The Monster Under the Sink

I recently bought a fully furnished apartment here in Shanghai, China. I have throw pillows and plants and stocked toilet paper and feel like an ADULT!

Along with the all the fancy gizmos and gadgets (yes, stocked toilet paper just took it up a notch for me) I found a scale under the sink.

I am 24 years old and have never owned a scale. Until now.

I am so sorry, ladies and gentlemen. I had no idea what you were going through. All you normal people out there with a monster under your sink.

I stepped on a few days ago out of curiosity. Oh, surprise. I weighed about 7 or 8 pounds more than I had estimated. No problem, right? I was clueless before then. I was still beautiful, wonderful, adorable me-

Eh, maybe I should start eating a little bit less.

Oh, how quick the fall. This morning I stepped on again, saw that the number went down, and was happy.

Happy.

Kill me now. It took twice, TWICE, and my self-esteem was already trapped in a little tiny square with a number.

Now is the problem of disposing with the monster.

I won't use it again, I'll keep it just in case. What if I need to weigh my luggage one day? That is a legit concern. What about that giant bag of bananas I bought they said was one weight at the grocery store but they were really lying and it's better if I have this thing around to check just in case? What if someday my weight really does become a problem and I should start monitoring it and I should just keep this one so I don't have to buy a new one someday, right?

It's a monster. Like the monster book Harry Potter has to buy that runs under his bed and tries to eat him.

A google image reinterpretation, but that's pretty much what it looked like.

I apologize to all of you out there who have had this monster much longer than I have, and I could never quite understand how it was so difficult or made you so depressed. I get it now. It's terrible. And while I completely understand how hard it is to get rid of the thing (I still need to make the final move of taking out the trash, myself) please, please please do yourself a favor and dump it. Start a revolution. Ruin the scale business forever and ever. You don't need this crap in your life. 

Instead, invest in a sexy, comfortable pair of underwear that you can dance around in while making some french toast. That's what I'm doing today. 

Kill the monster guys. Kill it dead. 

Why "Abortion in the Case of Rape" is Not Good Enough

I grew up surrounded by pro-life conservatives. I even inadvertently attended one of those pro-life rallies, the kind where you put tape over your mouth to share in the silence of the innocent unborn.

At a women's conference at the United Nations, a particular pro-life group stood outside boycotting a Planned Parenthood meeting advocating education, and handed out pro-life goodie bags. Mine included a brochure on the evils of contraception and an actual tiny plastic fetus. It was pretty uncomfortable. Throwing away a plastic fetus felt pretty weird. Keeping it would have been even weirder.

I'm not bashing pro-lifers, though I suppose I am poking a bit of fun at some of the extremists. The truth is I was right there with them while I was growing up. This post is actually for the reasonable ones, many of whom are friends and family. The ones who say, "I'm against abortion, except in the case of rape."

"Against abortion except in the case of rape" shows empathy. I appreciate that. It demonstrates an understanding that being raped is mentally, physically and emotionally scarring, that having a child after such an experience would be extremely difficult, traumatizing. Thank you for understanding that, for putting yourself in someone else's shoes.

There's many of us who picture rape as some horrifying deed done by a stranger in a dark alley. I sure did. Growing up with rape culture (that's a whole different blog post to tackle, touched on here: Rape Culture, Or Everyday Life) it's all about walking safely, in groups, before dark, carrying mace. But ask any of the one in four college aged girls in the United States if it was a dark alley, and the majority would say no.

I spoke with one woman. She fell in love with a guy, one loved by everyone who knew him. When they finally had sex, she walked away from the experience covered with bruises, a vaginal infection, vaginal bleeding, and a busted lip.

Was it rape? By legal definition, no. There are some out there that might say, "why didn't you scream? Did you say no? Did you fight? Didn't you know this would happen?"

She's not the only one. The amount of women who endure traumatizing experiences by their boyfriends, people they know, people they are pretty sure they love- are we dismissing their case entirely because it doesn't line up with our black and white legal definitions?

If your empathy has taken you far enough to imagine a dark alley, please try to imagine a little further. Imagine that not all sexual experiences fit into a definition of "good" and "bad", that rape by someone you know is just as scarring, if not more, than by a stranger, that expectations and hopes and dreams are often dashed to the ground, and not necessarily in cut and dry ways defined by law. Imagine the enormity of human complexity, of love, of sex, of lust, of want, of broken hearts, of broken families, of broken children who grow up and break more children. Put that complexity in an 11 minute horrific encounter, and then hold it up to the law.

It does't measure up.

The pro-life, pro-choice debate has been going on forever, and I know better than to try to change anyone's mind. This post is also addressing only one of many facets of the abortion issue. But I am begging you to look outside the box, to see the mess and the complication, to stop discussing pros and cons in coffee shops and actually go out and start showing love to broken people in a pro-active way. I could care less what your political stance is. If you can possibly find a way to show love and respect to the women around you, to honor them, to validate their experiences, to listen rather than shouting opinions-

well, that would make me one happy feminist.


