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2007-01-14T13:53:00.000-05:00

Hey, blog readers: We love that you're stopping by here to read us, but you know what we'd love even more? If you'd check us out on our site, SirensMag.com. We won't be updating here anymore, but please go there for all of the latest—we promise you won't be disappointed!

Love,
Heather & Jennifer

Holding Off for Too Long?

2007-01-03T13:54:00.000-05:00

I’m going to begin with a confession: I am having sex. This is a confession not only because I live in fear that somehow, some way, this will make its way to my parents, who are enjoying an idyllic retirement in Colorado, but also because I’m not having the kind of sex you read about in Cosmo where it seems all women are sexual Houdinis. You know what I’m talking about. These women display amazing physical prowess at all times (i.e., sex while in a handstand, while hanging from the ceiling, while riding bareback on a horse) as well as creativity (incorporating the use of foodstuffs, uniforms, and other paraphernalia), enthusiasm (good to go at all times, in all places), and achieve multiple, earth-shattering orgasms.

The thing is, I survived 28 years without sex. Actually, survived is not the correct term. I lived happily for 28 years as a (gasp!) virgin. Because, as my mother pounded into my brain early in life, “nice girls don’t do it, unless they are married.” (See Also: “Men won’t buy the cow if the milk is free,” and, “Balance an aspirin between your knees’ if you want to stay out of trouble.”) Instead, I traveled and built my career. I developed a fondness for hiking and fly fishing.

Yes, being a virgin throughout my 20s was a breeze. It was losing my virginity that proved difficult—not because I didn’t have a man or chose the wrong one, but because, let’s face it: It takes a while to get it right. And in a world pulsing with Cosmo headlines promising “full-body” orgasms and “62 Ways to Drive Him Crazy” (seriously, I just wanted to get through it without nervous-talking), a 20-something fumbling through her first attempts at sex can feel pretty alone. However, 11.4 percent of 20- to 24-year-old women and 4.1 percent of 25- to 29-year-olds had remained pure in one Centers for Disease Control and Prevention study. So while we’re hardly the majority, there are plenty of us around—and plenty more women who are still struggling with the basics. ... click here for more

The Starter Girlfriend

2006-12-28T19:50:00.000-05:00

He sat on my bed with his back to me. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was crying. “You’re the one who’s been in relationships before,” he said. “Can’t you tell me how to fix it?”

A part of me wanted to help, to reach over and hug my boy, and tell him everything was going to be okay. But the other part of me (the part taking over lately) was exasperated, fed-up, and wanted to march around town in stilettos and hot pants to find herself a Real Man. I can’t lie: I want cowboys and firefighters for lovers, brawny arms and rescues from burning buildings. I don't want to be someone’s mom or personal relationship coach anymore. I’m getting a little tired of being the Starter Girlfriend.

Some women break horses. Others break in shoes. I break in men. To clarify: I don’t break them. In fact, I make them: Many go on to fulfilling relationships after me. They come out so well in fact, I should start charging for the service. Take Steven. He discovered religion a year before we met, wore wool tartans, and was dazzled by the philosophical depth implied by my signature Tom Petty ensembles – short-sleeved collared shirt, skinny tie – as well as my love of the Pixies and Pulp. I shrugged and gave it a shot. Four months later, Steven and I broke up and he went on to date Karen, who sits in the pew next to him at church. They play chess together and have dinner with Episcopalians every Thursday night.

They are perfect for each other, and very happy, and I’m still waiting for my thank-you note. I was Steven’s first “real” girlfriend. Near the end of our time together, we sat on a grassy, sunny hill on the University of Berkeley campus, facing the crowds of similarly clueless college students. Steven took my hand and said, “Just tell me how to make you happy. I want to learn how to be a good boyfriend.”

So I told him: Listen to me, and talk to me. He learned – so well, in fact, that he and Karen have now been together for eight months.

So why do women like me end up Starter Girlfriends and never permanent ones? According to Dr. Bella DePaulo, author of "Singled Out ," we can credit our smartypants ambitions for this one again. We're getting married later, becoming self-sufficient earlier, and pursuing advanced degrees and travel before even thinking about having children. So a less-experienced — maybe even significantly younger — man can seem like a low-maintenance alternative to a time-consuming, adult relationship. But, of course, many women find out too late that he’s the exact opposite. ... click here for more

Confessions of a Bush Voter

2006-12-28T19:47:00.000-05:00

With midterm elections just past us and the 2008 presidential campaign heating up, I can't help but remember the nightmares that were the 2004 elections. I know a lot of you are nodding in agreement right now, thinking, "Yeah, I can't believe those morons voted for him!" Don't agree with me too fast, though: I'm one of those "morons."

My vote wasn't based on ignorance; I knew more about the race than most people offering their opinions. My husband is a staunch Republican, which is why I started really paying attention to the elections for the first time. While I didn't do much in the way of hard-core campaigning, I watched as my husband went door to door and did whatever he could to aid in the re-election of the president. I sat through numerous speeches debunking the claims of the opposition. I read all the equally long spiels from the other side, debunking the claims of my guy.

It was my first experience being immersed in Republican politics. I grew up in a house full of Democrats and I, myself, am registered as an independent. I've voted in every major election since I turned 18, but it was always a quick thing for me: I'd spend a few hours reading up on the candidates and then making a snap decision. But in 2004, I knew months in advance what my final decision would be.

I learned the hard way that I preferred solitude to the abandonment of watching the people I cared about walk away from me. My friends are mostly liberals, and my family now leans more toward not caring than anything, so my strong allegiance to the president alienated me from a lot of people. A few friendships ended because my so-called friends didn't care to actually listen if I voiced my disagreement. There was no room for friendly debate with them; thus I stopped speaking up. I didn't hide my opinions, mind you: I have the W'04 sticker on my car to this day. I just chose to not vocalize them in mixed company. There are exceptions to that rule as I have a handful of friends whom I can openly debate without causing a major fallout; I have learned a lot from these friends and I thrive on interaction with them. ... click here for more

Too Smart, or Too Picky?

2006-12-20T14:19:00.000-05:00

We've learned (below) that we modern girls aren't too smart to come, but I think we might be too picky. My friends and I tend to dine and whine, Sex and the City-style, about the generally abysmal state of our love/sex lives. The one exception, of course, is anyone who happens to be in the throes of a new, promising relationship—that time when the sex is fresh and the love is blind. So basically, anyone who isn't right this second falling for someone wonderful is roundly dissatisfied with her romantic predicament.

Study after study has shown that women today are too busy, too achievement-obsessed, too damn tired to get around to having a good sex life. But I postulate that perhaps we need to turn that to our advantage and approach dating the way we approach our careers: We need to become goal-oriented—and, even more important, we need to have realistic expectations. We also need to prioritize: If getting laid is your major goal, I have good news for you—that's an easy one to fix. If what you really want is some conversation, well, get out and mingle, even when you'd rather be home with a bottle of wine and Grey's Anatomy.

The fact is that what most of us really want, though, isn't just sex, or just stimulating conversation, or just that moment when you realize you both live for Battlestar Gallactica AND Panic! at the Disco AND Kerouac. We want all of that, all at once. And the thing is, even if we, quite improbably, find it, a lot of the time things still don't work out. One of you isn't ready yet, or is moving to Prague for a year, or is too ready, or wants to take a break, or wants to get married, or likes The Ghost Whisperer, which is the one thing the other just can't handle.

Are high standards a bad thing? Of course not. But while we're all writhing with dissatisfaction, it's worth noting that audiences used to embrace The Love Boat by the millions; today fans are indignant when Lost or The Sopranos—two well-crafted, layered works of telegenic literature—has an off night. Sometimes you have to enjoy a few episodes of The Love Boat while you're waiting for your Lost to come.

Sanity Vs. Vanity

2006-12-17T18:54:00.000-05:00

Who decided that women should suffer for beauty? We're confident and competent, but for some reason, our sensibility flies out the window the moment we tackle our own appearances.

Let's be honest. Pore extractions consist of a well-paid spa worker repeatedly pinching your face hard enough to leave bruises. Fancy lip-plumping glosses feel like bee stings for hours afterward. And almost any service on a spa menu has an at-home-treatment counterpart these days (smear some exfoliant on a suspiciously vibrator-like contraption, and voila!—the poor woman’s microdermabrasion!). But that doesn’t mean you should be doing this torturous stuff to yourself. Here, a collection of treatments far too stupid-painful for the smart, realistic girl to waste time and recuperative energy on. ... click here for more

Too Smart to Come?

2006-12-17T16:22:00.000-05:00

It’s tough being a well-educated woman with a career.

Last year we learned that women with high IQs don’t get married – and that men would prefer to marry their secretary rather than their peer.

This year, we learned that if you make more than $30,000 per year, work 35 hours a week or more outside the home or have a university-level (or higher) education you are more likely to cheat and get divorced, less likely to have children, unable to keep house and somehow able to make your husband physically ill.

But this year also dealt smart women an even more gutting blow: A Canadian study found that smart women are also less likely to have orgasms during sex.

The study, published in the Canadian Journal of Human Sexuality, found that better-educated women are more likely to have low sex drives and less likely go climax if they can muster the energy to get started. Some 48 percent of university-educated women report problems compared with 31 percent of high-school grads.

