Tag Archives: girls

VA-GI-NA

13 Apr

Went on hulu last night to look for mindless television programming to numb me for an hour or so, but ended up watching this.

Everyone should watch this. It will make you a better person. Skip to minute 3 if you’re bored by the interviewer’s introduction. He’s just very nervous, I think.

Vodpod videos no longer available.

more about “Eve Ensler on… LIFE“, posted with vodpod

Groupies and guitars

28 Feb

I like coming up with sayings. My newest ones are:

More Whores, Fewer Wars
A good woman spreads her ideas more often than her legs

When I was 14, I listened to 80’s and 90’s rock nonstop. Guns N’ Roses, Motley Crue, Skid Row, Metallica, Faith No More, Soundgarden… all these guys. I was also browsing the internets, often in AOL chat rooms and occasionally having inappropriate conversations with older men (dude… everyone was doing it). I went through a period of obsession with the rock n’ roll scene which led to lots of readings about groupie adventures.  I learned that Axl Rose was into golden showers and Steve Tyler was the best lay ever. All kinds of sordid details were proudly shared by women whose lives were consumed by the pursuit of rock n’ roll semen.  I was young and impressionable and I thought those girls/women were super cool for hanging out with rock stars; I wanted to be one of them.  Of course I never actually TRIED – my first concert was a Metallica show at the former Tweeter Center and I was scared shitless of all the biker dudes surrounding me. They sported booby biker chicks on their shoulders, flashing the crowd in hopes of appearing on the big screen, just like I’d seen on countless music videos.  One of them suggested my brother put me on his shoulders too and I clung to his arm.  “Nah, she’s good right here,” he said. Thank god for older brothers. And yeah, I knew then that I could never be a groupie.

At a N.E.R.D. concert years later, the manager was picking girls out of the audience post-show. The girls were lined up in front of the stage after re-applying lipgloss and pushing their boobs up even higher inside their padded bras. I stood in the back with my friends watching the scene. The ones who were chosen were jumping up and down screaming with joy, quick to leave their unchosen friends behind. The others were bummed and walked out in defeat.

Years later still (god, I’m getting old), I was lucky to score a free fourth row ticket to the UFC the first time they came to New England. Wearing jeans, sneakers, and a white girly t-shirt, I was seated behind Chuck Liddell, Rich Franklin, Randy Couture, Hermes França, and had Goldberg and Rogan in view. I’ve been a UFC fan since the early 90’s, back when it was a free-for-all dominated by the never-before-seen awesomeness of Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Needless to say, I was ecstatic to go.  The event, as we know, is mostly attended by meat-heads who don’t know much about the sport, but love screaming out nonsense and watching fist-drawn projectile blood. These types find validation in the diameter of their biceps and the cup size of their companions, so naturally, lots of “companions” were present.  There were also a lot of boobs that came with their owners in search of penis with sizable wallets. I make this claim because these women weren’t paying attention to the fights; they were flirting with guys, whispering to one another, or scoping out the crowd for a wallet to talk to. I was caught on camera stuffing my face with pizza and yelling at Forrest Griffin who was fighting Elvis Sinosic. You can find me on the DVD for UFC 55.

I definitely say that with pride. I think that feeling attractive and ‘wanted’ by men is great -I certainly have my share of push-up bras and mini skirts (though I avoid wearing both at the same time). But these women have crossed a line where I believe their sense of self-worth is much too dependent on their sex appeal.  Even as a grown woman, I sometimes have to reassure myself that I do not need to weigh 100lbs to be happy and that there is love to be found with flat shoes.

With all this said… I still believe there is a place for groupies. I think dudes who can play the guitar real fast should get lots of vajayjay and chicks with big boobs and deep throats who like diamonds should get rock star penis. Look at Slash and Perla – it’s a match made in heaven!  I just think that a good chunk of these girls have more to offer and would be happier pursuing other dreams. Some of them should be on stage themselves; instead they choose to hang outside tour buses for hours hoping a compliment or diamond bracelet will bring meaning to their lives.  They never grow out of fantasizing about being Pamela des Barres. I know I’d rather fantasize about being Gwen Stefani (or an awesomer version of myself).

Valentine’s Day

9 Feb

I was driving to work this morning, annoyed that WBUR was cutting into my news time to advertise their annual Valentine’s Day fund-raising partnership with Winston Flowers; make a contribution of $150 and Winston Flowers sends a dozen long-stemmed red roses to your significant other.

I really like flowers. They make me smile and they’re a quick, easy way to brighten a room. I’m not a fan of red roses, but I love sunflowers, tulips, yellow roses, daisies… they’re happy.  Unless you get them from your boyfriend every month because he spends so little quality time with you that he spends $50 each time in an attempt to buy your affection. Then you sort of start to hate the flowers and wish you could burn them along with his favorite video-game that he plays for entire Saturdays. But that’s another story.

I can only remember two V-Days spent with boyfriends. One of them bought me flowers and an expensive watch. I loved that watch. It broke about a month after he and I broke up. The other boyfriend got me flowers and made us dinner. We were poor students and he was lazy, like most guys, so I wasn’t expecting much. He picked me up and brought me to his place. I walked in and he had set up a small table for two with candle lighting. He actually cooked the whole meal himself. I think I cried a little, I was very touched.

