Let's Be Friends?

Wow. So, based on the disturbing events of the past few days, I have decided to conduct a scientific experiment. Or I don't really know if it's an experiment, because if I recall correctly from junior high science, experiments involve hyphotheses and other official steps that I don't remember, because a) I was terrible at science, and b) all of my practical life knowledge comes from either television or The Baby-Sitters Club.

But here's whats going on. I changed my default pic on Myspace, which for those of you who don't share the obsession, is the picture that people just browsing profiles sees. I was feeling all melancholy and dramatic because it's the holidays, so I uploaded this great photo by Cindy Sherman. She's an amazing photographer, whom I discovered while taking my Women in Art History class at Molloy. Okay, so I guess I did learn some things from school.

Anyway, Sherman's work portrays feminine stereotypes, and examines attitudes towards sexuality, both past and present. "Untitled 93" features a woman who is lying in bed, hair tousled, wearing something lacy. At first glance, it might appear sexy, but if you look more closely, you see that the woman is fragile, cowering, clinging to the covers, with black eye makeup running from tears under her glassy, empty eyes.

This picture? Got me ten friend requests. Ten! And the thing is, these weren't requests from people who recognized the art, or had anything to say about my personality, or writing, or anything other than how beautiful "I" was.

Now, I'm used to invitations to the pictorial brothels that oh-so-many "I'm not gay, I swear" dudes on Myspace love so much. My hair is blonde and my boobs are big, and that is usually enough for the guys who collect Myspace women like baseball cards. Or like they would if baseball players left them comments about their "hott pecss." And wore thongs. Blonde is easy; it's uncontroversial. Its Barbie; it's Jenna Jameson; its the bland apple pie of heterosexual sex. I get that. Not my thing, but I get it.

What I also get, and what disturbs me, is how fitting it is that "Untitled 93" got me ten friend requests. Not a single one of Cindy Sherman's portraits was meant to be even accidentally sexy. I guess you could find sexiness in the darkness and intelligence of her art, but judging by the messages I received, I really don't think that's what it was about.

In later works, Sherman featured mannequin parts with grotesque orifices, to examine the correlation between violence and the objectification of women. To demonstrate how as long as people view other living, breathing souls as nothing more than body parts for our own consumption, we shouldn't be terribly surprised when all that's left in the wake of our hunt is carrion.

I'll probably talk about this more another day, because much as I love Myspace, there is a great deal about it that disturbs the hell out of me. And even outside of Myspace, there is too much that we take for granted as the norm, particularly with regard to sex, that infuriates me.

But for now, I'm taking notes on what kind of pictures draw what kind of responses. Right now, my default picture is Faith's knife! So far, no random requests. Ill keep y'all posted.

©2005

How To Make Me Hate You

1. Demand that I smile, especially if you are a sinister older man in the bar.

2. Say "Judy, Judy, Judy" in that voice every chance you get.

3. Then say, "You know who said that? Cary Grant." That is a misnomer, and I know this for a fact because I read it in a book, and not even The Baby-Sitters Club.

4. While youre at it, sing "Hey Jude."

5. Then yell, "That's The Beatles! Do you know that song?" Yes, yes I do, but I try not to think about it.

6. Don't bag your groceries.

7. Better yet, demand double paper.

8. Then complain about the job I do.

9. Instead of disciplining your own children, when they climb all over the register, yell at them that "The lady's gonna get mad at you!" The lady's gonna get mad at YOU.

10. When your purchases are being scanned, question the price of every other item. This is awesome, both for the cashier, and for the people in line behind you. Why waste your time looking at the signs on the shelves? You've got places to be! After all, those acrylic tips arent gonna fill themselves, Plainview ladies.

11. Tell racist jokes.

12. Tip badly.

13. Talk trash about my friends in front of me and expect me to participate. Why wouldnt I do the same thing to you, then? Take your gossip energy and use it to grow a bigger mind.