It’s not the first time that researchers have correlated the inability to orgasm with advanced education: Even when I’d seek out some kinky light reading in my graduate school library, I’d find dire news on the topic. Sex in America: A Definitive Study (1994) revealed that while women like me were more open to inventive sexual positions, masturbation, and experimentation, orgasms weren’t always on the horizon. Not only was I unmarriageable, but I was also fairly unlikely to enjoy the hard-won lovin’ I could find.

Are smart women too uptight to enjoy sex? Do we overthink the primal act until achieving orgasm is impossible? Or are we just more honest about our sex lives? ... click here for more

He's a Husband, Not a Child or a Houseplant

2006-12-17T13:00:00.000-05:00

By the time I met John, my co-worker Paula's husband, I was aware of every single one of his faults. I knew the last five stupid things he'd done (forgotten to do the dishes as he'd promised, failed to mail a birthday card to her sister, purchased the wrong kind of soup at the grocery store, left the car unlocked with his cell phone in it, and didn’t pick up his wet towel on the bathroom floor). From the way she'd described the guy to me, I was shocked he wasn't openly drooling.

We were at a mutual friend's wedding, sitting around at a banquet table, and I was next to the (as Paula often called him) "total moron." He was talking to me about football, one arm wrapped around the back of his wife's chair, and though he didn't flash a Nobel Prize in physics at me, he knew quarterback stats, he was polite, and he couldn't say enough good things about his wife.

And about halfway through our conversation she turned around and snapped her fingers at him.

"Go get me a drink," she said, then turned back to the talk she was having with a girl on the other side of her.

Jesus Christ in a prom dress!

Ladies: A man, once and for all, is not a pet.

He may act like one from time to time, lolling around in the bed, cute as a button all curled up on the couch, looking at you sheepishly after he's knocked something over. But if you ask him to fetch and he has any self-respect at all, he'll tell you to fetch it your own damn self.

There's a whole cottage industry built around the caricature of the married or shacked-up male as lovable oaf, helpless in the face of the dishwasher, needing our feminine intervention to make straight the domestic way. America's most odious sitcom, “According to Jim,” features each week a way the dim-bulb husband gets himself into trouble with some household appliance or commonplace chore and has to be extricated from his predicament by his calm, cool, collected wife. ... click here for more

Anatomy of a Guilty Pleasure

2006-12-11T20:14:00.000-05:00

When I was a sophomore in college, I was given what any student of Greek mythology should have thought twice about opening: a mysterious box, handed over with a cryptic smile and minimal explanation.

A few minutes earlier I’d been complaining loudly about my miserably boring coursework and wondering if I’d ever remember what it was like to enjoy reading a book – whereupon a charitable friend dragged me up to her room and presented me with a large cardboard box. (And, if I remember correctly, asked me very nicely to shut the hell up.)

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t what I found: an impressive collection of romance novels whose covers were so worn from age and use that the sight was almost tender, as if it were a collection a well-loved, mildly pornographic teddy bears. I was intrigued – and, let’s face it, a little desperate –so I sat down to read my first romance novel. I can’t remember the exact plot, but I’m fairly certain that it involved cross-dressing and pirates.

In other words, it was awesome.

Ever since, I’ve been a devoted fan of the written romance. But until recently, I was also a deeply closeted fan. Whenever I bought romance novels, I’d avoid my local bookstore and go instead to one that was two bus transfers away. I was always sure to pick up some sort of dry, intellectual tome as well, just in case I needed hard evidence when I told the cashier that the romance novels were for a friend. (As a result I have at least 50 books that I will never, ever read on subjects I will never, ever care about, including Lyndon B. Johnson, the Interregnum, and cod.)

Whether you want to call the current age modern, postmodern, or – God help us all – post-postmodern, there’s no escaping the fact that we are increasingly identified not by what we do, but by what we consume. You need only to have been confronted with the gaping, existential horror of a blank Internet dating profile to know that this is true. When we choose to broadcast what we like, it’s not just a matter of taste – it’s a matter of identity.

Our preferences, however, aren’t nearly so biddable as we might like them to be, and so from time to time we have to account for something that isn’t quite in keeping with who we are – or, more accurately, who we want to be. The Guilty Pleasure ... Click here to read complete article.

What Do You Want from Your Favorite Blog and Website?

2006-11-28T22:40:00.000-05:00

In case it's not clear, you're on your favorite blog, and this is your favorite website. But we really, really, seriously want to know ... (this is your cue to hit that little "comment" button down there) What do you wanna read about/discuss here? What do other blogs and sites do that you really love? Which SirensMag stories do you like most? What makes you wanna click on over to the site? What makes you wanna click back here and hit that little "comment" button?

Go ahead, you can do it ...

You Want to Do What Before You're 40?

2006-11-19T03:01:00.000-05:00

I suspect you may relate to my admission that my life is filled with “to-do” lists. For the 21st century woman – particularly us Capricorns – the ability to keep track, to plan, to script, and to remind is a basic survival skill, on par with sleeping or eating … Hell, sometimes I need to even write those into my list, lest I neglect to take care of them (and man do I love checking off “eat lunch”).

In the to-do lists of life, though, there are trees, and there are forests, and it’s all too easy to forget the latter for the former. A little long-term listing can be healthy – the best way to keep ourselves starry-eyed and youthful, after all, is to keep those dreams and promises we once made ourselves alive and active. And I hate to blame it on The Man, but think of all the little things we manage to make happen because Society tells us we should: When we put our minds to it, we can find partners, lose weight, save up for new shoes. Just think what we could accomplish if we applied that kind of concentration and gusto to our grander personal goals.

For inspiration — because, yes, some things are worth a little warm-and-fuzzy reflection — click here for what some Sirens have put on their “Things to Accomplish Before 40” list ...

Coming Out Is the New Black

2006-11-14T19:52:00.000-05:00

It's hard—at least among us liberal urban types—to be anything but happy that we're clearly seeing a critical shift in the rules about coming out in Hollywood: Namely, it's totally okay now, whether you play a guy women love to love on TV's No. 1 show, a very straight player on TV's most underrated sitcom, or a tough chick in, well, anything that needs a tough chick. But what's even cooler is that it doesn't even seem like that big a deal anymore (Lance Bass People magazine covers and the aforementioned rather cagey outing of Michelle Rodriguez aside).

In fact, I really wish straight stars' personal exploits could be handled in the same straightforward, unapologetic, whatever kinda way. If you answer every question with, "Yeah, so what if I am?" it takes a lot of wind out of the story. If there's no room for weeks and weeks of speculation, there's nothing to keep covering.

Look, I'm no fool—I cover celebrities for a living and am actually required by my job to read the likes of Us Weekly regularly. I know these things won't go quietly into the night; they're big business right now. But it's up to everyone to stop caring about these things so that they fade away—and stop polluting our entire society's views of what relationships are, aren't, should be, and can be. Meanwhile, we can all take a lesson from T.R. Knight, Neil Patrick Harris, and other stars who do it right—there is something to be said for running your own relationship like a (smart) celebrity.

Biz Travel in Tight Times

2006-11-14T17:18:00.000-05:00

Times are tight in corporate America these days, which means a career girl can't simply work her way down the five-star list on her company's dime anymore.

We’ve been in that panicky position of picking a totally untested hotel while on the line with travel services—or trying to set up a business meeting only to stammer, “Uh, I don’t know, where do you wanna go?” So we’ve culled together our picks for more modestly priced (but still plenty posh) lodging and dining in four big business travel cities. We’ll even let you take the credit when those auditors pat you on the back for saving the bottom line.

Chicago
Of course it used to be cool when you could grab those pricey hunks of meat this city is known for at critical darling Charlie Trotters or celeb fave Gibsons Steakhouse, but how to explain those $100- to $200-per-person price tags? Instead, meet up at Maggiano’s Little Italy — yes, it’s a chain, but that only means there are more of them around to choose from. And once you see the wine selection and taste the heaping portions of food (the four-cheese ravioli with pesto Alf redo is pure pasta heaven), you’ll forget there were ever other options on the table. Or impress your clients with your local know-how by grabbing pizza at Gino’s East — the Windy City’s known for the deep-dish, but the thin crust is what keeps real Chicagoans coming back. Accommodation-wise, check into The Seneca Hotel & Suites , a boutiquey place just a block off the Magnificent Mile but tucked away on a quiet, tree-lined street. Or try the Congress Plaza Hotel for that old-Chicago glam feel at reasonable prices.

Los Angeles
Okay, so maybe Aubergine and Spago are no longer options. Whatev — we’re so over Wolfgang what’s-his-name anyway. Try A.O.C., which has about a bazillion yummy tapas items and cheese plates—plus fantastic wine—that will keep everyone in your party happy. Or hit Luna Park, where you’ll be so taken with that trendy-yet-cozy atmosphere L.A. does so well and the mini s'mores setups that you’ll barely remember to order entrées (but do because they're good). And when it’s time to go to sleep at night, opt for the Sunset Marquis — which, though hardly cheap, doesn’t come with the sticker shock of a L’Ermitage or Four Seasons. And somehow its intimate pool area, mood-lit bar, and just-off Sunset location will make you feel even more like a star ... For two more fab cities, click here.

A Cheese for Every Mood

2006-11-11T16:51:00.000-05:00

It melts, it crumbles, it spreads, it squishes … cheese is the perfect food, really. What else can go with meat, vegetables, grains, and fruit, as well as other dairy products? And before you get all worked up about "fat content" and "cholesterol" and all that, ree-lax. Cheese has calcium, which all women need more of as they get older. It also has protein, which a lot of us forget to consume enough of. And by the way, moderate consumption of dairy products (we're not talking about chowing down on a Velveeta loaf here) actually speeds the body's metabolism. And cheese has that comfort-food quality that works wonders on your moods: We challenge anyone not to perk up at the taste of a grilled cheese on a rainy day.

