up here for me to move my chair, so will you move your head, please?? I can’t see anything!
Girl #2: Well it’s not like this documentary’s interesting anyway. Definitely not worth having a stiff neck over. Plus, not only the weird cartoon characters have that same-outfit-all-the-time syndrome! Look at Bart Simpsons! He’s got to be the poster child of cool cartoon people!
Girl #1: Yeah…I guess. But still, there’s a quiz on this after we see it, and I’m not good at bullshitting stuff.
Girl #2: Ugh, just relax. So what’d you do last night?
Girl #1*Sigh* If I do badly, you’ll have it on your conscience! I watched more “Glee”. Did you know dolphins are just gay sharks?!
Girl #2:O-M-G.
Girl #1: What?! What are you looking at me like that for?!
You’re not kidding, are you? You know what? Don’t even answer that, you hopeless child.
Girl #2: Whatevs…So are you gonna move, or do I really need to go sit all the way in the front row?
Girl #1:Yeah, go up front. I’m not moving for anyone who’s as gullible as you. Nuh-uh. Just not happening.
Girl #2: Okay. Fine. I don’t want to be a loner so I’ll stay here, but you’re mean and sour! Oh and by the way, your shoes put a clown’s clogs to shame. They really do.
Girl#1: So what? I’ve got big feet, nothing I can do about it. You, on the other hand, eat way too much pizza, and you have bigger belly rolls than me. Pig.
Girl #2: Bitch! I may have a bigger stomach, but your Confederation Bridge-long feet reek, and they stink up our dorm room! Use some foot odour controller, or something! And would you just move a bit, for Pete’s sake?!
Girl #1: No way that my feet stink, and dream on that I’ll move after what you just said! Pfffft. Especially not for someone who says “Pete’s sake”--That’s embarrassing.
Girl #2: Frig. You’re a gigantic doofus, and you’re stupidity inflicts the effects of a roller coaster of pain on my brain! Just stop talking.
Girl #1:Fine. Eat pizza till you die, and please watch the movie thing. You really need it for your education.
Girl #2: Oh shut it, will you? I wasn’t the one on academic probation last year! So if anything, we probably need it equally
Girl #1:That was really low, and it kinda hurt, but yeah….Let’s pay attention, I guess.
Girl #2: K.
(a few minutes later)
Girl #1: “Oh Dayuum! Dayyyuum, Girl! Can I tell you something? Dayum! The back of yo head, is ridickalous!”
Girl #2: HAHAHA! I can’t believe you even remembered how much I love that old video! Only you…Ah man….This whole thing was all pretty dumb, eh?
Girl #1:Yeah, it was. Sorry, girl. So we good?
Girl #2:Definitely. But about the smell of your shoes…
Girl #1:(death look) Don’t start. Look, the movie’s almost over, I have no idea what it was about after all. Do you?
Girl #2:Not a clue. Let’s ask, before the lights get turned on. Hey. Hey you! Chick sitting right in front of me with a lot of hair and an accent!
Girl #1:Oh, where are your manners? Her name’s Andréa, I think, she was in my group last week.
Girl #2:Andréa? Oh Dayum, Andréa. That’s a French-ass name, girl!
Girl #1:HAHAHA! Man, you have to stop quoting the “can I have your number” video, or everyone will hear us laughing. Alright. Let’s do this, there’s only three mins left of this. HEY! Andréa!
Me: Yes?
Girl #1: Yeah yeah, you. What’s the movie about, I saw you taking notes the whole time and actually paying attention. Help us out! Quick!
Me: Oh. Oh! Sorry… I um...I was..I was doodling. I really don’t know about the movie. Something to do with arts, and the transitions in styles from the olden days to modern arts? Yes. Something like that.
Girl #2: Alright, thanks anyway…
(The lights are turned back on)
Girl #1: Shit. She’s less helpful than I thought she’d be. She’s totally lying. Look at all that paper covered with ink..No doodles on’em. Pffft. Nerds.
Girl #2: Well, good luck to us, then, huh?
P.s: Confession-- Because I eavesdropped the whole time, I had to bull-shit the entire quiz too, and I’m also not any good at it. That is all.
Girl #2: Why don’t you move your chair some, it’s not like the prof’s gonna care…
Girl #1: You never know, he could undercoverly suffer from O.C.D for like… perfect chair order. His mental health seems fragile enough as it is, and I don’t want to tempt him.
Girl #2: Wait. What? What are you talking about, he’s crazy?
Girl #1:Well, crazy’s a strong word, but haven’t you noticed he’s worn the e-x-a-c-t same outfit to all the classes of both courses he teaches us? That’s weird as hell. And he rambles to himself a lot, which is also suspicious for mental stability.
