Beautiful and...

I have a new celeb crush. After seeing Toni Collette in an interview and being extremely bored with all the TV series I rented the first season of United States of Tara. Finally entertained I breezed through each episode and at the end of the last episode I thought she was an actress goddess.

Recently, I was asked who my top five female hot celebs were and I really needed some time to think about it. There are tons of beautiful women are screen these days, but lately I have found my list evolving to accommodate women not in my age bracket, but older. Megan Fox is definitely hot and my age, but that is all she is. She, and a lot of twenty-something women are stuck in the “you’re beautiful..." and that's it box, which is a box exclusive to women.

Have you noticed that the women out of the twenties age bracket deal with the beauty box a lot less? And it is not because they are less beautiful (my top hot female celebs are all over the age of 30). I find that I often equate women older than myself with being beautiful and being interesting. I wonder if it is because women are somehow different once they reach their thirties or if there is something else going on that is quite unfair to women in their twenties? It can't be just me.

It might be time to start working on forcing a change in my thought pattern when I see a beautiful woman. Women are multi-dimensional and interesting, even in their twenties. It is time to start seeing and examining all of the other parts. That goes for myself as well; spend more time on examining and developing who I am and less time in any sort of box.

Thank you Dr. Haas

I know I have had a good workout if after I have warmed-up, lifted some weights, ran four miles, put my abs back into place and stretched, I am not flattened to the floor nor tired. Instead I feel light and airy. This is why I love my tampons.

While running I saw an advertisement for pads, feminine napkins, whatever. The woman was running and happy. Really? Is there any way that woman could be happy running with a diaper down there? Admittedly I have never tried. I have been immersed in the world of tampons from the get go. My mother was a tampon user, and my sister was the one who left me with tampons for when I started my very first period.

In my exercise high I would like to take the opportunity to thank the inventor of the modern tampon, Earle Haas.

Thank you tampon inventor for giving me the opportunity to run diaper and chaffed free. My ass, heart, and mind are especially appreciative.

Sunday Suppa: lemon bar dessert

I was feeling uninventive and indecisive before grocery shopping this morning so I decided that instead of boring you with my chicken parmigiano covered in gooey mozzarella cheese that I would try Ina Garten's lemon bar recipe. I am convinced that I cannot bake very well. My apple pies never turn out as beautiful as my mothers and always need to be a little bit firmer even though I follow my mother’s recipe as close to exactly as I can get. I am terrified of overcooking and undercooking dessert.

In my search for dinner ideas this week I came upon the lemon bar recipe and was reunited with a lemon sweet craving I have had since last summer. I had little faith in myself to pull of lemon cheese cake. This bar recipe looked simple enough and I had almost all the ingredients minus the lemons and eggs.

I need to watch someone bake and follow along. I made the crust first wondering if my problem is not that I cannot make the crust, but that I have little patience to make the crust look nice in the pan. I was pressing and spreading the crust out in the pan and I got anxious. Is this thick enough, high enough, smooth enough? I knew it tasted good after I sampled the buttery goodness.

The filling was super easy. I waited to add the eggs with the lemon juice until I was ready to mix. I wasn’t sure if the acid would affect the protein in the eggs in some weird way or not if I let them sit together while dumping in the other ingredients. Of course when I poured the filling on the crust, my crust was thick enough, not high enough, and the smoothness really did not matter. I felt glad that Mike is always thoughtful and thankful when trying anything I make.

I try my hardest to let bake things cool and I think I got pretty close this time when I cut into the warm lemon bars. I took the corner piece that I had made unpretty in my cutting and gave Mike the nice piece. They were good. I slowly ate my piece enjoying the mixture of tart and sweet. Mike hovered the bar.

Was it that bad or was it that good?

I might have to have another one.

Now if only I could make it perfectly delicious...

They're cold sores not...

I was unblessed with cold sores. You can call it herpes. I refuse. They are cold sores, which we all know are located on the lips…of the mouth. I get cold sores far less as an adult than when I was a teenager though getting them still sucks just as much. Yesterday I got a cold sore and my period. Yuck. This situation brings about a horrible memory and a guilty thought.

Memory: In college I took a sex class. It had more of an official title, but everyone knew it as sex class. It was where anal sex was discussed all of the time. In the first class everyone had to write down three questions and every class they would randomly be picked and answered. Well, apparently everyone had questions about the backdoor.