But we've found that it does more than just comfort us when we're feeling gloomy. It can indulge and enhance all your ups and downs (and trust us, we’ve got plenty of those around here). From arousal to anxiety, we’ve matched some our favorite varieties to our many moods ... for more click here

Some Good News, Finally

2006-11-08T18:01:00.000-05:00

So the energy around pretty much, like, EVERYBODY IN THE WORLD, has been dark and depressing and just plain bad. Astrology types say Mercury is in retrograde, and it will be through the next two weeks. I say: Ugh. Also: Blech.

Approximately a dozen people in or near my social circle are going through breakups, some are just going on bad dates, some can't catch a break at work, some who run websites (who could that be?) had to beg and plead with their host companies to fix a fatal error that trashed their last year's worth of work, and most of us are having general existential crises. Also, it is raining.

All of that said, good things—at least relatively speaking—started to happen yesterday. First, Britney and K-Fed broke up. Second, the election results didn't totally suck. Third, news of Britney's divorce did not overshadow that of the elections.

The world has not completely lost its mind. I'm trying really hard to take solace in that.

For a bunch more election day chatter, visit the blog run by SirensMag's brilliant political editor, Allison Hantschel.

The Safety Dance

2006-11-05T18:42:00.000-05:00

The day I arrived at college there was an orientation seminar. How to talk to your professors, how to get along with your roommates, how not to be that girl at the party who does 15 tequila shots and has to be taken to the hospital.

How not to get raped.

There were elaborate rules laid out for young women, meant to keep them safe. Don't walk alone after dark, call a friend to come and walk with you. Don't go places with strange men. Don't let people buy you drinks. Don't go to parties without at least one friend knowing where you are at all times.

Don't ever, ever, ever take the dark path down by the lake to the dormitory after 9 p.m.

Sensible advice. Reasonable advice. But deep down, it was just one more "Don't want men pawing you? Don't dress like a slut" lecture out of the male-female dark ages. If you walked alone at night, you were asking for it. If you had the temerity to venture out on the streets where you lived, you should have expected something bad to happen to you. If you let some guy pour you a beer, what, did you want to get assaulted?

Raped? Wouldn't have happened if you'd just followed the rules. It's all your fault. Again.

That seminar came back to me recently as I thought about our present national security "debate."

Don't take liquids on airplanes, it isn't safe.

Don't make international phone calls, or we'll have to wiretap you, it isn't safe.

Don't leave your backpack sitting on your seat while you get up for a pack of cigs at the bar, or we'll evacuate the building, it isn't safe.

Don't pay cash for your airline ticket, it looks suspicious, we'll have to strip-search you, even if you're 80 years old.

Don't act this way, that way, any way, because it isn't safe.

Somewhere in the past six years, as we've debated national security with slogans and signs, we've focused all our energy in discussing the individual's safety, instead of society's. How can I be safe, instead of how can we be safe ... Click here to read the complete story.

Halloween Ain't Over

2006-11-01T21:20:00.000-05:00

It's my favorite holiday. I have been a pirate, a gypsy, a flapper (more than once) and this year a geisha. I love giving candy to kids--but scaring them first. I love Victorian Halloweens and candied apples and old-fashioned spook houses with bowls of peeled grapes for eyeballs and boiled spaghetti for guts. I love Old Hallow's Eve, the skull and crossbones, the witch's cauldron, playing dress up, sneaking from house to house, apartment to apartment, club to club, in search of goodies.

Halloween is proof that things can be spooky and fun at the same time. I don't react to fear well since 9/11. But yesterday, the sidewalks in my neighborhood glittered with lost sequins and stray rhinestones from all the costumes of the high school kids, putting aside their neat urban cynicism for one day--not Christmas, really--but Halloween, to dress up as lions and rock stars and giant butterflies.

We should always dress up--it's good for us to get out in full costume, in full makeup, and tear apart the town. It gives us girls the illusion of confidence, as we strut in slutty costumes (and any costume can be made stutty). It give the boys imagination, and the ones without costumes at last night's masquerade ball did not interest me or my corseted friend, Miss Julie.

Enough with casual fridays and Gap wear and boxers. Let's dress up again, and make it All Hallows Eve all over again.

BOO!

This Will Make You Smarter

2006-10-30T20:24:00.000-05:00

Seriously, just go to Political Theory Daily Review. It looks kinda scary because it's just a bunch of words and no pretty pictures, but that's because they've got so much to say. Actually, they've got so much to tell you about what other people have to say (they've even pimped us!), but damn if they don't make it a lot easier to cull through all the important crap out there. So definitely bookmark them. Right after you bookmark us, of course.

Scarface

2006-10-23T00:18:00.000-04:00

It’s funny what time and the social graces of adulthood will make you forget. Adults never ask; they’ve been conditioned to believe it’s impolite, so, instead, they stare at my face a second too long, avert their eyes, and continue to force the course of the conversation.

But children are another story. My first year teaching, I assigned my sixth-graders to write about a time they had been teased. As I read the essays, I gasped when I came across one, written by a very quiet girl in my class named Maria, so quiet that I could count the times on my finger I’d actually heard Maria speak. I hadn’t noticed, but she had a scar on her face, and she wrote about how the other kids teased her, and called her “scarface.”

It didn’t take a teaching job for me to understand that kids can be assholes – I knew that. What surprised me was the fact that I had always believed I was the only one against whom this word had been directed. You see, I, too, was called “scarface” as a child, and it caused me a considerable amount of shame growing up; so much shame, in fact, that I never told anyone, not my parents, family, friends, nor the men I would grow to love. Not even the one I followed to New York after he told me my scar was sexy. It was the one thing I had always kept to myself, until I read Maria’s essay.

I was 8 years old when it happened. I was playing at my friend David’s house one afternoon that summer, and I heard my older sister calling me from across the canyon to come home. I ran upstairs towards the deck, worried I would be in trouble with my mother for staying out too late, and crashed through the plate glass door. I have no memory of actually hitting the door. One minute I was running toward the door; the next, I was on my knees on the deck, blood gushing from my knee, down my leg. My upper arm was split to the bone, and when I saw it, I became hysterical, and began running toward the edge of the deck. David’s older brother rushed from the house and grabbed me before I tumbled over the edge.

David’s brother put me, swathed like a baby in a blanket, in the car and drove me to Children’s Hospital in Oakland. There, the nurse bandaged me, and I was placed in an ambulance, and sent to Kaiser Hospital. When the ambulance doors swung open, my father was standing at the emergency room door, and I burst into tears. He held my hand as they wheeled me into the operating room, and continued holding it while doctors, wielding needles the size of ballpoint pens, descended to anesthetize and sew me closed. Every time a needle pierced my flesh, I screamed, and my mother screamed louder from the waiting room.

Looks are pretty important in my family. Add to that black folks’ neuroses about skin color and hair texture and you can fuck up a child damn good. My grandmother pronounced me acceptable — or halfway, at least: Upon first seeing me as a baby, she declared, “She’ll have nappy hair, but she’s light.” It was the opposite with my older sister: “She’s dark, but she has straight hair.” During my weekly call home from college, instead of inquiring about my grades, as I imagine most mothers would, mine would ask, “So how’s your weight?” ... click to read more

Is Dieting Anti-Feminist?

2006-10-22T17:24:00.000-04:00

I grew up without a scale in the house. My mother threw it away when I was 8 years old because she didn't want me to become a slave to it like she had as a teen. I also didn't have any Barbies growing up because my mom didn't want me to have a distorted body image. Hey, makes sense to me: I got My Little Ponies instead … they have stumpy legs and plump bubble butts and are probably a much better body model for little girls. As a result, I grew up with a solid, healthy body image and a body to match: I'm totally average—thick, but not fat; strong, not skinny.

However, six-plus years of working as a writer/sedentary lump accelerated my metabolism's natural decline. Despite a daily yoga practice, I've never been an especially active person and having a sit-in-a-chair career is without a doubt my biggest health liability... I started wrestling with myself: I felt unhealthy — and then felt guilty for feeling that way. Was I a victim of the patriarchal societal pressures my mother tried so hard to shield me from? Then again, does fighting the patriarchy mean stuffing myself? Was I buying into some clucky NOT ME style national weight obsession by feeling like I wasn't eating right? ... click here for complete story

I'm Not Your Porn Star!

2006-10-16T22:43:00.000-04:00

Apparently I'm not allowed to have pubic hair anymore (even in Playboy, no one under 30 has it, and that magazine has to be the most sweetly old-fashioned of all the skin mags). In fact, I should only have hair on my head (and maybe my eyebrows, though they must be perfectly plucked). I also need to fret about the size and symmetry of my labia and the pigmentation of the skin around my anus (ass bleaching kit, anyone?).

Sexual intercourse in the missionary position is hopelessly provincial, and since oral sex is now regularly practiced by 12-year-olds, that is sooo first-date. Anal sex, however, is now a permanent part of the menu (just bite on something, darling, I'll get more lube!). Multiple orgasms are so '80s, so I really should achieve that illusive female ejaculation. And after I'm done, I must be up for having my partner ejaculate all over me. And let's not forget bringing someone else into my relationship for the all-important threesome.

Wow. So much to keep track of. It exhausts me just thinking about it.