14. TOUCH ME, strange guys in bars! Please, you know I'm just hoping you'll stumble over to me and caress me with your manly hands, wet from sweat and Budweiser condensation!

15. Talk about how you dont watch TV in that way that translates, "I am so, so much deeper than you." Because you're not. Ill bet you -- a dollar. You know who said that? Lorelai Gilmore! Thats right, bitches!

©2005

Tuesday Morning Chronicles

1. Lie in bed half awake for an hour, despite having gone to bed at 2 in the morning.

2. Reluctantly leave bed at 7:30.

3. Wander around, say good morning to cats.

4. Trip over clogs.

5. Give props to cats for working out new routine overnight, in which Dr. von Rockenstein meows plaintively, and Chip backs her up by doing manic somersaults and banging into walls.

6. Feed cats Fancy Feast, turn on shower.

7. Glance at cell phone, see that it is actually 6:30.

8. Look at computer clock to make sure that phone is correct, and not plotting against me.

9. Check AIM and Myspace, despite telling myself no more Myspace in the morning before work, get annoyed when site is down.

10. Think, “I could do yoga right now.”

11. Think, “If I start getting ready now, I could wear a skirt to work and do my hair nicely.”

12. Think, “I could get to work early and get my overtime hours in the morning, not have to rush home to watch ‘Gilmore Girls,’ and also look like a responsible employee.”

13. Go back to bed.

14. Drag self out of bed at 7:37 after briefly wondering if maybe it’s an hour earlier like before.

15. Feel proud of self for matching up volumizing shampoo with volumizing conditioner, take shower.

16. Wonder why I never think to tie bathrobe sash before Chip uses it as rope ladder.

17. See that cats have eaten all of their food, glare at Fancy Feast cans and wonder what kind of cat crack they put in it.

18. Give cats more Fancy Feast, admire the silver sardine chunks, point them out to cats.

19. Get dissed by Dr. von Rockenstein when she gives me a “Whatever” look, get dissed further by Chip, who sniffs the food, then runs away to bang into more walls.

20. Notice that it’s only 8, enter my “time will now stand still” portion of the morning.

21. Go into bedroom, consider wearing skirt, look for stockings.

22. Give up, wear jeans.

23. Straighten up living room.

24. Blowdry hair, scare cats with noise.

25. Remove cell phone from charger, notice it’s 8:18, stare at phone, aghast.

26. Heat up piece of chicken.

27. Open door, realize it’s raining.

28. Go look for umbrella.

29. Give up, leave.

30. Do makeup in car while eating chicken and making up fun new route to work.

31. Get lost.

32. Fume at truck driver in front of me for driving like drunk old lady.

33. Vow to go to bed at 9, get up at 6:30 tomorrow for real.

34. Debate odds of this happening while sitting in parking lot, get lost in reverie.

35. Marvel that I'm only sixteen minutes late, trip on carpet, begin day.



©2005

Very Sexy®, My Non-Skeletal Ass

Dear Victoria’s Secret,

It would seem that you still want a relationship with me. Though I have not had anything to do with you since Bikinigate 2000, your catalogs continue to arrive in the mail; you flood my inbox with pleas for me to visit. It’s rather flattering, and I kind of admire your persistence.

And the visits! Last night during the doubleheader of “Arrested Development,” I had 17 new chances to watch your Very Sexy® bra commercials! Which was great, because the first 5,812 times they aired didn’t really provide me with ample opportunity to catch all the nuances in your delicately crafted campaign, nor did they give me enough time to witness the wide variety of bras I could be purchasing.

Ha ha, I kid! Which leads me to the reason for this letter. I still do kind of like you in theory, but before we can embark on a new journey together, there are a couple of things that I’m going to need from you.

First of all, I know that you pride yourself on having lovely models. You must spend a great deal of time and money getting women who can perfect those catatonic, “I’ve just been slipped a roofie” bedroom eyes, and I respect that. However, did you know that for the past five years, every single one of your bras has looked exactly the same? True story!