Girl #2: Ha. He doesn’t smell, so I figure he’s just like one of those cartoon characters; you know how in shows they open their closets and have a million of the same outfit on hangers? … And I don’t think undercoverly is even a legit. word…
Girl #1: Sure it’s a word. I just said it. Hahah, yeah. Maybe colorblind, style challenged, and strange cartoons do. Sure. Hey, listen, there’s really not enough room up here for me to move my chair, so will you move your head, please?? I can’t see anything!
Girl #2: Well it’s not like this documentary’s interesting anyway. Definitely not worth having a stiff neck over. Plus, not only the weird cartoon characters have that same-outfit-all-the-time syndrome! Look at Bart Simpsons! He’s got to be the poster child of cool cartoon people!
Girl #1: Yeah…I guess. But still, there’s a quiz on this after we see it, and I’m not good at bullshitting stuff.
Girl #2: Ugh, just relax. So what’d you do last night?
Girl #1*Sigh* If I do badly, you’ll have it on your conscience! I watched more “Glee”. Did you know dolphins are just gay sharks?!
Girl #2:O-M-G.
Girl #1: What?! What are you looking at me like that for?!
You’re not kidding, are you? You know what? Don’t even answer that, you hopeless child.
Girl #2: Whatevs…So are you gonna move, or do I really need to go sit all the way in the front row?
Girl #1:Yeah, go up front. I’m not moving for anyone who’s as gullible as you. Nuh-uh. Just not happening.
Girl #2: Okay. Fine. I don’t want to be a loner so I’ll stay here, but you’re mean and sour! Oh and by the way, your shoes put a clown’s clogs to shame. They really do.
Girl#1: So what? I’ve got big feet, nothing I can do about it. You, on the other hand, eat way too much pizza, and you have bigger belly rolls than me. Pig.
Girl #2: Bitch! I may have a bigger stomach, but your Confederation Bridge-long feet reek, and they stink up our dorm room! Use some foot odour controller, or something! And would you just move a bit, for Pete’s sake?!
Girl #1: No way that my feet stink, and dream on that I’ll move after what you just said! Pfffft. Especially not for someone who says “Pete’s sake”--That’s embarrassing.
Girl #2: Frig. You’re a gigantic doofus, and you’re stupidity inflicts the effects of a roller coaster of pain on my brain! Just stop talking.
Girl #1:Fine. Eat pizza till you die, and please watch the movie thing. You really need it for your education.
Girl #2: Oh shut it, will you? I wasn’t the one on academic probation last year! So if anything, we probably need it equally
Girl #1:That was really low, and it kinda hurt, but yeah….Let’s pay attention, I guess.
Girl #2: K.
(a few minutes later)
Girl #1: “Oh Dayuum! Dayyyuum, Girl! Can I tell you something? Dayum! The back of yo head, is ridickalous!”
Girl #2: HAHAHA! I can’t believe you even remembered how much I love that old video! Only you…Ah man….This whole thing was all pretty dumb, eh?
Girl #1:Yeah, it was. Sorry, girl. So we good?
Girl #2:Definitely. But about the smell of your shoes…
Girl #1:(death look) Don’t start. Look, the movie’s almost over, I have no idea what it was about after all. Do you?
Girl #2:Not a clue. Let’s ask, before the lights get turned on. Hey. Hey you! Chick sitting right in front of me with a lot of hair and an accent!
Girl #1:Oh, where are your manners? Her name’s Andréa, I think, she was in my group last week.
Girl #2:Andréa? Oh Dayum, Andréa. That’s a French-ass name, girl!
Girl #1:HAHAHA! Man, you have to stop quoting the “can I have your number” video, or everyone will hear us laughing. Alright. Let’s do this, there’s only three mins left of this. HEY! Andréa!
Me: Yes?
Girl #1: Yeah yeah, you. What’s the movie about, I saw you taking notes the whole time and actually paying attention. Help us out! Quick!
Me: Oh. Oh! Sorry… I um...I was..I was doodling. I really don’t know about the movie. Something to do with arts, and the transitions in styles from the olden days to modern arts? Yes. Something like that.
Girl #2: Alright, thanks anyway…
(The lights are turned back on)
Girl #1: Shit. She’s less helpful than I thought she’d be. She’s totally lying. Look at all that paper covered with ink..No doodles on’em. Pffft. Nerds.
Girl #2: Well, good luck to us, then, huh?
P.s: Confession-- Because I eavesdropped the whole time, I had to bull-shit the entire quiz too, and I’m also not any good at it. That is all.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Concept, Form, Voice.