And then there was herpes, which really is not all that bad unless like me you have a whopping throbbing cold sore on the day you discuss herpes. In sex class it is nice to feel like you could be a potential sex partner, but this definitely gets shot down when you have a big STD on your lip. Thanks mom. I tried really hard to awkwardly position my hand over part of my mouth to avoid being asked to stand in front of the class as a demonstration of what a herpe might look like. It was the longest three hour class I have ever taken.

Thought: Poor Mike. Talk about a long weekend.

My slight guilt quickly went away this morning when I discovered that after clipping his most disgusting dirty foul creepy Gollum toe nails he did not pick up the ewwwww. Clearly, my stress induced cold sore occurred out of prescience.  As usual it’s his fault.

Hot mama dilemma

A friend saved a copy of the More magazine for me to peruse. While this magazine may be geared towards women in their forties at this point in my twenties it all seems relevant. Even the numerous anti-aging advertisements didn’t shock me. I recently read somewhere that women didn’t have to start worrying about aging until after the ripe age of 21. Apparently, my being almost 24 makes me older than younger.

In my perusing of More I happened to come across a feature addressing the “Stacey’s Mom Dilemma”. I am no mother yet of a teenage daughter, but I definitely remember my own mother’s passage through this phase and have observed many other mothers contending with this dilemma.

Karen Karbo writes “If my daughter had become the hottie in the house, then what was I, aside from her chauffeur?” Thankfully, instead of the usual fighting the new hottie with weight-loss, tanning, and buying too short skirts, Karbo concludes that she should “…err on the side of momishness.” I write thankfully because while women who are mothers have every right to be attractive and sexual in their other roles, teenage daughters just want their moms' momishness.

I admit this does not seem fair. Often we equate the shutdown of sexuality and beauty with aging therefore when it is encouraged for women who are mothers to turn the hot factor off it could mean they are getting old. And it does not take a genius to figure out (just flip through any magazine) that this culture is definitely anti-aging, especially for women.

I believe motherhood is just one role that women have among many roles, which should allow women to express their sexuality sans all the anti-aging bullshit. We, me in my twenties, you in your whatever, are not old or getting older.

Deer inspires self-righteousness

I admit I was driving to Walmart. We do not have a Target in Vermont that makes us feel better about buying cheap plastic products. It felt like it was time for some spring cleaning action at my house and in an attempt to try to save some money I willed myself in the direction of the devil store. Mother Earth saved me.

A deer was dead in the median of the interstate and I was immediately sad. Lately, road kill has been bothering me. Then, it came to me:

Fxxx Walmart! What am I doing? I have a planet to protect and save. So I’m using a little more gas now, but I drive a Honda Civic so that is better than tons of other people.

I drove right past Walmart towards Healthy Living, also known as Wealthy Living. While driving my thought tangents proceeded. Sometimes I get so annoyed with my parents generation or in general people between the ages of 40-65. I like to hold them responsible for the planet’s meltdown and continued meltdown because they keep on buying SUV’s, processed foods, and non-reusable frappe-mocha-somethings from Starbucks. I know us twenty-somethings do similar things, but I also know that most of us do not have the buying power that our parents do.

I left Wealthy Living, feeling less wealthy in cash, but better about my overall contribution. That deer had a lot of purposes on the planet, but I bet it did not have the instinct to know that it was going to inspire a twenty-something young woman to pass by the devil store and do the right thing. Fxxx Walmart!

Yup, I am a self-righteous bitch and proud of it.

Twice is nice

As a couple that has lived together for five years we have definitely figured out the unspoken bathroom rules. There is no getting around our body’s need to excrete…waste products.

1. Mike leaves a…
2. I just need to use the bathroom…for whatever reason.
3. It’s ok for Mike to pee with the door open or while I am trying to brush my teeth.
4. I just need to use the bathroom…for whatever reason.
5. If Mike is spending extra reading time I can ask him a question if needed.
6. I just need to use the bathroom…for whatever reason…no disturbances allowed.
7. Twice is nice no leftovers allowed.

While these rules may seem a little rigid they are not that uptight. Discussion about intestinal failure, sickness, etc., is perfectly fine. After all it is no fun to not being feeling good and then not be able to tell someone why.

However the rules are not supposed to be broken which is why I was quite alarmed when #6 was violated for the first time by Mike. It was not even violated because there was an emergency. He violated the rule while on the phone with his mother discussing our wedding dress code.