You undoubtedly work long, hard hours, and probably just got confused – totally understandable! However, those wings that the models sometimes wear? They’re for effect, not actually part of the product, and therefore don’t count. And the 12-inch stiletto heels certainly give me good ideas for the nights when I really want to look like a Vegas hooker – thanks! – but, you see, the commercials are for the bras.

I think maybe I know what happened. In all the hubbub of marketing your wares, you forgot to actually make the wares! So, much like a 21st century Scarlett O’Hara, you resourceful VS folks looked around and made do with what you had. Plain, cotton underwear, as far as the eye could see, for miles and miles in your warehouses. Some RIT dye, a little dim lighting, and voila! You’ve got yourself a product!

Which is great. I know that what really matters is showcasing airbrushed ribs, scapulas, and hipbones to their fullest advantage. After all, if a supermodel isn’t bent at an unnatural angle while making her most convincing “I like sex! No, really. It…doesn’t take…too much…energy…” face, how in the world am I supposed to know if the underwear is any good?

So you’ve got the sex appeal thing down. Awesome. All I’m suggesting is that, since I can’t actually buy Gisele and the gang, you could maybe put lingerie on them that’s somewhat interesting. Perhaps a decoration on a bra here, some lace on the panties there? You know, something besides just plain material, because much as I do love spending a quarter of my paycheck on a pair of cotton panties, now and then it might be a kick if my purchase was half as cute as the pink-and-white-striped bag that holds it. Just a thought.

Oh! Oh. All right, my second suggestion is probably going to sound a bit CRAZY, but just go with it for a minute. Now, you are aware that breasts exist. I know this because almost every bra that you make “creates cleavage,” which is Victoria’s Secret code for “Your boobs (or lack thereof) will look big!” Fine, that’s all well and good. However, what about those of us who don’t need any help from the Breast Fairy, but would still like to wear something that doesn’t resemble a king-size training bra? We are out there, you know!

And don’t try to mollify me by pointing out your “full-figured” page. It was bad enough when you had Tyra Banks and Laetitia Casta, but I don’t know WHO the hell you think you're kidding nowadays with those toothpick blondes you have up there. They're not even pretending to have anything on their bodies resembling woman parts, much less “full figures,” I mean, what kind of eating disorders are you trying to instill in people? But that is another topic for another day. My point now is that if you’re going to ignore my lingerie needs just because I have the breasts you purportedly advocate, I don’t want the same models who fit into the A-C stuff that fills up 99% of your catalog! I want big-breasted women in DD cups! You don’t have to go crazy and get a model with hips or anything, but bring on the boobs!

But that won’t happen, and you know why? Because you lie. Like an insane person, I’ve bought more than one of your bras, and they just sit in my dresser at home because I cannot wear them out of the house if I need to do any sort of strenuous activity such as…walk, or…brush my hair…without popping out of one of your “full-figured” bras, which, by the way, are padded, and why? WHY! Don’t give me pads; and don’t charge me more for a bigger size when not only do you not give me enough material to cover myself, but you don’t even have to spend any extra money for “scientific advancements” to create miracles, or wonders, or whatever you have trademarked, in order to give me a fake chest! I don’t need that crap! All I want is a pretty bra, and possibly even a two-piece bathingsuit which, if I order for 80 dollars because I need to go to a work pool party and hey it comes in my size, I can actually wear and not crumple up and then cry because it makes me look like a floral-patterned prostitute. And don’t EVEN get me started on your “built-in bra” shirts. True, there are elements of “bra” and “shirt” within the garment, but the whole doesn’t quite equal the sum of the parts, at least not in polite society.

See, this is why we broke up. I have needs, but you don’t give a damn. Because you don’t want me. You want women who are white, bored, bony, breastless, and assless. I meet just one of those qualifications, and have absolutely no intention of meeting any more. So go ahead – keep playing with your paper dolls on the black runway set you love so much. I’ll be over at Frederick’s.