I blame the mainstreaming of porn. Porn has become so pervasive in the past few years (thanks, Internet!) that what used to make it so titillating (experimental sex, obsession with how intimate body parts look in close-ups) has become our standard. And if we refuse to live up to it, we are labeled uncool and prudish. ... click here for more

You Know You Like It!

2006-10-16T22:39:00.000-04:00

Okay, yes, the porn industry is exploitive. No millionaire’s daughter has ever starred in an adult film. And okay, a great deal of porn is misogynistic. Both of these things are true.

However, to paraphrase early feminist icon Emma Goldman, a society gets all the pornstars it deserves. It’s not the porn industry itself that really deserves blame, but the policies and attitudes that continue to allow the United States to have the highest poverty and lowest literacy rates in the developed world.

And as for the misogyny, I’m not so sure all porn is about being anti-woman as much as it is about being pro-selfishness. Sex revolves around power dynamics as much as anything else. When the power dynamic in bed is completely equal, the sex is pretty dull. That doesn’t mean the man should be in charge; it means each partner should be in control at different times. Sex is best when both people are thinking about pleasing their bedmate some of the time and themselves some of the time, when the dominant/submissive dynamic is in constant flux. But porn, on the other hand, is porn. The vast majority of it is created for one purpose: to get men off without having to think about anyone else’s needs in the process. Thus it makes sense that a lot of it would be focused on woman-as-slave-doll. Is this the same as misogyny? Not exactly. Does it potentially promote misogynist attitudes in interactions between men and women outside of pornography? Probably. But it’s important to recognize the distinction.

Why? Because the “right” porn does not have to be a negative thing for women, and it has done more good for our sex lives than most people realize. ... click here for more

Men Don't Suck

2006-10-16T00:12:00.000-04:00

My first crippling crush—which, in seventh grade, counts for love—was on the president of the student council, an honor roll all-star with deep blue eyes and adorable freckles who was shy with the girls, oblivious to his more physical charms, and clumsy with a compliment (“um, you look way better in person than you do in your yearbook photo”) but sincere. My first true love arrived in my sophomore year of high school with a hell of a head of sandy hair and some serious aqua eyes, but, more importantly, the awkwardly sweet disposition of a science geek: He knew he couldn’t buy a good gift to save his life, but he gave them anyway; he had a tough time saying “I love you,” but his “I wish you didn’t have to go home yet” was enough for me. And my first big love—the one I almost married—stuck with me through the 10 toughest years of my life (commonly known as one’s 20s), through bouts with recurring panic attacks and several rounds of paying off my staggering credit card debt, among other crises.

These were not perfect guys, and there were a few bad ones sprinkled here and there. But the bad was few and far between, which means, mostly, that I am lucky. However, I’m of the mind that we make at least a little of our own luck. And more than a few girlfriends have asked me, “Why do you get all the good ones?”, which means there must be some explanation (besides “because I’m awesome, duh”). I believe it is this: I freaking love men.

Yes, some are emotional fuckwits (some women are, too). And they all can be a little mystifying (God knows we can, too). But really, aren’t a lot of them lovely creatures when it comes down to it? The way they often buy us pretty things just because they think we’re pretty, or help us move furniture just because it makes them feel strong, or try to be witty just to hear us laugh. They go to baseball games with us, buy us beer, push us on swings at the park, dance with us. They are even trained from birth to open doors for us, pay for our food and beverages, and generally make the first move … and these days, they’re also trained to respect our opinions and make sure we come first. The good ones are, anyway.

I happen to believe, incidentally, that the “good ones” are plentiful. But you wouldn’t know it from the culture at large. It’s perfectly accepted in the post-feminist world to joke about the woman wearing the pants in the family—even though in a lot of cases, she’s a domineering, soul-crushing bitch, and it’s hardly funny. We’re far past taking men down a few notches in the name of fighting patriarchy. And, frankly, if you’re wondering why you can’t find a good man, I’d suggest you start by waking up to the fact that you’re surrounded by them—so if anyone’s to blame, it might be you. ... click here for more

Dating Down

2006-10-15T23:28:00.000-04:00

Remember when choosing a mate was easy? You and I weren’t alive then, of course, but back in the day – way back – when humans were just starting out, our needs were simple. All a man needed was a fertile female; all a woman needed was a genetically fit male who could provide her with resources while she carried out the metabolically expensive task of carrying, birthing, and raising offspring (we’ve always been the more complicated gender). His politics, his taste in music, his values – none of those things mattered; everything was streamlined. I’ll make babies, you keep me alive. Done deal.

As I’m sure you’ve noticed, a lot has changed in the last 10,000 years. You know, we talk now; we’ve industrialized; we use birth control. Human life is a whole new ballgame these days. One clear sign of this change may be the fact that there are more and more couples out there who seem to reverse this deeply ingrained relationship pattern. Think Britney and Kevin, or Ashley Judd and her NASCAR racing hubby Dario Franchitti (for real – note that this headline actually says, “Ashley Judd’s Husband wins blah blah blah…” – not his own name!). Or, if you like your relationships fictional, Miranda Hobbes and Steve Brady on "Sex and the City," Lloyd Dobler and Diane Court in "Say Anything," Will Hunting in his janitor phase and that Skylar chick played by Minnie Driver in "Good Will Hunting."

It makes sense, of course, that relationships like these are cropping up more and more these days. Women are kicking some serious ass when it comes to education and accomplishment. Women are, for example, outnumbering men on more and more college campuses, and in many schools they outperform men. In time, this pattern may tip scales in the working world and beyond, but even now, we’ve got the cultural upper hand.

Despite all this great progress, though, old habits die-hard – our gender’s preference for hooked-up men seems to linger: one American study found that women still pay more attention to ambition, education, and earning capacity in a mate than men do (appropriately, men still care primarily about physical signs of fecundity)... Click here for the complete article.

You Don't Get to Call Me a Whore ...

2006-10-11T14:27:00.000-04:00

But I'm still feeling a little ... um ... uncomfortable about my brazen admissions in the first paragraph of the below Sirens story. I know that saying this kinda negates the whole, "I am sexual woman, hear me roar!" message for said piece, but, see, things change when you know your dad subscribes to the Sirens newsletter. So while I'm totally fine with, like, strangers or whatever knowing about my threesome fantasies, Daddy is another story.

This is actually an issue we face quite frequently here in the personal essay biz--just how much to reveal about our personal junk to juice up our pieces, which quite often tackle oh-so-current issues in our sex lives and relationships. I know this is hard to believe, but there's actually PLENTY that we leave out, mostly to protect our engagements, fledgling dating lives, jobs, etc. And, yes, our fathers' delicate sensibilities.

So to that end, I'm going to give props to a gal who puts it all out there on her way cool sex blog, Sexualite. Or maybe we just like her because she gave us a shout-out. Or maybe we're just suckers for her Australian accent.

Slut Is Not a Four-Letter Word

2006-10-08T20:47:00.000-04:00

I have had a threesome fantasy or two in my day—the two-guys-and-me kind, not that way overplayed other kind. I have boys-and-boozed it up just for sport, and/or to lift spirits that self-help books would’ve told me just needed some yoga or a lavender bath or special “me” time. I enjoy a good vibrator and great oral sex and hot guys wearing boxer briefs.

I don’t think any of this makes me very different from lots and lots of other women. But until recently, you wouldn’t have known many of us existed—at least not if pop culture was your barometer. Even the coolest chicks on TV have, if anything, been too busy being, you know, Strong Female Characters—chatty single moms, super-spies, angsty students, neurotic lawyers, mega-bitches—to get too down and dirty. In movies, women’s overt sexuality came with such lovely bonuses as gratuitous crotch shots and boiled bunnies. Music gave us our savior, Madonna—and then another 20 or so years of occasional tiny breakthroughs (Alanis Morrissette, I salute your idea of a good night at the theater; Kelis, sweetie, you can charge whatever you want; and Liz Phair, well, I’m speechless in awe), but no major movements.

Until now. Thanks to the Super Sexual Powers of a rag-tag team of surprising heroines—Meredith Grey, Christina Aguilera, Nelly Furtado, Fergie, and the Pussycat Dolls—our time has finally, ahem, come. And it is precisely because these women’s presences are so overwhelmingly popular, so mainstream—and so wonderfully slutty (that’s a term of endearment here)—that they’re so important. ... click here for more

What the Fuck Is Wrong With You Bitches?

2006-10-08T20:41:00.000-04:00

Ordinarily, ladies, when I come to you in this column, I am asking some sort of gently-mocking question like, “Why do you wear high heels?” or, “Who thought shorts would be a good choice for evening wear?” and I’m all funny and snippy and whatever. But today I am without comment, without the ability to make fun of you or even come up with anything decent to say about the baseball playoffs. Frankly, I don’t even know who I am anymore.

You see, I am now going to write a column about finding a dress for the Emmys, and I am going to write it while getting a pedicure in a salon in Austin, Texas. The situation is wedding-related and unavoidable, and it is a perfect storm. It is the tomboy’s nightmare. My identity has been ripped out and thrown into the street, and so now I have nothing but one enormous, overriding question—and it’s not the one you think. No, today I come to you while someone is clipping my cuticles to ask:

How the hell do you bitches do it?? ... click here for more

So happy not to be a teenager anymore

2006-10-06T17:47:00.000-04:00

I know I keep referencing Laguna Beach around here, and that's mostly because I like to do my blogging in one big chunk, and Wednesday is that day--because, for my day job, I am required to post my thoughts (I use the term loosely here, natch) about this wisp of an MTV "reality" show. You'll get the full run-down here, but suffice to say that these kids that they follow--as well-off as they may be--do not make me the tiniest bit wistful for my younger years.