Knock

Him: Hey

Alarm. Is the door locked?

Me: Yea…

Him: S wearing a suit is fine right?

Seriously?

Me: Yea, yea. Fine.

Go away.

So much for my womanly attempt at bathroom mysteriousness; or maybe that is what our gendered bathroom rules are: weird, strange, and ridiculous. Still, I am not ready to give them up just yet…

Driving thought tangents

While in my driving daze (Mike left the whole chicken in his car overnight and all day until I discovered that we had no chicken in our refrigerator) I was thinking about this new health care bill and what it says to women about women, which of course went off into another thought tangent as soon as I drove by the Saint Francis Xavier Church.

Last summer I would occasionally go for a run outside and would pass by this church. Whenever I would run by the church I would take those seconds and dedicate them to my spiritual growth. I am more of a spiritual person than a religious person thus running by the church was my church. Of course thinking about running brought me to another thought tangent.

I miss being able to run outside more frequently. When I first started running in middle school I lived on a dirt road. I loved the sound of my shoes hitting the rocky dirt and the way the trees would line the road. It made my own little private world. Now that I am in a city I do not like to run outside as much. I hate the traffic and the smell of exhaust. I hate waiting to cross the road and I hate that instead of my being able to go into a magical world of nature I am forced to take note of who is around me. Am I safe?

There have been enough tragedies that have happened to women in my life to make me weary. It does not help that a simple run just for me can easily turn into the unwanted objectification of my body as some idiot men yell at me from their car windows. It feels as if I cannot have even a little space in the world, which brings me back to my original thought.

The health care bill reinforces the idea that I as a woman cannot have a full right to my body. As a young woman in this current culture it is easy for me to sometimes feel like I cannot own my body and I cannot have space without it being infringed upon. Even so, I keep journeying along because I know I really do own my body and that I will be able to be present in space.

Sunday Suppa: soup bliss

This Sunday it was time for a little Why-the-Chicken-Crossed-the-Road Santa Fe-Tastic Tortilla Soup to fight the new onset of blahs which occurs to us Vermonters after surviving a winter, getting a peak of spring, and then having the cold grayness set in again.

I love this soup. It is especially great in the summer when no modifications have to be made. Since corn is not in season we substitute the frozen stuff, which is definitely not the same as corn on the cob cooked to perfection on the grill. Mmmm corn, butter, some salt. I miss summer. We also end up not grilling the red pepper like we do in the summer and instead sauté it with the rest of the vegetables. Even with a few changes the soup is still delicious and easy to make.

While cooking the soup we always dive into the blue tortilla chips beforehand along with Cabot Hunter Sharp cheddar cheese. We love and eat cheese like it could be our last time ever to eat cheese. It is probably good that it is just the two of us or else we might get a little territorially over our cheese.

With this soup we leave it up to each other to decide how much tortilla we want by adding the tortilla chips to our individual bowls. This is especially tasty as it allows you to enjoy a crunch in the beginning and then quickly the softer sweeter flavorings from the chips as they breakdown in the soup. I like to add sour cream directly to my soup bowl, but Mike prefers to scoop sour cream up on his tortilla chip and then dip it into his bowl. We make this soup into finger food which of course makes it fun to eat.

With this suppa our bellies are full and satisfied. Though, I am still wishing for our summer weather. Mmmm corn on the cob; fresh sliced tomatoes; cheese; my cheese.

Opposite days

I am not sure which is more disturbing. My fiancé exclaiming he is definitely team Jacob or his dream that my wedding dress was a white ruffled tube dress complimented by white thigh highs and white “pumps”. Some days Mike says the oddest things.

The team Jacob declaration really is just another piece to our all out opposite war we have going on. Although, he wavers since he does not have a firm clue of what he wants in life. That is what I tell myself to cope with our opposite days.

Mostly, I’m more adventurous and when planning my adventure schemes I find myself feeling even more carefree when I picture Mike with me. As if we could be anywhere in the world and he would make it so much better because I’m shy, he’s not, and people tend to love him. Thus he has the capability of helping to open up the world more for me. I crave this, which is why our opposite days kill me.

I might consider this opposite problem as a balance solution. I help Mike realize there are other options and Mike helps me to slow down and examine my schemes to make sure they actually are adventures. However, with our marriage quickly approaching we find ourselves examining the type of marriage we seek more often. What will we do together? What will we do apart? Will compromise be the solution or a sacrifice?

