How to be A Woman

Finally finished "How To Be a Woman" by Caitlin Moran. There's a funny mix of reactions, for me, finishing a book like this. Simultaneously: I love you, Ms. Moran, please be my best friend; and, this is the book I wanted to write, and here it already is. It's ecstatic tinged with melancholy, which I then battle with thoughts of "well, you'll just have to write your own book like this. You CAN write your own book like this. Do it. DO IT." Sometimes it works. Sometimes I blog instead.

Moran's book is a combination of memoir and feminist theory, hilarious recollections of her childhood and smart, deftly written analyses of those recollections, what they mean to her now, what they might mean to other women. It's the kind of feminism that's entirely accessible, and it's a reminder of how good humor can allow to access otherwise difficult or taboo subject matter. I'd catch myself, sitting on the couch curled up with the book, laughing and laughing and then stopping dead on the page, reading back over the last paragraphs, trying to mine the method of how exactly she went from that funny to that smart with such ease. It's a book that's accessible without being stupid or condescending, and thought provoking, literally: provoking of thought, often provoking further provocative thought, a spiral that continued long after I put it down.

Without sounding too full of ego, I think it's a testament to her skill as a writer that someone like me, a woman well versed in feminism (and to a certain extent, the history of our waves and movements), still couldn't put the book down. None of the theory was revelatory for me (although some of the contexts it came out of were); it was her writing that kept me going.

For all I loved about the book, Moran slips into cissexist or heterosexist language a couple of times, most notably in the very beginning of the book, when she explains:

"Here is a quick way of working out if you're a feminist. Put your hand in your underpants. a) Do you have a vagina? And b) Do you want to be in charge of it?"

And while I appreciate the sentiment (and know that, although feminism can be a whole lot more complex than this, the basic gist is pretty spot on), it's a little alienating to a few groups of people; men who are feminists, trans* people who are feminists, genderqueer people who are feminists. In the context of the rest of Moran's book, though, it's pretty clear that she's sacrificed inclusive language for a bit of glib shorthand; from the overall character of the book, it's clear that she doesn't actually believe much along the lines of cissexist or heterosexist thought. I'm not trying to excuse it, but just to clarify it as an abnormality in what is otherwise a fairly inclusive, sex-positive, progressively-worded book.

Out of everything, I was most struck by her chapters on abortion and pregnancy, and have yet to read anything that talked about giving birth the way Moran recounted her first labor. It was incredible, having gotten through much of the book with laughter and punchy politically-analyzed childhood stories, to be suddenly floored by the power and clarity with which she writes about serious subject matter. It's immediate, physical, and pulled my calloused, feminist heart right up into my throat. It made me want to have children, and it made me want to never have children, and it made me want to hug my partner close against my chest and cry. Which I did, after reading him the chapter out loud.

"How To Be a Woman" is on my favorites list for the year, for sure, and will probably stay there forever. Mostly, though, I can't help fantasizing about what it would be like to meet Moran. After her chapter recounting her exploits with Lady Gaga, I spent hours devising schemes in my head about meeting Moran in a similar context, wanting her to know, for so many reasons, that she was my Gaga, wanting to shout from the rooftops, "Caitlin Moran, you are my feminist hero! Caitlin Moran, I want to make out with your book! Caitlin Moran, I'm star struck and a little giddy, but maybe, if all my dreams come true, we can just get boozy together sometime? And rant about the patriarchy? Or not; or rant about everything else, because they don't even deserve that, especially over such a nice bottle of scotch?"

On that note, it's back to graduate school applications. Here's to modern feminist idols, inspirations, and the generations of them to come.

The Women-Improvement Super Store

At first glance, I was pretty appalled at this oh-so-obviously "female" version if a power tool. At second glance, I realized that it was pink to promote breast cancer awareness, and that a portion of sales went to research and charity.

So now I'm slightly less appalled. Because while the pink isn't *as* offensive if it's "for a good cause," it's still pigeonholing women's health issues into the women-marketed objects (and that's not even getting into the fact that breast cancer isn't the leading cause of cancer deaths in women). Pink tools for breast cancer? I'm all for it; so long as Mikita and Black & Decker have a line if man-sized drills, also available in the dashing Pepto-Bismol shade.

light weight and designed for comfort in smaller hands!

Shhhhh, it's a secret...