Want more facts? Check out 50 Actual Facts About Rape by Soraya Chemaly

It's All Relative

While Wendy Davis was standing up in her much-discussed pink sneakers in Texas, here in China it was just another day where abortions are 50 bucks a pop- and that's for a good one.

Some Americans are fighting for the right to be in control of how many children they have by being able to choose abortion as an option. In China, some are fighting for the same right, by being able to not choose abortion as an option.

"One is enough," A friend of mine nervously laughed as we talked about the one child policy over rice and green bean soup. Her friend disagreed. "They become too spoiled!" She said. Here I was, surrounded by women who had zero choice in what their family could look like or be. Abortion isn't an option here. It's a must.

The idea in China is having more than one child sucking resources and money would be selfish, greedy, wrong. In the United States, the pro-life idea is that mothers who choose abortion instead of raising a child are selfish, greedy, and wrong. How could a human being with thought choose a lower "moral" path instead of choosing the rights of the unborn? says one half of the world. How could a human being with thought choose to take and take from the rest of the people that need things so badly? says the other half.

Woman in Saudi Arabia are fighting the hijab rules. Women in France are fighting for the right to wear them. Women in the U.S. still fight against the glass ceiling and job competition, while women in Scandinavia fight for a longer mother's leave from work.

We cannot define feminism by what we are for or against in these kinds of issues. The woman in China wanting less abortion clinics is just as feminist as the woman outside of the Texas courthouse wanting abortion to be more available.  Same for the women all over the world, fighting on polar opposite sides for the same thing: freedom.

Being a feminist is about more choice, however that applies. Be a global feminist. Think about the big picture. Be aware that your political stance does not hold true all over the world, that cases are different, that humbleness and wisdom are required wherever there is change. Be willing to be wrong, to be right, to stand with sisters whose needs are different from yours. Don't forget about the men, our amazing feminist men who have just as much polarity in some of their issues as the women have. Listen. Discuss. Travel. Read. Stay out of the box, and you can change the world.

Nothing Tastes As Good As...

"Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels."

Well, f*** you, Kate Moss. You know what tastes good? The football-sized burrito I just ate. The taste of laughter on a skype date with my family when I said I wanted to dig a hole from China to Argentina (that's where I would end up, if anyone was wondering.) The taste of sweaty awesome success when I check boxes off on my Insanity workout program and realize my biceps resemble those of Michelle Obama's.The taste of Chinese words rolling around on my tongue as I read a 9 line "hello, my name is" conversation out loud  after working my butt off for the past two months trying to learn these frustrating characters. THAT tastes pretty damn good.

How I feel after reading in Chinese for the first time

Right now, nothing tastes as good as trying something new. We're human. We want touch and hugs and love and closeness. But if those cozy, warm, intimate things aren't happening in your life right now, don't you dare feel sorry for yourself. It's not about filling a hole, it's about discovering who you are when you're alone. How much you sweat when you work out in your underwear in your living room. How good you sound when you belt out Moulin Rouge songs in the shower at full lung capacity. How sexy your ass looks in that mirror when you are dancing all by yourself.

Learn a new language. Sing a new song. Dance that two step as if your life depended on it. Watch movies, read books, listen to music that makes you cry. Buy that hat.

More than anything, look out for all the lonely people around you that haven't figured these secrets out yet. If you haven't found that one person to love yet, thank God. There are so many more people out there that need your attention right now. Be a good friend, a good daughter, a good sister, a good stranger to meet on the street. You're not the only lonely one out there, you know. Go forth and love, sistas. You'll get so much love back, you won't even know what to do with it, except to keep spreading it around like jelly on peanut butter. Nothing tastes as good as a love PB&J, anyway.


Want to learn a new language? Check out memrise.com
Want to learn how to dance? Grab a few drinks and play Just Dance. Trust me.
Want to be generally cool? Strike up a conversation with a stranger. Grandmas on the bus are especially good candidates. 

Smoke Follows Beauty

At a camp full of girls, we would gather around a fire every night to boil some kind of protein/carbohydrate mush and heat up some koolaid as we were in the middle of nowhere, Wisconsin. The common joke every time a girl would get smoke in her face from the cooking fire and start coughing up a lung was, "smoke follows beauty!"

A few days ago, I saw this incredible post of photography portraying models and their mothers, found here. Some are cuddling, others are standoffish, others could be perfect clones of each other. 

This one is by far my favorite:

Then there's more photos, like this one:

The photo shoot begs the questions, does smoke follow beauty? What is beauty, anyway?

There is a quote out there attributed to the beauty icon herself, Audrey Hepburn. It reads,

"For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone."

I look at these photographs, and I see truly beautiful women. I also see women who lost the meaning of beauty somewhere along the way- mothers and daughters alike. I wonder, which mothers understand what beauty is, and what did they tell their daughters when they were growing up? Which ones made sacrifices for the right reasons, and which ones for the wrong ones? Are they proud of their daughters? Jealous? Are they still chasing the smoke of outward beauty, or does their strength of character shine through?