Unctuous foamy cream slowly being lathered on by an “attractive” (read barely clothed and outrageously skinny) made-up woman, splashing hot water, and an expensive five blade razor. Those are the basic elements typically being advertised to women by marketers selling the work (note that I deliberately use the more negatively connoted word “work” in this text, and I’ll come back to the reasons behind this at a later point) of leg shaving. However, because of the experience I’ll expand on below, I have recently come to view with a brand new set of lenses the conscious gender role performance that is the action of removing hair off one’s legs.
It all started when I was approached by a 20-something man I didn’t know, half way through my usual workout at the gym. “If you move your feet like this while lifting the weights, you’ll get a lot more out of your training,” he said. Resenting this unrequested “expert’s help” interruption, I took my earphones off to politely decline further interaction. Before I had a chance to say anything, he had already bent down, and reached out for my legs. As his hand briefly came in contact with my lower calf, he exclaimed “Holy shit! Your legs are hairy!” Uncertain that I had heard correctly, I asked him to repeat. As his statement sunk in a second time, I shrugged with indifference, and then found myself responding with a defiant “Well, so are yours.” “It’s not the same: I’m a guy, and I’m supposed to have hairy legs. For a chick, it’s sick-looking and not right,” he replied.
Not missing a beat, I fired back “And why the hell not?! I have killer legs, and hair grows there naturally just like it does on a man.” “Women are supposed to shave, so they look hot and smooth, and can be pretty enough to find a boyfriend or a husband. I’d _never_ shag a girl if her legs weren’t taken care of,” he arrogantly added.
WOAH! This guy’s first infraction had been to invade my personal space by touching me without my permission. His second was to have assumed I required a man to “teach” me how to work out; when in fact I was perfectly fine on my own. His last statement, however, was deeply wrong on way too many levels. Unsure as to how to even react, I eventually settled on bewilderment and spat out “Who the hell do you think you are, to believe you have the right to judge, police, and govern women's bodies like that?!” Cutting him right off, I launched into a passionate defense of women’s rights to their bodies. This of course led him to abruptly exit the premises of the gym while calling out “Crazy bitch,” leaving me alone to think about all this, and pretty blue in the face.
On my way home I realized that even if it’s been a while since I stopped shaving my legs, I had never actually experienced the broader social and more “political” aspect of the personal choice I have made. The systematic come and go of the blade as it glides from ankle to thigh seems fairly insignificant in itself, and so does applying hair removal cream or strips. Although, when you stop to think of it, this simple action is profoundly ingrained in our society’s standards of female “beauty”, which dictate that only hair-free legs can be beautiful. So who’d possibly want be viewed as other than proper and attractive, right?
Well, this brings me back to the language specification I made earlier. I use the word “work” rather than something neutral like “task” to make a distinction between shaving solely out of personal preference for the short-lasting smoothness; and shaving out of fear of being judged as unattractive and/or by fear of being rejected by partners or friends. And since “work” typically defines something most people “do” not so much for their personal enjoyment, but more in order to gain something (money, usually, but social approval in this case), I attempt through language to mark the two different intentions behind the action of shaving.
The place where these two separate intentions get all tangled and hard to clearly define, is when women stop actively thinking about shaving because they have internalized through consuming advertisement and being brought up with these standards of beauty, what it really means to shave. As a result, it becomes increasingly difficult to differentiate where the end of one intention is, and where the beginning of the other starts. The more I think about it the blurrier the lines get, and I find myself wondering whether it’s still actually possible for a woman to completely disregard the social aspects of complying with this gender role performance, and this, without mixing bits and pieces of both intentions while still thinking they’re only shaving for themselves.
It all started when I was approached by a 20-something man I didn’t know, half way through my usual workout at the gym. “If you move your feet like this while lifting the weights, you’ll get a lot more out of your training,” he said. Resenting this unrequested “expert’s help” interruption, I took my earphones off to politely decline further interaction. Before I had a chance to say anything, he had already bent down, and reached out for my legs. As his hand briefly came in contact with my lower calf, he exclaimed “Holy shit! Your legs are hairy!” Uncertain that I had heard correctly, I asked him to repeat. As his statement sunk in a second time, I shrugged with indifference, and then found myself responding with a defiant “Well, so are yours.” “It’s not the same: I’m a guy, and I’m supposed to have hairy legs. For a chick, it’s sick-looking and not right,” he replied.
Not missing a beat, I fired back “And why the hell not?! I have killer legs, and hair grows there naturally just like it does on a man.” “Women are supposed to shave, so they look hot and smooth, and can be pretty enough to find a boyfriend or a husband. I’d _never_ shag a girl if her legs weren’t taken care of,” he arrogantly added.