I do not miss so-called relationships that consisted of more self-imposed drama than conversations, tricking guys into saying "I love you," or break-ups and make-ups that feel like they happen devoid of anyone's free will. All hail adulthood.

Celluloid Lolitas and Dungeons and Dragons

2006-09-27T15:39:00.000-04:00

For all those movie buffs out there who can't admit their secret fantasies about their neighbor's teenage daughter, check out my last feature as Movies.com's Movie Sexpert, 8 Great Little Tramps. There are so many underage temptresses not mentioned--Tuesday Weld in Pretty Poison, Kirsten Dunst in Interview with a Vampire, Uma Thurman in Dangerous Liaisons, Lindsay Lohan in Herbie Fully Loaded...the list goes on and on. But, of course, 8 Great is about great films, preferably one that we have lolita pictures for to put on the website. Next: 8 Great Stripteases.

Lest my audience and my mother think that I emulated these adolescent sex kittens, I must state that I had very little in common with those hot young things. I was no sunglass-wearing, lip-gloss pouting, bikini-modeling, boy-manipulating Lolita. My glasses were prescription--and big. I wore a training bra. And my only non-bullying contact with boys was when we played Dungeons and Dragons. That should tell you something about my social life; it can't be good if it revolved around 20-sided dice.

The number of girls who played Dungeons and Dragons (D&D) seriously in its heyday--the 80's-- is very small. I know this because every time I admit how fanatical I was, I get the same bored question: "Isn't that something boys did?" Yes, it certainly was. But that had nothing to do with my interest. I was a hardcore sci-fi/fantasy geek, and well before I discovered Tolkein or Poul Anderson or Elquest, I discovered Dungeons and Dragons. I was at a party at my parents' friend's house--I can't remember the night, because our families always got together on the weekends--but I remember opening up the 1st edition Dungeons and Dragons Guide and being amazed. Everything I would later love in Lord of the Rings, in the Arthurian tales, in Egyptology and mythology, told to me by the Grimms or Chaucer or Wagner seemed to be laid out in clearly analytical form. Role the dice, find out who you are, where you are, if you've succeeded. The fact that there was magic, and unicorns and elves, and lots and lots of storytelling only sealed the deal; I was hooked from the first roll of the hit dice.

It didn't occur to me that this was a "boy thing" until a few games in. For those of you who had lives, a game involved a Dungeon Master (or DM generally a control-happy type, detail oriented, story-telling type) and a bunch of Player Characters (PC's) with varying careers: cleric, magic-user, fighter, etc. The dice is rolled to see give them character traits (strength, wisdom, charisma--my favorite) They buy weapons, usually motivated by the coolness and deadliness factor. No one buys things like clothing or shoes or water, even though you're supposed to. They choose their spells, usually motivated by what would be really cool to impress their friends in real life. The DM opens the Dungeon Master's Guide, which holds the secrets of their adventure. The dice are laid out: 4-,6-, 8- 10- 20- sided dice. A collective breath is taken, as one PC takes the dice. And, the excitment begins--

Okay, he rolls the dice. Repeatedly. The DM throws monsters at the party of players ("Look out! It's a half-orc!") and the players kill it in ridiculous ways. ("I cast my spell on my lantern to set it on fire and throw it at the offending orc!). By rolling the dice. Repeatedly. If the orc dies, usually when the DM loses patience, or has found another really cool monster from the Monster Manual to throw at the party. And the adventure continues.

This sort of thing can go on for hours and hours, which may seem a trifle odd to some of you out there, it was absolutely fascinating to me. It allowed me to be part of the stories I found so interesting, to submerge into a fantasy life where adolescence didn't exist. This is precisely the thing my parents found so alarming, especially after they heard on 60/60 that Some Kid in Some Midwestern State killed himself because his player character got killed. They refused to buy me the books, but their resistance just made me want to play more. Ah, rebellion.

No, the real problem was that it was a boy thing, and something must be said about the rampant sexism that ran through the D&D population. If other girls played, they didn't want to play with the *real* game--rolling the dice, taking your turn, fighting the demons. They wanted to peruse the books and figure out if they'd rather date a paladin or a ranger, and whether they'd look pretty in the magic Cloak of Feathers. If you wanted to play a real role-playing adventure, you played with the boys.

And while that might sound sexy and fun, the truth was that it's no fun entering a boy's world. They got rambunctious and crazy when they fought dragons, and argumentative when they started incurring injuries. Sometimes the whole night devolved into bouts of arguing and truculence, with the DM throwing nasty creatures at uncooperative PC's. And the worst, as I said, was the sexism--let me say it out loud: I never got the cool magic weapons. I never got to tame the gold dragons. I never got to be a lycanthrope (werewolf) player character. Ah, I felt the discrimination clearly, as I was always in the back of the group, waiting to cast my spells, while all the fighters and thieves argued about how saving throws were allowed against the undead monsters. Sure, they wanted me around if I was a cleric and could heal their wounds, but when it was my turn to face exotic monster, a troglodyte, a kobold, a doppleganger? By the time everything calmed down, the monster would be dispatched and with a swift blow of a two-sided sword and the treasure divided.

I got the copper pieces. Sometimes silver.

Did they want me there? I don't think, at that age, it mattered. But it taught me a useful lessons--when you go where the boys are, don't expect to see them behave like gentlemen. This is why, when friends tell me their schemes to meet men--learning golf, or going to sports bars or working at the New York Stock Exchange or moving to Alaska--I can only shake my head. Anyone who has tried this will realize, very quickly, that a mob of fanatical men, whether British soccer hooligans, Indian adolescent nerds, yuppie stockbrokers--get together, you'd better shout awfully loud to be heard over them. And even then, it doesn't always work out right.

Once, I complained. "Fine," the cold-hearted DM said. "You can face the next monster." Was it his fault that the next monster was the 7-headed Tiamat, the Chromatic King of the Dragons? Actually, well, yes it was. As my poor half-elf cleric perished in a haze of noxious gas, I pondered the irony.

No, it was better to secretly collect the books as they tired of them, discovering video games and post-adolescent aggression instead. I prided myself in collecting the oddball books--the Deities and Demigods, a friendly helping of the world's mythologies (basically gods with overwhelming powers who grind games to a halt), or The Oriental AD&D Handbook, and equally friendly helping of all Asian history and myth (become a Wu Jen! kill with a Katana! kick ass with Tae Kwon Do! learn flower arranging!). And of course--the Dungeon Master's Guides, a pandora's box of fantasy, mythology and obsessive compulsive detailing. These books sit in a corner of my room, gathering dust, except for those rare times, usually late at night, when I pull them out and look through them, reading my offhand notes, marveling at every minute detail (wind speed when flying, types of mental afflictions, the dozen or so elvish races). Fascinating, unecessary, painstakingly detailed instructions to created your own universe.

Was it a waste of time? I don't think so. I look at the lolitas--celluloid and otherwise--and think of how much they missed. That awkward adolescenct games of Dungeons and Dragons allowed me to hang out comfortably with the boys before sexual blossoming made that impossible. It taught me a lot about storytelling, about imagination, and about the fact that there were others like me....E.T. phone home and all that. If I had rushed into sexuality right out of elementary school--or during, according to those strange Bratz cartoons--then I would probably see men in the way that women's magazine's encourage: strange alien creatures, dogs meant to be tamed, sexual objects, poor things. As ridiculous as the boys could get--competitive, aggressive and magic-weapon-grabbing--I saw them as friends, and still do.

So I appeal to my fellow AD&D expert Stephen Colbert (yes, lawful good paladin is redundant) to bring back the time-honored tradition of old-school TSR role-playing: the maps, the dice, the miniature figurines. Throw in a few bottles of Stoly, a hookah and some mood music, and the adventures can begin again.

Attitude Adjustments

2006-09-18T18:09:00.000-04:00

I have been nervously anticipating my mother's current visit to New York City (from my hometown in suburban Chicago) for some time now. (Just ask my friends; I've been fretting about it for so long that they couldn't believe she'd only just arrived two days ago.) Now, I like my mom, and she's pretty cool and laid-back compared with most of my friends' parents. We got along famously well when I was growing up. But I grew up in a three-bedroom home in a subdivision of Homer Glen, Ill. She is staying with me in an East Village studio apartment with barely enough room for my bed. My shower is famously (at least among friends and family) in my kitchen.

While the quarters are, indeed, cramped, her visit has wrought an unexpected result for me: It has made me love my life. I am, normally, deeply caught up in the typical strum und drang of single-in-the-city life. You know, whining about the long hours my job can sometimes devour, bitching about the less-than-glamorous aspects of running my own website, trying to cram up to three obligations a night onto my social calendar, all while somehow simultaneously feeling like I have no life.

And yet ... because this is the first time my mom is seeing this version of my existence--the last time she visited, I was engaged and living with my now-ex fiance in a New Jersey condo--everything feels new to me again. My lovely Bohemian neighborhood kicks ass. (Um, ridiculously good Mediterranean, Mexican, Vegetarian, Korean, and Thai food all within blocks? I forget about this until I have to take my mom out for lunch and dinner every day for a week.) My apartment is straight out of a romantic comedy about a small-town girl who somehow achieves her songwriting dreams by dancing sluttily on a bar. (Mom was so psyched to see the real Coyote Ugly a few blocks down the street from me!) I watch television for a living, and write about it for a national magazine. (Loving my mom's enthusiasm about the "Grey's Anatomy" premiere.) And my friends seemed so fun and interesting and cool and generally amazing, seeing them through my mom's eyes. Yes, she even liked lawyerwriter showing up fresh from her night of debauchery (see below).