I look at the daughters as well, those who are proud of their mothers or embarrassed by them, those that want to be close or don't. What words passed between them? What glances? What hugs and kisses or lack thereof? If there's damage, can it be repaired? What will the daughters tell their own daughters some day?

We are human beings, built and formed by our relationships with one another, and the values we choose to accept or ignore. I honor the mothers out there that have encouraged their daughters to be confident, loving world-changers, values that will be passed down to their grandchildren and great grandchildren. The moms who defined beauty as more than how long your eyelashes are or the size of your thighs, and taught that it might have something to do with love and kindness. In the wise, wise words of a currently famous boy band,

"that's what makes you beautiful."

Wax On

Summer is approaching. I'm in a new city with new crazy friends, one of whom thought that getting waxed for the first time would be a blast before bikini season. While I can grumble all day about paying for pain, I'm always up for a new experience. 

We went to a rather popular little spa, where all the assistants spoke English. I have to say that was a plus, as my vagina vocabulary in Chinese is still nonexistent (don't worry, I'm putting flashcards aside for that particular language lesson). 

To be perfectly frank, I was terrified. Stripping hair off your body just never struck me as a good time. However, the plush pillows were a nice touch. It's hard to fear for your vagina's life when plush is involved.

While the experience overall was satisfactory (chocolate wax, seriously cool) and I only yelped once or twice, the handy dandy spa's vagina drawings to help you choose your "look" were, shall we say, hard to interpret.

"Please choose which one you would like." The assistant hands my friend and I a chart.

"Wait- is that broccoli?"

"It's supposed to be hair. Look, there's less broccoli on the xx option, and none on the triple x off option."

"Oh. Wait. I have broccoli on my vagina?? So what's the heart? Ooh..oh, I get it. Center view. I thought we were looking from the top."

"Yeah, heart's the middle, broccoli's all around.""

"I feel like teletubbies hang out here, in my broccoli-covered, heart-shaped vagina... I like the broccoli. xx it is."

As I said, overall satisfactory experience. They even gave us cups of tea after all was said and done. However, my vagina is not made of broccoli or hearts, or even unicorns and rainbows when the broccoli is all gone. It's still a vagina, and it's mine till death do us part. While I appreciate the posh experience and pampering my lady self, the clever ad pictured above still is a far cry from encouraging independent, vagina loving women. The ad reads, you are lagging a few billion years behind in evolution because your bikini line isn't perfect. I'd prefer a realistic, colorful, Andy Warhol lineup of hairy to non-hairy vaginas with a caption along the lines of:

Shave, or don't shave. 

Wax, or don't wax. 

Do whatever the frick you want. And do it for yourself. 

My Dulcinea

I bought a picture once off a man on top of a mountain in Mexico. It was on old yellowish paper and showed an old man on a horse, charging at a windmill with his spear. It's one of the items I always pack with me no matter where I go.

My love for Don Quixote started when a dear friend of mine gave me the Man of La Mancha soundtrack back in high school. I had been given a record player with no records, so this was the first one I received. It was old, it was scratched, and it was beautiful. I listened to the whole thing while knitting in my room and crying. Yeah, I knit and played records when I was sixteen. Be jealous.

I've always seen myself a little more manly on the inside than maybe most girls (see previous entries) but God Almighty, I wanted to be the next Quixote. If you want to know why, just watch this.

If a nine minute clip from the 70s was too much for you, I'll explain. Don Quixote was a man who read so many books about being a hero, he decided to become one. He loses his mind a bit and claims to be a knight. During his journeys of fighting windmills and stealing shaving basins, he encounters a prostitute named Aldonza. She is the most beautiful woman he has ever laid eyes on, and he calls her my lady and swears to protect her. He refuses to call her Aldonza, as that name is beneath her, and dubs her Dulcinea. He sings,

Dulcinea...Dulcinea...

I see heaven when I see thee, Dulcinea,

And thy name is like a prayer

an angel whispers...

Dulcinea, Dulcinea!

I know musical theatre isn't for everyone, but stay with me. Throughout the story, we see this woman hates her life. She is abused and raped. She believes she is nothing and noone, and can't stand this crazy man coming in and telling her she's better than what she is because she knows it isn't true.

And yet, it changes her.

I heard this musical and decided I wanted to be a Don Quixote. I wanted to see the beauty and heroism in the world, even if it meant I was a little crazy. I wanted to show people what they were worth. I wanted to tell all the Aldonza's that they were really Dulcineas.

Then life came along and turned me into an Aldonza. I had never really identified with her before some experiences that happened. Experience that made me feel just as low and worthless and angry as she did. I wasn't an imaginary hero anymore. I was a very real damsel in distress.

But Don Quixote came along, in one form or another, and managed to convince me otherwise. I could go back to dreaming the impossible dream again, reaching the unreachable star. 

We need more Don Quixote's and Dulcinea's out there. Men and women who believe in themselves, believe in the impossible, believe in each other. Be a hero for someone today. Be a heroine for yourself. You're not Aldonza anymore, or even the crazy guy that stayed in his house reading books. Go out fighting windmills and really live for a while. Let me know how it goes.