WOAH! This guy’s first infraction had been to invade my personal space by touching me without my permission. His second was to have assumed I required a man to “teach” me how to work out; when in fact I was perfectly fine on my own. His last statement, however, was deeply wrong on way too many levels. Unsure as to how to even react, I eventually settled on bewilderment and spat out “Who the hell do you think you are, to believe you have the right to judge, police, and govern women's bodies like that?!” Cutting him right off, I launched into a passionate defense of women’s rights to their bodies. This of course led him to abruptly exit the premises of the gym while calling out “Crazy bitch,” leaving me alone to think about all this, and pretty blue in the face.
On my way home I realized that even if it’s been a while since I stopped shaving my legs, I had never actually experienced the broader social and more “political” aspect of the personal choice I have made. The systematic come and go of the blade as it glides from ankle to thigh seems fairly insignificant in itself, and so does applying hair removal cream or strips. Although, when you stop to think of it, this simple action is profoundly ingrained in our society’s standards of female “beauty”, which dictate that only hair-free legs can be beautiful. So who’d possibly want be viewed as other than proper and attractive, right?
Well, this brings me back to the language specification I made earlier. I use the word “work” rather than something neutral like “task” to make a distinction between shaving solely out of personal preference for the short-lasting smoothness; and shaving out of fear of being judged as unattractive and/or by fear of being rejected by partners or friends. And since “work” typically defines something most people “do” not so much for their personal enjoyment, but more in order to gain something (money, usually, but social approval in this case), I attempt through language to mark the two different intentions behind the action of shaving.
The place where these two separate intentions get all tangled and hard to clearly define, is when women stop actively thinking about shaving because they have internalized through consuming advertisement and being brought up with these standards of beauty, what it really means to shave. As a result, it becomes increasingly difficult to differentiate where the end of one intention is, and where the beginning of the other starts. The more I think about it the blurrier the lines get, and I find myself wondering whether it’s still actually possible for a woman to completely disregard the social aspects of complying with this gender role performance, and this, without mixing bits and pieces of both intentions while still thinking they’re only shaving for themselves.
Monday, September 27, 2010
One inch scope into my life.
Andréa Peters
Creative writing.
A faint yellow hue in colour, the mass is mostly flattened, but rising and bruised looking in a few dirt spotted areas. Damn you inconsiderate litterers, I growl under my breath, as I think about the potential for long-term damages. Seated precariously on the small two person kitchen table, I carefully take my flat off, and stare at the grotesque squatter in silence.
Persistent and clingy, it slowly stretches in long pieces of thick mild cheddar cheese string-like goo, right onto my Kleenex protected finger. Gross. Searching the room for something better to operate with, I settle on a butter knife and a hard spatula, just in case a back up is necessary to kill off this tenacious parasite.
In need of a firmer grip, I move to the floor where I draw my knees in to my chest, and cinch the victim between my thighs. I vigorously tug and scrape until I’m all out of breath, and suddenly guilt-ridden, it dawns on me that I probably would have better control on my breathing if I stopped botching the headstand pose every time I do yoga.
Frustrated, I stuff my shoe in the freezer and turn the radio on. Pretending like I’m really doing the reading that was due Friday, I can’t help but cast sharp, occasional glances at the refrigerator door. Who in their right mind abandons their gum right in the middle of the hallway like that, anyway? To think it must have all started with a ton of sugar being poured into giant silver pots, which produced a sweet aroma as they heated up… I don’t know if it’s the jet lag effect to get on store shelves here in Fredericton that rendered my enemy so bitter, but there’s definitely nothing sweet about it anymore. Frig this. I don’t even chew gum: you’re going down, buddy.
The clock on the oven ticks behind me, and I impatiently fidget, feeling like I’ve been sitting here forever. I finally stand up, and retrieve my shoe from its temporary morgue to inspect the results. Still soft, for Christ’s sake. It’s been in there for like…at least five minutes! How long does it take for a gum to freeze? Ugh. Spitting one’s saliva infused trash on the ground in a public area so ought to be qualified as legally prosecutable behaviour.
“Oh would you just relax,” I hear the relentless little voice in my head taunting. “You’re freshly out of a job-- what better than scraping a gum off your shoe do you have to do with your life, eh?” My legs tremble and I set the shoe down without taking my eyes off of it, as if I were trying to psych it out before our dual resumed. However, the only thoughts penetrating the vault of my brain are pulling the plug on the phone to silence my concerned mother’s incessant calls, and watching reruns of Friends while eating a lot of marshmallows.