So sorry to get all Remembering Your Spirit on you here, but it's nice to shed my New York ennui for even a few minutes and be in a generally good mood ... despite the unique fatigue only visiting moms can bring with them--that combination of walking around SoHo too much and engaging in intense, talk-heavy bonding for a minimum of eight hours a day. The mother-daughter relationship really is a delicate balance--those geniuses at SirensMag weren't kidding.

SAD cures

2006-09-14T19:46:00.000-04:00

So it's that time of year where I once again consider going to Rubalad, that lovely surreal sex- drug- art- music- scene driven warehouse party in Brooklyn which no one has ever heard of. Or, at least, no one outside the few hundred or so people that pack into it. Ah....just the way I like it.

Of course, it is hard to account for an sex- drug- etc driven night when you are meeting your friend's midwestern mother the next day. I realize I play the interesting, flaky, usually-out-of-it bad-girl role in most of my friendships, but I think showing up with dilated pupils and grinding teeth for a Sunday Brunch With Mother seems rather unwise.

But dammit, I want to be unwise! I've been cooped up forever.

In book news, my latest proposal for The Devil Inside Her: A Pop History of Wicked Women is going out to editors this week. The link is a convenient and fast way to tell you about my book, which is wicked women and pop culture, but please note that the book is NOT going to be published by Seal (thank god) and may not have the same cover. It feels fabulous and scary to go out with it again, with a new agent. And, before you ask, in the interest of keeping things civilized, I will not explain why Seal and I parted. But it was definitely for the best. Onward and Upward.

For those of you who have not seen the OK GO video for "Here We Go Again," I advise you to stop what you are doing, and click on this link. You will see a fuzzy picture of men in bright pants jumping up and down on treadmills. Play this video. I do not suggest this lightly. Today in New York, it rained that grimy, muddy rain that coats the bottom of your pants and flattens your hair. It was not a good day to walk dogs or run errands, both of which I had to do. But halfway through my day I remembered this video, and smiled instinctively. Clever. Amusing. Seemingly Effortless. I realized then and there that this video is an instant cure to the SAD (Seriously Ass-hat Day) that many are experiencing. Take twice and download again in the morning. Also highly recommended is lead singer Damian Kulash's article for ElleGirl last year about why you should never date a musician. Sigh. But....they can't all be doomed to roam the earth alone, can they? Sigh.

When you awake from your gloom, you will want to party. I suggest buying all your stemware from The Scandalous Cup, a downtown boutique devoted to the art of drinking well. The website alone indicates that these people are, ahem, spirited folk and the Den of Iniquity will soon lead to The Scandalous Society, an movement to bring back the freewheeling speakeasy era of the 1920's Jazz Age. I'm all for it.

Back to Rubulad. Can I go and remain a lady (keeping, as my mother once said, both feet firmly on the floor) and not spend money and be back by 1 AM?

Doubtful.

What You Should Do BEFORE You Watch "Laguna Beach"

2006-09-05T23:20:00.000-04:00

Get a little smarter before you go killing brain cells:

* Loving the Sirens love on our new writer (of "Registry Overload" fame) Sarah Grace McCandless' blog.
* We totally get having to fake it occasionally to make the hubby happy and get on with your night, but Feministing points out a disturbing trend toward over-intellectualizing the faux orgasm.
* Great essay on the quintessential single dilemma of our time: Dating in a Post-Dating World. Seriously, this electronic discourse we're having here right now? Closer to a date than some of my dates have been. And much farther from a date than some of my non-dates have been. And now I'm making about as much sense as I've made on some of my dates that, curiously enough, did not lead to second dates.

And now I have a real date with my DVR.

What You Should Do While I Watch "Laguna Beach"

2006-08-30T20:26:00.000-04:00

Because I'm spending this evening baking my brain by watching "Laguna Beach" instead of thinking deep thoughts, I'm gonna tell you about some other folks who are going ahead and being smart for me:

* Read a little about the Great Blog Debate (we're "pro-", in case you couldn't figure that out) at Friend-of-Sirens first-draft.com, and also learn about a bunch of other stuff floating out there in the political ether.
* Experiencesex with a side of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder courtesy of Sirens fave Jami Attenberg.
* See why you shouldn't buy "Why Men Marry Bitches" (as if you couldn't figure it out on your own, but still), thanks to Bookslut.
* Learn everything you could possibly want to know (and probably a few things you don't, but should) about womanly parts at VaginaVerite.com--seriously, whether you're a girl with questions too embarrassing to ask or a guy looking for an inside track, as it were, this has got it all.
* And, of course, don't forget to check out the latest on SirensMag: We've got ourselves a pretty kick-ass wedding issue going right now that is, natch, far from your typical OMG we should all get married and be pretty pretty princesses crap ... we're talking how to cancel your wedding, why your first year of marriage will suck, what guys find so alluring about chicks wearing engagement rings, and why you should save swallowing for your wedding night.

Now, off to see if, like, the mean girls or the, like, lame girls or whatever win out this week. Important, important things to do.

What's In, What's Hot, What's Ready To Blow Up, blah blah blah

2006-08-22T19:26:00.000-04:00

Well, after Friday's night of partying resulting in a fishnet stocking-related incident (note: be careful about fishnets and shoe buckles when stumbling drunkenly down staircases), I spent the rest of the weekend in relative squalor and seclusion, awaiting a new roommate and an explosion of work this week. A torn ligament in 1994 has made my left ankle permenantly weak, so it balloons like a cantaloupe when I stumble (often) or wear stilletos (rarely). This provided an opportunity for me to get better acquainted with my DVR and the internet. As a result, here are my picks and predictions for what for What's In, What's Hot, What's Ready To Blow Up, blah blah blah.

1. Idlewild: Do not miss this movie. Not only is Andre Benjamin (Andre 3000) smokingly fine and the slickest fashion icon since David Beckham, he's mad talented. Idlewild is set in a speakeasy in the 1920's South with all the jazzy, sassy glam that you'd expect. Part performance piece, part melodrama, it's more Moulin Rouge than Chicago, a hip, modern spin on a retro-musical that I think will put them both to shame. I have no doubts about Andre's acting ability--he has enough charm to compensate if he can't--but let's see if Big Boi can pull off the lead role as the club's owner. Look out for Macy Gray, Terrence Howard, Ving Rhames, and Patti Labelle in supporting roles, and some blazing musical numbers that are as much heart as beat.

2. Pet Love. My dog-loving neighbor now designs leashes on the side; my bohemian friend just published a very popular ode to her ferret. The world is filled with labradoodles--half labrador, half poodle, all affection. Pet love is in, and I don't trust anyone who turns his/her nose up our furry creatures. I've started walking my dogs around the busy hospital streets around the corner, and when the dogs meet the patients, it's amazing to see how happy one creature is to meet another with the time and inclination to play a little.

3. Gale Harold. Known for his role as libertine and gay icon Brian Kinney in Queer As Folk, this divine actor is finally playing it straight in Fox's new TV Series Vanished. Do I have high hopes? Well, from the commercials, Vanished is about some disappearing senator's wife and a secret card-playing, cloak-wearing cult, but one look from Mr. Harold reduces the plot to rubble. Unfortunately, it seems that whoever's directing has decided that Gale is going to play it straight indeed--straight and square. Mainstream TV should let loose a little and allow him to show some of that rebellious sexuality that caused Camille Paglia to call him Donatello's David, all grown up. Straight or queer? I don't think it matters. (Note: is anyone casting for The Portrait of Dorian Gray? Lord Henry awaits...)

4. Kiki de Montparnasse, the store. Professional Mistresses everywhere celebrated everywhere when this Soho shop, named after Man Ray's most infamous and decadent muse, brought elegance to the dirty Valentine's Day present. I give it two months before Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan starts bragging about her addiction to KikiDM ("how could I have ever lived without one? now I'm done with men forever"), but that's beside the point. No one needs a Titanium Vibrator, but in terms receiving one as a discreetly extravagant romantic gift, you can't beat KikiDM's collection. It's for the grand gesture (or the abject apology) and there's lot's of raciness to go around. I knew I picked the right agent when she suggested we hold our book party at the elegantly racy Soho store .

5. Magicians. God no, not David Blaine, or the aptly title mindFreak Criss Angel. I'm talking old school magic once again on the silver screen, the dazzling magicians of the Victorian/Edwardian era like Harry Houdini or Henry Blackstone. Antiquated? Hollwood disagrees with you, as not one but two magician-themed movies are being released in the next few months. The Illusionist features the dueling intensities of Edward Norton (as a romantic magician) and Paul Giamatti (as a romantic policeman) and the glassy perfection of Jessica Biel. The Prestige which will be released in the fall, will be far superior, as both leads (Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale) are rival magicians, and the lady in question is Scarlett Johanssen. I base my ranking not only on the hotness of the stars, but also on the fact that The Prestige is based on a superb novel by Christopher Priest that I read a few years ago. Either way, I will be in the audience, soaking up all the vintage carnival-like magic acts, fully suspending disbelief.