Opening night, first one of the season, and so I got it in my head to buy a new dress. And by "buy a new dress," I mean I realized I hadn't bought a new piece of clothing in about a year, so I went on my dinner break to the second hand shop a few blocks away, tried on about twenty different things, and bought the two that were least offensive. They actually turned out pretty great - one is little and black, and the other is little and black with polka dots. But with the polka dots came a distinct lack of strappadge, what I do believe they called strapless in "the business" (and by "the business" I mean, I know they fucking call it strapless). I'd never bought a strapless dress before. I'd never liked a strapless dress before.

Post second-hand store, I realized that, unless I wanted to look like a 90's flashback with the clear plastic bra straps snaking over my otherwise bare shoulders (and yes, I do still own that bra), I was going to have to buy a new one. A strapless one.

Usually, my bras come from Costco. And they're nice, really nice, Calvin Klein I think, a two pack for thirty bucks. Can't beat it, and I've bought them for years. But this time, I both didn't have time to go to Costco, and didn't think Costco would have bras of the san-strap variety. Walking around downtown, on limited time, with a dress I really wanted to wear and no bra to wear it with, I had only one option. It was off to Victoria's Secret I went.

would you like some pink with your pink?

Now, I've been to Vicki's before. With my mom, growing up, that's where we'd go when it was a special occaision to buy bras, and not just the standard I-need-new-bras time. But I hadn't been in years,  and... well, some things have changed.

For one, they now have (or maybe have always had, and I missed it as a teenager) these people called "Bra Specialists." That's the official title. I got the impression that, along with learning to measure a person and becoming familiar with Vicki's selection, Bra Specialist (heretofore known as a "BS") training consists of a) pitching your voice an octave higher than is natural for you, b) learning to speak to every customer like they're your best friend, who you're trying to appear very interested in, but secretly don't care about at all, and c) learning every synonym for "sexy," and maybe even making up a few of your own.

(Examples include: cute, fun, pretty, classy, cutesy, adorable, adorbs, darling, nice, fun fun, and various high pitched squeak-like noises meant to indicate general approval).

For another, the customer service is aggressive, yet really unsatisfying. There seems to be this strange idea in modern salesmanship that over-friendliness and a kind of fake "personal touch" is going to sell more product. I get it mostly from women, at women's shops, like they're trying to convince me (badly) that they like their job, that they're interested in me personally, etc. It manifests in things like the Vicki's lady asking me how to spell my name, saying "Oh, that's so unique!" with a kind of half smile, her hand on her hip, listening to her radio (yes, they have in-ear radios. In Victoria's Secret. In case of Bra Disaster during the Zombie Apocalypse, I can only assume). Or in how she referred to everything as "hers," as in "I've got this one in a 36C, which is your sister size, but I think I'm all out of the 34D." She handed me a card, when I finally picked a bra, indicating which styles and colors I liked. I'm supposed to keep the card, and bring it back with me when I "come visit them again."

I don't think it was my BS's fault, but there's this strange stream-lining of the personal that has never, ever felt real to me, and that never, ever makes me want to buy anything. I'd much rather a salesman either be interested in me, genuinely, or simply be efficient and distant, and do their job. The patina of pretend-to-care just gave me the heebie jeebies, and I wanted to leave, but by god, I needed that bra.

I spent double on the bra what I did on the dress, figuring it would be something I'd own and use a lot (for everything that's wrong with Vicki's, the quality is really top notch). I took it to the cash register, paid for it, and they handed it back to me in a little pink bag. Or rather, The Little Pink Bag.

Which proved to be the most hilarious part of the whole endeavor; everything that happened in the store was fairly expected, but I wasn't prepared for what it would be like to carry a bright pink tote back across downtown. I didn't get heckled or hassled, but I did get looked at a lot. Returning to the theater, the new stagehand was (of course) waiting in the greenroom, and I got to introduce myself to this forty-something ex-NY dude holding my new lingerie. I didn't try to hide it, but I'm nervous enough about supervising someone who's both older and male, and if someone had let me know he'd be there, I probably would have left it upstairs.