It’s no secret that V-Day is a day for women. It’s about us; give us attention, give us love, spend time doing something for us. We are needy, so we established a day of devotion to us. I can get down with that. What I can’t get down with is the idea of spending lots of money on gifts. I think that’s entirely what V-Day is NOT about. It doesn’t take a lot of thought or commitment to enter your credit card number on a website and wait 3 days for the goods to arrive.  Getting stuff is nice, I’m not complaining. But there’s no denying that the candle-lit dinner, prepared by a boy whose best dish thus far had been microwavable oatmeal, was a sweet and thoughtful gesture I will always remember. I hope any boys reading this will take note and take a little bit of time to prepare something sweet for his girl/boyfriend; a short scrapbook, a mixed CD, a made-from-scratch meal, some love coupons… or anything related to a passion your other half might have.

I don’t have a boyfriend and “finding a valentine” for one day is pretty lame, so this Sunday will be like any other Sunday for me. But I’ll be thinking about the people that make my life special: the people who listen to my nonsense without judgment, the ones who trust and confide in me, the ones who drag me out of crappy moods and into laughter. My warm thoughts on V-Day are for you 🙂

Chicks are crazy and need weed

1 Oct

Women always get offended when men say “women are crazy,” or “I don’t understand them.”  We argue that men are insensitive, oblivious, selfish, brutes, etc etc. And some of them are, but for the most part, they’re pretty straight forward.

On the other hand, women are pretty crazy. There are multiply layers to our thought process and behavior, and I’m pretty certain we expect everyone to follow the maze and arrive promptly at the exit with a smile on their faces and hopefully a bouquet of fresh organic flowers. It doesn’t really work like that. I’ve had to remind myself several times. The problem is obviously rooted in our upbringing; girls play with girls and boys “will be boys” on their own. The defining moments in our growth are spent apart and that’s where the confusion sets in. When our hormones kick in, we reconvene, but by then it’s too late and girls are already crazy and guys have already turned into swine.

First, I want to iterate, as every good feminist will, that a lot of it is not our fault. Boys are taught to be fearless, adventurous, get down and dirty and “be boys.” Girls are taught to be modest and attractive. My parents (mother, especially) always encouraged me to be smart and independent, thank God, so while I was not immune to Barbie’s awesome outfits and Seventeen magazine’s 100 Ways to Make Boys Notice You and Other Girls Envy You, I don’t hold Twiggy to be my standard of awesomeness (I don’t think anyone does these days, but you get my point).  Having grown up with an older brother who had lots of cool friends also helped. I followed him around and did what he did, liked what he liked, and listened to what he listened to. I should thank him for helping me understand how easy men are to get along with.

But I digress, as I always do. Whether it’s the standards imposed by society, our biology, or a combination of both, chicks are crazy.  Two days ago, I woke up hating the world. I got to work and snapped at my boss, snapped at my best friend, and I would’ve eaten his head for lunch if I could’ve. I seriously wanted to punch someone’s face in, or cut off someone’s balls and cook it for my dog’s dinner, while leaving the victim gagged and tied up to bleed to death with rabid rats gnawing on his exposed flesh. Last night I decided to go to bed early, as a good night’s sleep might help calm me down. I woke up feeling great, I’m having a wonderful hair day, and I love that it’s cold enough for me to wear my favorite purple sweater with embroidered hearts (I am 26). I get to work, and my ridiculously too nice person of a boss and I are discussing the company’s plans for the quick sale of a property when something in my brain goes “I’m sad.” Then here I am, half trying to listen, half trying to fight back tears that want to stream down my face FOR NO FUCKING REASON. Then I start thinking, “my parents are fine, my dog’s fine, I look cute today, I’m on top of work, no one is mad at me, my bills are paid, I made good coffee today, there’s delicious food for lunch… why do I want to cry???” So instead of listening to my boss, I’m just nodding at appropriate intervals and coaching myself through this mini-episode. “You are fine. This is just your hormones. Stop it. Listen to him, you could learn something important!”  Phew… ok, I got over it. And missed a third of the conversation.

Yes, I’m about to get my period. Yesterday I ate more chocolate than I drank water, and I seriously considered going to a bar, getting drunk and picking up one of Waltham’s finest locals. It’s not easy going from vicious bitch to binging fatso, to desperate horn-ball, to depressed cry-baby all in a span of 3 days. I’m hoping there’s an end to this soon. The way I see it, there are two efficient ways to cope: 1. birth control. I know it will lessen the flow of my period (whatever, dude, if I bleed from the vagina once a month, I’m fucking entitled to talk about it) and probably minimize the PMS symptoms. But the truth is, I can barely remember to take my pre-natal vitamins every day (Doc’s orders! I’m anemic, apparently), let alone another set of daily pills meant to avoid pregnancy that really just end up being a reminder of how little action I’m getting these days. The second option is weed. When I spent Tuesday praying to God no one would come into my office so I wouldn’t have to fight back the urge to strangle him/her with my bare hands, I went home and I smoked weed. All of the craziness went away. I felt nice. I felt like someone who could co-exist with other living beings in peace. Even my dog liked me better, and she usually gives me the cold shoulder when I light up.

The moral of the story here is, while it is important for men to be considerate of women in their lives and understand that sometimes, we just can’t control this shit, it’s also important for girls to understand that life goes on, even though you’re PMSing. And life is already hard; it sucks double when you have to deal with a raging lunatic with a serious mood disorder. No one needs that. So ladies, be aware of yourself, your words and your actions. Understand where they’re coming from and understand that no one wants to deal with that shit. And if you can, hit the bong. It makes everything better.