For now, I know we both can be comfortable with my loyalty to team Edward and a wedding dress without the white thigh highs and complimentary white pumps.

Hushing the mother-daughter demon

What is it with mothers and daughters? Especially daughters. The role of daughter is treacherous as it is the role most likely to subject us to temporarily turning into the exorcist girl with our heads spinning around crazily. This obviously occurs after spending time with our mothers.

I got an email from my own mother that caused the exorcist demon girl rage. Luckily, there were no bystanders and by the time my mother showed up to my door I was able to shove all the rage and the feelings deep down so we could go pick out paint colors like civilized people. I have learned that sometimes it is just easier this way.

Even then, in all our daughter righteousness we are always reminded that part of us, (even though we vehemently deny it) comes from our mother. We sometimes try and hope to be unlike our mothers and of course we are in a way, but there are those traits that still get passed along. Whether it is hair, hips, lips, laughs, acne, artistic ability, attitude, taste, you name it. Thus, we are subject to being with our mothers even when we are alone, which of course this too can cause the demon girl rage.

Today, I do not feel like making peace with my mother-daughter relationship or my head spinning rage, but I do think someday, with a lot of time, I will find a way to forgive my mother and accept some of the gifts she did give me.

Step one: cocktail!

The nightmares commence

The three month countdown to the big day is about to commence. Along with the countdown comes the nightmares. Last night my unconscious mind graced me with a lovely dream where the day had come and Mike and I had forgotten to finish writing our vows. I frantically looked for him to finish writing our vows, but of course I could not find my groom anywhere.

Who knew there was so much to worry about with weddings?! I just pictured the day magically happening. Now I am consuming as many facial products as I possibly can to try to avoid a zit or worse a breakout on my wedding day. Unfortunately, as much as I have tried to involve Mike in the wedding he just does not get stressed out about a zit like I do. Therefore, I have all these tiny things that I am worried about on top of the overall wedding picture and Mike does not. Can’t I make him worry some more?

In my worried state I must go off to check the list and check it twice…and then one more time. Brides are surely more thorough than Santa will ever be.

The guilty feminist

I was reading Bitch for my first time and found myself in familiar territory. Issues of colorism, technologizing women’s bodies, beauty products and accessories, honor killings and several others were written about. While I find myself attracted to the discussions around these issues I also find myself in a dilemma. With feminism I feel like I would have to give up some of the things I enjoy or find a way to make them p.c. if I wanted to exist in the feminist world without feeling hypocritical.

For example I love Jean Kilbourne’s work on the image of women in advertising. When I was a young college student it completely opened a different world to me where I could consciously examine the messages advertisements were trying to give me about being a woman. I feel I have more power and more control after Jean Kilbourne’s contribution to my understanding of womanhood. However, this new knowledge often brings on feelings of guilt. The guilt comes with my own desires to want “perfect” thighs, “healthy” hair, and the newest fashion items of the season.

This makes me feel like the bad feminist; the one who should know better than to fall into the traps of wondering about the trendiness of my pubic hair. I am on the quest to find balance because I know I need to live in a world where I can accentuate my own personal femaleness and demand for my equality without feeling guilty.  I want to be sexed up when I feel like being sexed up.  I do not want my intellect to be taken away or doubted because I have chosen to catwalk down my hallway with some stilettos.  I want to move freely between sweaty running, gardening crunchy, Martha Stewart, hot tamale, feminist, and so on.  Someday I will get their without my own judgment or guilt; emancipation will be achieved.




P.S. I am sorry I missed St. Patrick's Day.  I thought very hard about my booby trap and after a google search decided that I just did not have time for crazy rainbow and clover coloring to attract and capture my leprechaun.  I have accepted the consequences and know that my jar of pennies will just have to suffice for this year. 

Bridal shower fantasy

At first my "surprise" bridal shower seemed like it would be a tolerable idea. Unfortunately, I was brought back to my senses when my surprise bridal shower required my participation in the planning. Sometimes binuclear families suck. My friends emailed me trying to figure out who I wanted to invite. I already made the shit list for the wedding guest list cuts, so in my every effort to not decide the invitees I gave them the mothers’ email addresses and a list of the women invited to the wedding.