And that kind of sums up the strange, secret-but-not-really-secret philosophy that blossoms from the The Little Pink Bag. Everybody knows what it means. Everybody knows (within range) what's inside, and unless it's a guy carrying the bag, the things inside are probably intended for the person carrying the bag. But the title of the store? Victoria's Secret. Get that, ladies? Wearing underwear is a secret, that nobody should ever see, so you're supposed to feel a little ashamed and embarrassed about it. But we're going to give it to you in the most obnoxiously obvious packaging ever, so everyone who sees you will know about your secret, without you telling them, just to double up a little on the shame.

It would be fine if the act of buying underwear and the displaying of that act both fell into the same category. As in, you buy underwear, don't really want to share it with the world, and thus don't. Or, you buy underwear, want to share it with the world, and do. But the "secret" coupled with the The Little Pink Bag makes for a confusing, double-speak kind of message. It isn't really surprising, just par for the patriarchal course.

All that said, the bra looked great, the dress looked great, and I looked great. I probably won't be going back to Vickie's (ever, if I can help it). But going strapless? Most definitely. And I suppose, for that, I owe a thank you. Much appreciated, BS.

Lichen Planus, and other things that (unfortunately) don't mean I'm a Werewolf

mmmmm, vagina peas

Healthy insurance kicked in again about a month ago, and so back I went to the doctor, with the all-too-familiar-and-frequent symptoms of general vulvovaginal discomfort. I've mentioned it a couple times in past posts, but just to be clear: this has always been an issue for me, and something that despite various precautions (probiotics, neutral PH and free-of-everything soaps and lotions and laundry detergents, white or no underwear, restricted diet, etc.), I’ve struggled with for many, many years. More so some years than others, and sometimes it's BV, sometimes it's yeast, but pretty much without fail, my vagina gets unhappy. Sometimes (like this last time) it’s to the point where I'm itching and scratching in my sleep, sometimes when I'm awake, and sometimes it's so bad that I have to sneak offstage and cry, etc. This tech, I actually ended up jerry rigging a lady-parts ice pack (frozen peas and a double ziplock with gaff tape around my underwear, in case you were wondering), because I literally couldn't focus enough to do the show.

(trying to figure out if your production manager/stage manager/actors/director can tell if you're waddling/have frozen labia is... not the best for focusing either. But think in the end, it was better to have pea-ed and waddled, than to have never pea-ed at all).

At the doctor, they poked around like they usually do. And were mystified as to how I had this again, like they usually are. I don't generally have crazy discharge (which is common with yeast), and most doctors are surprised when they do a culture, and it comes back positive.

But this time, things went a little differently. This time, my doctor posited that maybe, possibly, there might be an underlying cause to all this. That maybe, sure, my tests for yeast came back positive, but maybe it wasn't the yeast causing these symptoms (candida can and does live in the vagina, the butt, the mouth, etc., without causing any adverse side affects. It's the growing out of control that causes problems).

She suggested, looking carefully at the skin, that it might be something called Lichen Planus. It’s a strange experience, to be spread eagled on a doctors table, nitril gloved fingers pressing gently on your vulva, and hear a word who’s first connotation (for me, anyway) is silver bullets and wolf’s bane. As it turns out, I think I might prefer a beasty moon-related transformation to what Lichen Planus actually is.

She hands me a piece of paper as I'm leaving, telling me it’s not necessarily LP and I need to see a specialist, but she suspects. And then I read it and then I go home and then I google and google and google. There should be some sort of mandatory blackout time on google image searches post doctor visits. Caution: side affects of reading this handout may result in compulsive staring at images of sick vaginas, and premature coming to terms with what may prove to be a very grim fate indeed.

Lichen Planus is not a fun thing, and it's not a curable thing. I'm pretty nervous about it, but doing my best to put those nerves in a little box, because we really, really don't know anything yet. I haven't been tested, and I haven't been to a specialist. It could be any number of things that are a) not yeast, and b) also not Lichen Planus. But there’s a little part of me that is… well, pretty scared right now.

On one level, it's nice to know that there might be an underlying cause to all this, one that I can get accurate (and hopefully more affective) treatments for. Although it’s all couched in knowing that the side affects are much, much worse than if it were simply recurring (or not-ever-really-cured) yeast.

Here’s the part of the blog where I would list all the side-affects of LP, how bad they could get, and what I'm worried about with each one. But I’m not sure about anything yet, and in an effort not to hype myself up, I’m going to let you google it yourself, if you really want to.

Caution: may cause moments of loss and premature, serious bummer.