6. Wolfmother: Back in my high school daze, there were always a bunch of kids hanging around in their old Chevys near the tennis courts and swimming pool, music blasting. They were long-haired shaggy skateboarders with rocker-t's and torn jeans, their girlfriends always wearing denims skirts with long leggings (something that's coming back, interestingly). A cloud of smoke enveloped their portion of the parking lot, and as I walked home from school I tried to place the scent. Tobacco? Yes, mostly, but also something else--kind of like the incense my dad used. They were the laconic rebels of the school, befuddled as I was by all the social climbing and unspoken rules, falling together in this pocket of smoke like pieces of lint in a coat pocket. Their knowing outsiderness and endless philosophizing made them superior, but they still sparked with life, and always managed lazy smiles as I walked by, head down shyly.

They would have listened to Wolfmother.

7. Dark Age of Glam: With not one but two true-life Hollywood murder movies (the quirky underground The Black Dahlia and the star-powered Hollywoodland) coming out in the next month, the new way of fashion is clearly going to be old Hollywood glam a la Ava Gardner, Gina Lollabridgida, Jean Harlow. Marilyn Monroe? Too accessible. It's scarlet (Johanssen) lips, plucked brows and peekaboo hair hair--the femme fatale of the 1950's pulp novel, or B-movie, or film noir. Witness Christina Aguilera's transformation from "dirty" (mud wrestling) to "clean" ('50's pinup) sex object for an example. From Diane Lane in Hollywoodland (a manipulative older vixen) to Hilary Swank, Scarlett Johansson and Mia Kirschner in The Black Dahlia, there's a lot to love about this revival in the classic era of Hollywood--it's sexy, curvaceous, glamorous--unapologetically bombshell. And the movies are especially enticing since they go into the underbelly of classic Hollywood, giving you that true-crime shivers as you drool over the fabulous dresses. Or vice versa.

I will probably add to this post. Maybe. Maybe not.

Thoughts on those "Snakes"

2006-08-21T00:16:00.000-04:00

While I loved--yes, really, LOVED, but more on that in a sec--"Snakes on a Plane," I'm happy to hear it did only a modest $15 mil or so at the box office this weekend. Why? Because that means everyone can just go about their business enjoying the brilliance--yes, really, brilliance--of the motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane without having to endure wall-to-wall coverage of the power of the blogosphere and analysis of the ultimate culmination of meta-ironic-hipster pop culture blah blah blah. If this thing had kicked serious Will Ferrell ass, Newsweek and Time would've ridden the wave, cover-story style. They might still, but it'll probably be relegated to a page-long think piece lumped in with their regular reviews near the back of the magazines. Trust me, we were spared a lot of irritating intellectualizing.

Meanwhile, I can't recommend enough that you go catch this thing at the theater--it's an old-fashioned good time, complete with snakes biting people's privates and bad-but-super-quotable lines and the very cool almost-coupling of Juliana Marguiles and Samuel L. Jackson. I'll even go all cliche--because how else do you go with a movie like this?--and say it's a roller coaster ride of a good time. Hey, at least I didn't reach for the snake pun there. That's one more thing we'll thankfully see a lot less of now, too.

So thank you several times over to all of you who didn't go see this fine film this weekend. Now get yourself some tickets on Fandango and catch it as soon as you can.

Ban This Post

2006-08-13T21:16:00.000-04:00

China banned primetime airing of The Simpsons today, which is not merely a crime against art and free expression, but of bad public policy as well. The Chinese government is banning The Simpsons, along with Pokeman and other terrifying cartoons, to help the country's struggling animations studios. Here are my two predictions:

1. There will be an enormous rise of blackmarket Simpson DVD's of current episodes.
2. The Simpson will do a cartoon banning episode featuring Itchy and Scratchy.

Come on, gentle Commies--with Fidel on the brink, this is not the time to make enemies. As for animators, my heart is with you, but my head is capitalist: want to recapture your audience? make better cartoons. Until then, the black market thanks you.

I don't like bans. I don't think they solve anything, financially or artistically. But so many people in the world live under restrictions I can't imagine, and yet find a way to express themselves. For example, in this month's issue of Marie Claire (the one with Maggie Gyllenhaal modeling silent film-era goth girl chic), there's a fascinating article on wealthy, fashion-conscious Saudi Arabian women. (I'd link it if I could, but the Marie Claire website is remarking stingy. Not even a taste, ladies?). Covered from head to foot in black burkas, these women indulge in top-notch designer handbags, extravagant stilletos, and the one bit of fashion allowed to them: a head scarf. Some tips from the ladies? By Cavalli scarves if you want to get noticed. Stocking their fashions in closets Kimora Lee Simmons would envy, they have turned shopping into a minimalist art form: when there is no choice, the chosen must be exquisite.

For more burka-related humor, I did find the last few minutes of an American Dad repeat rather ingenious, complete with a Roxie-Hart style song and lots of gyration. I will quote only the last lines:

"If you have a vagina, clitoris or labia
Don't relocate to Saudi Arabia."

The truth of which I cannot verify, so no hate mail please. But I thought the rhyme was rather neat.

Fashion, rebellion and rhyme. Some of my favorite things.

Rock Star: Super Chicks

2006-08-09T17:43:00.000-04:00

If you're doubting that we have, indeed, come a long way, baby, look no farther than "Rock Star: Supernova." There has never been a surer sign that gender equality has been achieved. And, yes, I'm dead serious.

It plain fucking rocks to see women equalling men (both in their performances and in the way they're judged) in this competition to front an all male--and very testosteroney--band featuring Tommy Lee, Metallica bassist Jason Newsted, and Guns 'n' Roses guitarist Gilby Clarke. This may be just a silly little summer reality show with middling ratings, biding time til the big guns come back to CBS in the fall ... but damn if it isn't pretty much televised gender-parity utopia. Not only are women taken totally seriously singing classics by The Who and Queen and David Bowie and John Lennon, but they're also treated with a weird postmodern brand of respect that also doesn't ignore the fact that they're female and, in many cases, undeniably sexy.

Dilana may just be the personification of said utopia--girlfriend tears it up every time, has killer rock star threads and streaked dreads, and just plain makes it impossible for anyone of any sex to follow her act. When she tackled The Who with Clarke on guitar, he said it all: "After that, I have no doubt that a woman can front our band." Powerhouse vocalist Jill Gioia keeps the female rock spirit alive by picking kick-ass chick songs like Tracy Bonham's "Mother Mother" (which I'm now going to rush to procure a copy of, by any means necessary) and Heart's "Alone" (my personal karaoke favorite, which must be even harder to sing when not drunk on sake).

And bless Storm Large's heart for looking like a model and still killing it like any of the boys (or girls, natch) on stage. I mean, doing Queen's "We Are the Champions"--bad idea for anyone on American Idol EVER, awesome idea here. She's also a prime example of how to properly bare miles of midriff without looking like Britney Spears: ripped-up, edgy, least-girly-possible T-shirt ... low-rider pants with studded belt ... and super-cut abs. If Dave Navarro and Tommy Lee can do every other show with their shirts open and their pants slung low--which with those bods, they're totally welcome to do--she can flash skin, too.

But fashion-wise, it doesn't get any better than Zayra Alvarez--literally, a gold catsuit, a tophat, and giant platforms to do David Bowie's "All the Young Dudes." Even cooler: Her version of "867-5309" that never even ironically acknowledged the sapphic undercurrents of singing a love song to a girl whose name she found on the bathroom wall. Makes that song instantly into a far better narrative than it was ever meant to be. "Confidence is good for a frontwoman," Tommy said, "and we can tell that you have that."

Whether or not a girl ends up winning is incidental--and that's just the point. But I can't lie: I'd love love love to see Dilana take it ... not only because she's a girl, but also because she deserves it.

Mythologick: The Future of Fashion?

2006-07-20T19:43:00.000-04:00

With all due respect to my fellow bloggers, the shining moment for me in The Devil Wears Prada--was Madame Meryl's speech on the uselessness of trying to avoid fashion, during her spiel on the color cerulean. There is no non-fashion--there is "anti-fashion" which is essentially bad taste thinking above its class. I have a beloved monkey friend in London who vehemently refuses to wear any type of pattern or print. (I think he was recently swayed into stripes). Like any self-respecting, public-school teaching socialist, he wears drab industrial colors with no generic slogans or capitalist logos. Alas, I think, he does not realize how much he is in fashion--his version is simply the clothing equivalent of minimalist design. Use less, do more, say more. Now, he may not be spending as much attention or time on his clothing as the Park Avenue fashionista tottering by on her stilletos, but his statement is as loud and clear as hers is. Fashion has become a signifier of identity; even going around buck naked says something about you.

I think that we always envision the death of fashion. As Jerry Seinfeld said, we always portray the future as fashion-less--everyone dressed in avant-garde, angdrogynous jumpsuits, usually in unassuming shades of gray and blue. But the 21st century fox doesn't seem to have any limits in his/her wardrobe. You can cover up, reveal, dye, pierce, inject, paint or tattoo anything. It is an industry; it keep growing. The assumption of the 2001 Space Odyssey glamazon had better things on her mind than to think about her clothes. That was the assumption from many post 9/11 too, but guess what? Fashion adapted.

It is obviously superficial to think about clothes. But humans, especially now, react superficially; decisions about whether you like someone takes place in the first ten seconds ofmeeting. Are you looking into their soul or at their shoes? Body language counts for more than 60% of the message you convey. Why wear something that makes you uncomfortable Your clothes-- until a nuclear apocalypse makes us reconsider the superficiality our materialistic ways--still tell your story.