Yes. Watching Friends reruns is what I need to do, I think to myself. As I make my way to my room, wafts of a sickly overripe peach-like scent flood my nostrils, and I gasp for air. Good God, what is this thing? A radioactive Juicy Fruit?! Pinching my nose with my non-gum contaminated hand, I decide that I can’t do this any longer. It has to go.
Back on the kitchen floor in a strange contortion, I hold my shoe at eye level. I must have zoned out, because I’m surprised to feel my eyeballs going all crooked in their sockets, as I start to see this monster in double vision. Now that I’m really looking at it, I notice it sort of has the shape of a beaver. It must be a sign from my landlord, or something. I knew I should have picked up that nickel I dropped on the bus… There’s no way I’ll have next month’s rent money in on time, now.
I hear the lock on the door turning, and my mother erupts into the kitchen. Frantic, she inquires in a high pitched voice as to why I haven’t picked up the phone all afternoon. “Busy”, I murmur. She takes a long look at the two days old dishes piled up in the sink, at my tousled hair and food stained shirt, and she extends her hand towards me. “Give me that shoe; you’re doing it all wrong. You need Goo-Gone, for that stuff. Bring me my purse.”
Creative writing.
A faint yellow hue in colour, the mass is mostly flattened, but rising and bruised looking in a few dirt spotted areas. Damn you inconsiderate litterers, I growl under my breath, as I think about the potential for long-term damages. Seated precariously on the small two person kitchen table, I carefully take my flat off, and stare at the grotesque squatter in silence.
Persistent and clingy, it slowly stretches in long pieces of thick mild cheddar cheese string-like goo, right onto my Kleenex protected finger. Gross. Searching the room for something better to operate with, I settle on a butter knife and a hard spatula, just in case a back up is necessary to kill off this tenacious parasite.
In need of a firmer grip, I move to the floor where I draw my knees in to my chest, and cinch the victim between my thighs. I vigorously tug and scrape until I’m all out of breath, and suddenly guilt-ridden, it dawns on me that I probably would have better control on my breathing if I stopped botching the headstand pose every time I do yoga.
Frustrated, I stuff my shoe in the freezer and turn the radio on. Pretending like I’m really doing the reading that was due Friday, I can’t help but cast sharp, occasional glances at the refrigerator door. Who in their right mind abandons their gum right in the middle of the hallway like that, anyway? To think it must have all started with a ton of sugar being poured into giant silver pots, which produced a sweet aroma as they heated up… I don’t know if it’s the jet lag effect to get on store shelves here in Fredericton that rendered my enemy so bitter, but there’s definitely nothing sweet about it anymore. Frig this. I don’t even chew gum: you’re going down, buddy.
The clock on the oven ticks behind me, and I impatiently fidget, feeling like I’ve been sitting here forever. I finally stand up, and retrieve my shoe from its temporary morgue to inspect the results. Still soft, for Christ’s sake. It’s been in there for like…at least five minutes! How long does it take for a gum to freeze? Ugh. Spitting one’s saliva infused trash on the ground in a public area so ought to be qualified as legally prosecutable behaviour.
“Oh would you just relax,” I hear the relentless little voice in my head taunting. “You’re freshly out of a job-- what better than scraping a gum off your shoe do you have to do with your life, eh?” My legs tremble and I set the shoe down without taking my eyes off of it, as if I were trying to psych it out before our dual resumed. However, the only thoughts penetrating the vault of my brain are pulling the plug on the phone to silence my concerned mother’s incessant calls, and watching reruns of Friends while eating a lot of marshmallows.
Yes. Watching Friends reruns is what I need to do, I think to myself. As I make my way to my room, wafts of a sickly overripe peach-like scent flood my nostrils, and I gasp for air. Good God, what is this thing? A radioactive Juicy Fruit?! Pinching my nose with my non-gum contaminated hand, I decide that I can’t do this any longer. It has to go.
Back on the kitchen floor in a strange contortion, I hold my shoe at eye level. I must have zoned out, because I’m surprised to feel my eyeballs going all crooked in their sockets, as I start to see this monster in double vision. Now that I’m really looking at it, I notice it sort of has the shape of a beaver. It must be a sign from my landlord, or something. I knew I should have picked up that nickel I dropped on the bus… There’s no way I’ll have next month’s rent money in on time, now.
I hear the lock on the door turning, and my mother erupts into the kitchen. Frantic, she inquires in a high pitched voice as to why I haven’t picked up the phone all afternoon. “Busy”, I murmur. She takes a long look at the two days old dishes piled up in the sink, at my tousled hair and food stained shirt, and she extends her hand towards me. “Give me that shoe; you’re doing it all wrong. You need Goo-Gone, for that stuff. Bring me my purse.”
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