Having not been to a bridal shower I have no idea what to expect. Scary games? Then, Kait reminded me of the other “haha” funny part of bridal showers such as the wonderful lingerie piece from the soon to be mother-in-law. The thought of lingerie floating around is not what horrifies me. It is the thought that my mother-in-law would love it because she wants me popping out babies right away, and if it meant that she would have to promote my having sex with her first born, well, she’d happily endure it. (Sorry TA; you can always seek revenge by buying me a butt plug instead.)

Then there is my own mother who is definitely a burn your bra sexual freedom lady. While bridal dress shopping my sister reminded me of when my mother attempted to act out the sex scene with Halle Berry and Billy Bob Thornton from Monster’s Ball…in front of my sister’s husband. If you have not seen this movie you just don’t understand. Perhaps, my mother can give a butt plug tutorial at the bridal shower.

Family members are crazy and that’s why I love them. I am sure the bridal shower will be a fantastic female event (thanks girls!) where I will no doubt now finally receive the butt plug of my dreams and the much needed lesson from my mother – preferably after we eat the cake.

Minding breasts

Mostly, in the gym I like to have my music blasted so all communication is cut off except between my iPod and my head. Sometimes I’m sneaky and I turn my music down so that I can ease drop on conversations. Today while eloquently mounting the elliptical trainer I was blissfully unaware of my breasts until one frequent sweaty male member said to another, “Trust me after teaching breastfeeding for 20 plus years there is nothing I need to know about women’s breasts.” He was clearly amused about an article he just read. I looked quickly down at the magazine he was holding, Men’s Health.

Why is Men’s Health writing about my breasts? I want to know about my breasts, but men don’t want to know about my breasts. Apparently, according to “It takes two: What women really want you to know, think, and feel about their breasts”, there are four truths plus a final truth, which really makes five:

1. Women don’t think we’re total pigs about this.
2. Many women love their breasts more than you do.
3. Women can be deeply conflicted about their breasts.
4. In bed you know nothing about them.
5. Final truth:  “…there's a double standard about being endlessly presented with breasts and then being vilified for looking at them.”

I’ve decided a response was in order:

1. Yes we do. Exceptions: (a) you are hot (b) we want to have sex with you (c) we want something from you.
2. What evidence suggests that again? I’m not sure citing that 62% of women finding it more exciting to take off their tops than their bottoms really insights the conclusion that we love our breasts more than you do. Furthermore, finding that 78% of women prefer being on top because it shows of their breasts better during sex is more indicative of women’s acute knowledge that this will turn men on and that they (women) will more likely orgasm.
3. Thanks in most part to our society’s insistence that breasts defines female gender, sexuality, and identity.
4. In bed, out of bed, after reading Men's Health, you most likely just know nothing about breasts.
5. Boohoo. Welcome to the world of walking the line between being the sacred Madonna and the sultry slut.

My thoughtful conclusion: Tomorrow I’ll put on a bra that lifts the girls and possibly a sneak peak top and get pissed when you look at my breasts unless of course a,b, or c apply. Enjoy.

Sunday Suppa: getting our Irish on?

For several years now my fiancé and I have enjoyed eating yummy and frequently new recipes together on Sunday. I have had more time on Sundays to make a longer meal and it always leaves plenty of leftovers so on Monday nights we could always sit on our asses and relax. I’ve decided to dedicate Sunday blogs to our Sunday Suppas.

Today I decided it would be a good idea to try something a little Irish as a nod to St. Patrick’s Day this week. I’m sorry corned beef lovers, I did not choose to make corned beef as honestly I’m not even sure what it includes. I searched the web for the obvious and came across a recipe for Soda Bread, which I have also never had, and Beef and Guinness Stew. Stews I can totally rock out on; baking, well, I’m still practicing.

The process of creating the Soda Bread went as expected except thankfully my cat didn’t do his usual jumping on the floured counter spreading his lovely hair protein on everything. As soon as I started to knead the bread I knew that this was not going to be as pretty looking as it should be. I popped the knurly bread into the oven anyways as I dislike wasting food and with the thought that maybe it would taste better than the way I have made it look. The bread ended up being very dense. It tasted ok and was suitable for soaking up stew juices however, there was plenty leftover and it will stay that way.

I modified the stew recipe by adding baby potatoes and some beef broth. The stew turned out as it should, but the flavor was really subtle. It definitely did not have the POW that stews with wine can have. While sipping the Guinness beer we decided that this was not a super flavorful beer and that maybe using a different dark beer such as a chocolate stout might have amped up the stew a little more.

