I think I need to decide on exactly ONE subject area to blog about and stick to it. Right now everytime I try to write something my fingertips stage a first class word freakout. The ideas come, but not in any sort of organized or helpful fashion–I’m sitting here right now thinking politics-no wait-ART-no wait-muSIc-but how about them Lakers(or Man U?)-and let’s not forget-narcissistic ruminations on me and what I think–Aaaaah! Can’t-put-all-ideas-down-coherently! Mayday, mayday! Danger, danger Will Robinson! Nobody knows what the hell you’re talking about anymore! Give us freeeeeeee!
Yeah, I definitely need to pick just one subject.
I opened my new visa application today. I’m not a nervous person by nature(despite my first paragraph), but already I feel a month of Pepto-Bismol cocktails coming on…
Still, the sunshine is back in effect. Spent yesterday lunchtime sitting in a beautiful spot outdoors roasting in the wonderful, wonderful heat. A great finish to a recipe that began with me spending most of the morning simmering in my own juices…
Let me explain–there I was, talking a woman over the phone at work. It wasn’t so much of a conversation as it was a gigantic circle made out of stupid words. I’d say something sort of factual, then she’d say something to the effect of “I know, but do what I said anyway.” I’d say no. She’d say, “I know, but do the impossible thing that I’m demanding anyway.” I’d say I can’t. She’d say…you get the idea.
This went around and around for a good ten minutes, with both of us getting progressively more and more frustrated. Just when I thought I was just going to have to hang up, she dropped a bomb on me.
“You know what?” she says, “I’m pretty. And you’re mean.”
Y’all, she was dead serious. I actually had to stop and check myself for a moment to make sure that the calendar did not say “1993” and I was not rocking pigtails and a training bra.
I was all ready to decide I’d heard wrong and get back to talking about nothing when she threw in the kicker. “If you were a man, I’d already have what I wanted.”
At least she hung up on me after that. But, as everything seems to do these days, it got me thinking.
I have to ask the gentlemen in the room to turn away at this point, I’m about to let out some secrets.
Most of the time, I feel like women are really cool people, generally speaking. We are a massive gorgeous sisterhood privileged to carry the secrets of childbirth and the proper positioning of the toilet seat. I am very much NOT into feminism(because it’s stupid)–but I proudly wear the badge of womanism. I like being a woman and celebrating all that it means to be female.
But still there are times, not often, but there, when I feel like there are many different species of women and all of them are hopeless. I think a lot of women feel like this sometimes. Mainstream culture seems to encourage and even reward women for being hateful, divisive and classist to each other, starting in infancy. (Ever seen the film Mean Girls? )
The divides break down in a lot of different ways and sound more like issues of semantics than class/culture/value. Stay-at-home-mom vs. unemployed housewife. Trust fund baby vs scholarship girl. Black woman vs. white chick. Video ho vs. rock groupie. “Girl of God” vs. “women’s ministries suck”.
What it boils down to is this, I think. Some women have a strong sense of personal value their entire lives–it’s instilled in them by their culture, their family, their surroundings. Being a woman is an inherently neutral thing, and therefore things that they accomplish in life don’t have any bearing on who they are as a woman. They’re just accomplishments–which is what normal, well-adjusted people of any gender achieve, right? Double X’s don’t have anything to do with it.
Only problem with the above scenario is that it happens, like, never. Most women either have a completely distorted sense of value (dependant on what they can get for being a woman and from who) or no sense of value at all(which means that they work their asses off to try to gain some, no matter how.)
So then what? Well, on the mild end of the spectrum you have my phone buddy reverting to pre-teenism with pigheaded me determined to earn my way into dominance. On the extreme end? Superhead and Condolezza Rice. Seriously.
And all of this screws up our relationships with men, who tend to not care anyway as long as we don’t talk about it very much.
*smh* I’m going back out in the sunshine…but I will be revisiting this topic in the near future…