Goodbye Forever,
Judi


©2005

Bite Me, Blogthings

Explain to me this -- the quiz was, "At what price would you sell out?" There were 8 questions, all "Would you do (such and such) for 10 million dollars?" And 7 out of 8 were things that hurt others; I said no to all of them. Truthfully! There was one that asked if I'd cheat on my sweetheart with his best friend for 10 million dollars, and I considered putting yes, but that is mostly because:

a) I have no sweetheart
b) My past couple of sweethearts were not so sweet; and
c) I am really, really broke

However, in the end I decided that if he was really my "sweetheart," then I would not do it. So that left my only yes as "For ten million dollars, would you eat three big bowls of live spiders?" Hell, yes! For ten million dollars, I would eat the spiders, their eggs, their webs, a book about spiders, and wash it all down with a nice big glass of juice squeezed from spiders.

Have I mentioned that I'm really broke?

If I were making a decent salary and could afford things like...coffee this morning...I may not tackle this task with quite so much gusto, but I don't know, 'cause 10 million dollars is a LOT of money. Plus, my dream is to be on "Survivor," in which case I'd have to eat something like hippopotamus brains just for the chance to win ONE million dollars. So I answered yes, feeling pretty good about the relative strength of my moral fiber.

Then I got this:

On Average, You Would Sell Out For

$1,118,111

Um, excuse me? If I wouldn't even give my family acid at Thanksgiving, which would most likely make for a fun evening on my end, and if I'm getting 10 million for the spider feast, why in the world would I sell out for just over a million? Blogthings just arbitrarily makes up answers to reflect the worst in people. I got that I was an angry drunk just because I said I'd be likely to drunk dial an ex. SO? Drinking doesn't make me angry! Blogthings makes me angry! However, apparently

I Am 55 percent addicted to Blogthings

You're a Blogthings fiend - addicted but not totally dependent. So what if you know your personality type by heart? And while you may feel like Blogthings is crack... There are people much worse off than you!

...so I guess I will be back.

Oh, and one of the questions in the quiz above was:
If you take a Blogthing and don't like the results, you:

a) Shrug it off
b) Take another blogthing
c) Complain about the Blogthing in your journal

Touche, Blogthings. Touche.

©2005

Tat-Truths

1. You may wake up one day with the need for temporary tattoos.

2. This will be the day that ShopRite removes its sticker/tattoo machine from the premises.

3. You will then drive all over creation, thinking that if ShopRite had tattoos before they found out about your plans, surely there must be an unsuspecting Walgreens or Pathmark out there that still has them.

4. You will be wrong.

5. When you finally find tattoos at Waldbaums, you will feel an overwhelming sense of relief wash over you.

6. This relief will be immediately replaced by humiliation after you cry out “Yes!” upon spotting the machine.

7. In front of others.

8. While wearing a bandanna.

9. By the time you have spent 10 minutes and 10 dollars getting tattoos one by one from the very loud machine, you will have a “Maid to Order” moment, in which you realize that perhaps you and the crazy coupon ladies aren’t so different after all.

10. Last-minute desperation will enable you to unironically plaster the words “American Hardcore” on more of your body than you’d ever thought possible.

11. On the day you return to work, you will be greeted by wide eyes and exclamations of “Are those real?” exactly 47,358 times.

12. Yes, we are still talking about tattoos.

13. Before responding to this question, make sure you’ve had at least 5 cups of coffee, or the horror over mankind’s stupidity will send you down a deep spiral of depression.

14. Because if you did come into approximately 2,000 dollars over the weekend, and you did spend the entire sum on tattoos, and you did devote 72 hours to getting them drawn and filled, wouldn’t you hope that they at least didn’t resemble the looseleaf binder of a 13-year-old boy?

15. Olive oil is great for removing the tattoos, AND makes your skin silky smooth! However, though time may seem to stand still when you’re rubbing oil on yourself at 7:30 in the morning, it, in fact, does not, and you will be late for work. Plan accordingly.


©2005