I was trying to create a festive Irish mood, but tonight’s dinner just didn’t do it. I am looking more forward to turning our milk green and setting up an elaborate booby trap to try to catch a leprechaun. Traditions must live on!  Stay tuned.

The girl gangs of Remember Me

A 13 year old girl walks by looks at my fiancé through the window and starts smiling and waving frantically. I should have known this was going to happen on the opening night of Remember Me. I sip my wine and Mike takes another gulp of his porter. Then the girl comes back and starts waving again and this time starts hitting on the glass window. I burst out laughing and Mike is really embarrassed. I say, “I didn’t know I was actually out on a date with Robert Pattinson.” This girl definitely thinks Mike is someone else.

I thought I would wake up a little hung over from Robert Pattinson exposure in Remember Me, but the gangs of pre-teen girls kind of ruined it. They completely missed the funny college nuances in the film as well as the complex family relationships. We were lucky enough to sit next to a group of girls who (and I’m not exaggerating) would start gushing in a frenzy every time Mr. Pattinson would come on screen. I think the only time they were silent was during his sex scene where they acutely became very...interested. I was very grateful that I was not a girl anymore. At the end while we were leaving one girl said, “I really thought that it was just going to end happy and it would cut to years later where they would be married and have kids.” Clearly this was not the type of movie they would normally watch.

I can remember a time though when I too was infatuated with an actor. Aww, Leonardo DiCaprio. In my girl gang days we once paused Romeo and Juliet just to take a picture of our Romeo. I feel like I should be embarrassed about that, but I can just blame it on my raging hormones. I wonder though about all of the things that led to my changing from girl to woman. I’m not talking about the puberty days, but the changes that now cause me to perceive the world as an adult woman.

Today I am definitely thankful that I am a woman and not a girl as at least for me, it means that I get to have a little bit more self-control when cute actors are on the big screen

Sexing up the honeymoon

I can’t decide. Writing about my future honeymoon and Victoria’s Secret or the movie Precious…? It’s Friday, so I think I will keep it light, but you should check out the movie Precious.

My fiancés parents have generously offered us their timeshare points so that we may have a honeymoon – without it we surely would end up on a “beach” enjoying the frigid waters of Lake Champlain in Vermont. We started to peruse our options, which I actually found overwhelming. Argg! No more wedding stuff. After my brain went dead from scrolling through the options I went to go numb out on the couch and was delighted to find yet another Victoria’s Secret catalog that I had not gotten around to flipping through. Then the light went on!

Me: Oh! Yah!

Mike: What?

Me: It’s our honeymoon. I get to buy new sexy lingerie and swimsuits!

Mike: (He rolls his eyes and goes back to playing his Xbox)

Ok so it is true I buy a new…or rather a few new swimsuits every year. But I swear it is because I have not found the perfect swimsuit and I figured I should enjoy my youth why I can. But wait. Shouldn’t he maybe kick up the sexy factor for our honeymoon too? Why is it often the woman’s, and/or in my soon to be case, the wife’s sole job to make sure the heat gets turned up? It is true that I enjoy the acquisition of Victoria’s Secret probably more than either Mike or our joint checking account. Nonetheless, I do not want this weird gendered role where I am the sole keeper of sexy. Women unite! We must demand the Victoria’s Secret for men. Why does this bring a weird catalog to mind where the primary shoppers are gay men and middle age women shopping for their husbands?

Oh well. I am not sure I am going to be able to settle this one now. I will just enjoy my new acquisitions and of course the look on my fiancés face. Not the one where he see’s our checking ledger; the “I cannot contain myself” one when I come strutting out in my new come-hither lingerie.

Pondering the trendiness of my pubic hair

While shaving my pubic hair (I reserve Brazilian waxing for special punishment occasions) I couldn’t help but wonder, is my hairstyle still relevant? I immediately started to list recent pubic hair exposures that I might have encountered. Nothing came to mind. Has it really been that long since I have seen a naked chick or even porn?