It seems to me that instead of dying, fashion is curving in on itself, like one of those wierd fractal equations that describe a fourth dimensions. (Mathematicians: my most humble apology for that last sentence. Bear with me.) Corsets show no signs of going away, joining by another ancient fashion totem (and torture device) the foot-binding stilleto. Empire dresses straight out Austen are back, and Victorian lace drips over everything. Sleeves are puffed. Instead of reaching towards the future, fashion going back in time, reinventing and reinterpreting the past.

Witness Mythologick, a new brand that blurs all the distinctions between past and present, East and West, real and imagined, handmade and computer generated. There are three designs, available in t-shirts, tanks, baseball-style tops, in a ridiculous array of colors. Contemplate the following, with my interpretations. (Get the site's own description by clicking on the link).

Ganymede: "Beautiful Trojan prince. Kidnapped by eagles, whisked away to heaven to be the cupbearer to the gods. Oh, the eagle was Zeus and he was in love with the boy. Cupbearers never

The eagles are Japanese, and the bulging muscles on the falling boy would
make Camille Paglia swoon. The figure holding the lotus is reminiscent
of Atlas with the world on his shoulders, but the lotus means much more
than that. In Buddhist mythology, a lotus sprouted when the Buddha
reached enlightenment; in Hindu mythology, it means rebirth. Ganymede,
floating high above the flames of Troy, is a flower plucked from the
East, flying to a higher place. In black the destination seems less certain...the figures lose their organic green and become pewter, like statues. is Ganymede leaving or coming home? The lotus beckons, but is bludgeoned by the god of war, and the eagles take fiery flight. CLICK THE ABOVE LINK FOR MORE COLORS, MORE STYLES, MORE INTERPRETATIONS.

2. Orpheus: "A love story full of cosmic music and poetry. A love so strong it transcended life and death. Well...maybe not death."

On a bed of paisley greens, Orpheus looks tempted by a noticeably masculine hand--since when did Eurydice have such prominent knuckles? Or do we have it backwards, with a flat-chested Eurydice reaching for her music-loving husband's hand...

In black the greens are less organic and more neon--Orpheus looks tempted by the nightlife, wanting to boogie. Look at those innocent eyes....but how long are those robes going to stay on, anyway? Maybe there's something to the music of the Dark Side, this Mordor...Contrary to the myth, he may give in. Orpheus, so pure, so holy in his angel wings, seems caught by the intricacies of the Far East, the paisleys licking like hellfire flames. How far, how low, will he go? CLICK LINK ABOVE FOR MORE ORPHEUS AND EURDYICE.

3. Minerva: "Full grown and in full armor, she sprang forth from her father's skull. the first of many headaches he would have over her."Confession time. Mythologick is designed by my absurdly talented brother, and I think Minerva is about me. First of all, he well knows that I had always identified with Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, on whom Minerva was based. A warrior goddess, associated with the arts, with wit, with besting the men in her family? Naturally. Second, there is, of course, the innate confusion of the design. This is not Minerva, but the Hindu Goddess Durga--another warrior goddess, born as an adult, in full armor, to vanquish demons. Can one warrior goddess merge with another? In black, her many arms fan in technicolor glory; she is pink like a rose, red like blood. My favorite colors. CLICK LINK ABOVE FOR MORE VERSIONS OF THE DEADLY GODDESS.

And there's just something about the phrase "The first of many headaches he'd have over her." Don't know what it is.

Sure, he's my brother, and that's why I'm pimping his shirts...but take another look. The future of fashion is in computer artisanship; using technology to expand fashion, not limit it.

Be useful. By a shirt. You clothes are making a statement anyway.

I Can't Wait to Get Old

2006-07-05T23:52:00.000-04:00

"The Devil Wears Prada" has inexplicably stirred up several teacups full of tempest, from whiny-assistant Andy vs. bitch-boss Miranda debates to self-serious dissections of the authenticity of the fashion-maven characters' wardrobes (thanks, New York Times!).

But for me, personally, there was only one truly weighty matter that this perfectly enjoyable wisp of a film brought up: Hair. Now, I came out of the theater wanting Anne Hathaway's lovely mahogany mane. (Mine is kind-of close now, but seeing her onscreen made me realize that I want more pronounced bangs, and perhaps a slightly darker color.) So already, this movie has changed my life. But what really stuck with me (after I came home and immediately cut my bangs, to quite nice effect, I must say) was Meryl Streep's gorgeously gray coif.

She apparently came up with the look herself--and who's gonna argue with Ms. Most Nominated Actor in Oscar History?--and it has sparked its own share of debate. And while I don't claim to know a thing about fashion mag editors, who exist on an entirely different plane from entertainment magazine writers who also edit online alternative women's magazines, I'd like to say that I think her hair kicks ass. I even think it's possible that some bold, forward-thinking, truly self-confident women's fashion mag editor might just decide the time has come for women to embrace this particular sign of aging, and might actually make it her signature look.

Of course, we're living in the Botox era, so Meryl's "Devil" hair is probably still more fantastical than Andy's wardrobe transformation (and her romance with the famous author, and her showdown with Miranda in Paris ...). But Meryl showing how truly gorgeous she can look--after all, one of the fashion editors in that bitchy New York Times story griped that she looked "too pretty"--with silvery locks could just be the first step. As a 31-year-old who's taken to nightly examinations of her own emerging laugh lines, I sure as hell hope so.

It's no secret that not only have men always had the privilege of going gray gracefully, but it's also now seriously in. I'd paper my apartment with dorm-room-style posters of George Clooney and Anderson Cooper if it were socially acceptable--and I'd pretend those crushes were unique if I could find just one woman over 30 who didn't swoon over either of those guys. Honestly, I get a little pissed when I see those commercials for Just for Men that strongly imply that guys get more action after they wash the gray right out of their hair. It's patently false advertising, and it screws with men's minds the way ours have been screwed with for decades. It's irresponsible. We've been trained. They're more susceptible, and must be protected.

But while we're shielding men's fragile egos from the advertising industry, it would be nice if we could embrace the Clooneys and Coopers of our gender. Or the one we've got for the moment--our Streep.

My mom always jokes that she doesn't even know how gray she's gone, because she's been dyeing her hair red regularly since about 1970 ... I can only hope that when it comes my time, I'll feel like I at least have a choice. But for now, I am going to get that mahogany haircolor so I can look like Anne Hathaway. I've got a few more years to go.

Welcome!

2006-07-02T16:49:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the official blog of SirensMag.com. This is our place to rave and rant about life as we know it. It's your place, too, so send us your thoughts!

Love,
(l-r) Jennifer & Heather

Are We All Just Catty Bitches?

2006-07-02T16:06:00.000-04:00

Barbara Walters used to be my hero. I (and, hell, any career-minded young woman this side of 40) idolized the strong, independent ball-breaker, who did as much for women's career advancement as Sandra Day O'Connor as far as I'm concerned. She elbowed her way into some of the most important interviews of the 20th century, became the first female co-host of a network news show and championed women in the media, so much that she created “The View” to allow women of all ages and ethnicities a forum on everything from politics to motherhood.

“The View” was supposed to disprove the stereotype that women are innately competitive with each other. It was supposed to show unity and sisterhood. Instead, it proved we’re just a bunch of catty bitches after all.

The claws came out this week when Star Jones abruptly announced what we’ve all known for months: She’s leaving the show. This came much earlier, (and much more truthfully), than ABC executives or Barbara had expected.

Star was scheduled to “gracefully announce” her departure from “The View” last Thursday, but instead, she blurted out “I’m leaving” after a commercial break on Tuesday’s show. Her co-hosts (including an obviously shocked/pissed) Barbara feigned surprise and remorse, but it wasn’t fooling anybody.

Literally hours after that show wrapped, Jones was on the phone to People magazine giving her side of the story: “I was fired.”

This truth incensed Barbara, who in retaliation opened the next day’s show with “And then there were three,” and immediately went on the defensive: “I always tell the truth… except this once.”

Barbara’s honesty is one of the things that’s made her such a role model for women. She’s famous for milking the teary truth out of celebrities, but when questions are directed at her, she doesn’t hold back either. She was the first to admit that it's nearly impossible to balance a functional home life (i.e. a kid and a healthy marriage) and a demanding career. A lot of women hated hearing that. But it was the truth! She also admitted to firing ditz Debbie Matenopoulos, back in the show’s first incarnation for “not being the right fit.” If she could tell the truth then, why not now?

The truth (what we’ve all known for months, thanks to the not-so-discreet rumor mill) is: Rosie O’Donnell was hired to replace departing Meredith Vieira (you got out just in time, Mer!). Rosie hates Star for lying about an obvious gastric bypass to lose half a person (funny, Rosie lied for years about being gay). ABC executives were pissed at Star anyway for pandering to non-paying advertisers on the air. Barbara was sick of her me-me-ME! worship. It was enough to justify not renewing the woman’s contract – and tell the truth about it. But what Barbara (and ABC) wanted us to see play out was a thankful, graceful Star (who are they kidding?) leaving the show with tears in her eyes and love in her heart for her sister co-hosts.

Why was it so important to preserve this idyllic image of these four completely different women as a group of giggling girlfriends rather than admit that their differences were too much?

Adult women should be able to look another woman in the eye and admit that there’s a rift, accept they’re not going to be BFFs, but still go on and conduct themselves professionally. THIS could have been the crowning achievement of “The View,” the move to perhaps make headway into banishing that catty bitches stereotype.

Oh, well.