It seems like I have been shaving my entire life. I almost wish I had taken pictures over the years because it might be funny to have a hairstyle montage. That was the time I screwed up; that was Spring Break in Jamaica; definitely camping. Thank God I missed the big hair 80’s. But wait- what if like so many other women I’m stuck in a decade or even worse a certain year? Luckily, I often can bank on my loving monogamous relationship to be my get out of jail free card.  However, I can’t help to worry a little. I mean what if Jude Law shows up at my door and I still have a hairstyle from 2000?

I decided to explore some options with jelly beans...

A nod to the landing strip

My attempt at a triangle

Where the wild things are

My cat, like most males, trying to remove the hair; less is more

Hmm... I'm not sure jelly beans are going to satisfy my need to make sure my hairstyle current.  It's definitely time for a girl's night.

I can't really complain about hair removal.  Yes, it gets tedious and some days it takes up my precious time, but I love the feel of smooth skin. For my version of womanhood, it means you pay attention to your hair.  You just have to be prepared for those spontaneous steamy love sessions.

A pause for gendercide

In my attempts to ease my embarrassment of buying the last book of the Twilight series and to actually turn my brain back on I decided to pick up the latest issue of The Economist. I was eager to read “The Worldwide War on Baby Girls”. Then I made the mistake of reading what people posted for comments on the website. Ugg. Often in such heated issues I find myself angry, baffled, and confused when reading what people think. Questions like “did we read the same article?” or “that is what you have to say?” and “who are these idiots?” often come to mind.

I found the article disturbing for almost a limitless number of reasons. It brings up so many different issues that I am not going to tackle. However, I have to pause and pause for a really long time to think about what all of this means. Ignoring all the comments that I read about the article I keep pondering on value. Often it seems there is a debate over how much women and girls are valued compared to boys as if the traits that make one valuable do not contain a certain value of their own. Is there a disparity between how much women think they are valued versus how much they value themselves? Or better yet how much do women value being a woman?

Ok I cannot ignore the comments I read any further. One commenter suggested The Economist ignored the developed world's war on boys. Huh. Yes, more program content is focused on girls and there is a newer trend of boys being left behind in school. But the article was about the huge trend of limiting/eliminating the population of girls. You cannot compare scholastic aptitude with gendercide, but of course separately the issue of boys falling behind is worth discussing.

I quite thoroughly enjoyed another commentator’s thoughtful description of women and their most powerful abilities- this definitely falls under the that and idiot question categories. Apparently women (especially beautiful women) can get anything they want by flashing a smile and lifting up their skirt to bare their legs. I’m not so sure about the anything part, but I do know it works quite well if I want sex. Question: Are these women trying to get anything from men or from women?

Being a woman seems quite tricky today. It depends on where you are, if you are even born, and who you are asking. It depends on the traits we assign the female gender and the underlying value each trait has. Honestly, and quite simply I feel sad for this loss of girls in the world and I feel this loss as a woman, an individual, and hopefully as part of a collective.

Being a woman means...

I’m a 23 year old woman having a bit of a quarter life crisis (I'm hoping for longevity). Crisis is good though as it provides a great opportunity for a meaningful and thoughtful transition. Transition where? Who knows. But while I’m actively transitioning my sister has decided that blogging would be good practice. As a fairly educated woman I have been trained to examine the meaning of my gender and my sex in daily life. I wonder about the messages we (the world) are constantly sending and how they are perceived.

Out of curiosity I decided to put google to the test. I googled women. The top results? Boring. Except for a blog from The New York Times “Women’s Day at the White House”.This definitely did not have a “Woohoo! Empower Women!” tone. I was and still am a President Obama hopeful. However, I am so not impressed by the acknowledgement of a glass ceiling. Maybe I should be. At least it is a start. Is my attitude a reflection of my generation?

So… I have decided to try to write a blog about women and my meaning making of womanhood. Mostly, I’ll examine the message of the day as perceived by me from various media sources and my own personal experiences. Hopefully my daily life will provide some other insights and I’ll take a breather to write about something else.

Don’t worry. I’m not some crazy young feminist from Vermont with dreadlocks using this as a forum to complain and then insist on hairy legs, veganism, and Ralph Nader. I am a feminist from Vermont. However, like lots of young women I cannot resist Sarah Jessica Parker, the season’s latest nail polish color (I only paint my toe nails), or Victoria's Secret.

Usually I would say “Today being a woman means”, but since I am backtracking a little bit I’ll write:

Yesterday being a woman meant…that there are limits thanks to the wonderful glass ceiling that the President can acknowledge. Hmm… the powerful recognize their power.