I don't think it's what you think...

MRA's are always fond of making this big giant deal about how feminism is supposedly to blame for the men of this generation having no direction or whatever. This guy isn't one, but he's basically saying the same shit.

But this is the thing- I don't think it's all that bad. Like he said, we're all probably going to live until 90 or something- who the fuck wants to settle down and be an adult for like, that many years? Especially when you don't have to. Hell, maybe this generation will be less prone to the whole midlife crisis thing because we actually got it out of our systems. It doesn't seem to me that anyone really wanted to go out and be an adult back in the day either, but shit, that was just what you did because you had to.

I have to tell you, I watch these things, and my first instinct is "Those assholes! How dare they prematurely reject me because I went to an Ivy League school and play ice hockey! (watch the video for that part to make sense) How dare they think I have to "need" them or whatever. Dudes suck!"

But then, um, it occurs to me- I don't know anyone who actually thinks that way. Do you? I mean, honestly, I think we're now more focused on "want," rather than "need"- which I think is better. I'd prefer someone want me rather than need me, and I think it goes both ways. I think that now, people are doing what they want to do, rather than falling into some life that society tells them they should have- and that's pretty cool. I mean, I don't know one single guy who has ever, ever said "Oh, I just want my wife to stay home and make babies! And need me constantly for absolutely everything!" I mean, I think a lot of it is that there are these older men who grew up when that was just the way, and assume that younger guys are absolutely freaked the fuck out over the fact that it's not- causing them to, uh, drink, watch porn and play video games?

I don't see this as a crisis. I just don't. I mean- fuck it, everyone's confused. It's not just a guy thing, it's a human thing. And if a dude has a problem with the fact that you went to an Ivy League school and play ice hockey (and therefore don't need him!), then he's a douche and you don't want him anyway. It's called culling the herd. You should thank him for being coming out as a douche so promptly, instead of faking it for god knows how long, forcing you to find it out for yourself. Think of the time you would have wasted! Chalk it up as a bullet dodged.

I don't know- sure, the ladies and I joke about how every dude we know is like, in his mid-thirties, collecting action figures and trying to be a rock god. But I don't think it's that big of a deal, really. It's not like I'm doing anything better. I'm writing a blog! And sure, I've heard from my guy friends on occasion that the fact that I'm especially independent and, um, maybe something of a know-it-all can be off putting to guys who aren't as sure of themselves.

But, at the end of the day- you have to think to yourself "shit, would I want that guy anyway?" And I wouldn't. I'd much rather be alone than fake it for the mere privilege of being with some asshat. And the fact that I'm cool with that, is a really awesome byproduct of feminism.

Oh hell to the no...

I just read that Eddie Murphy plans on doing a movie version of Fantasy Island in which he plays Mr. Roarke, and, of course, other multiple roles- one of which will no doubt involve a fatsuit. Ugh.

It was announced like a year ago or whatever, but I just found out because I was reading the wikipedia entry for the show. What? It's my favorite! Yesterday we watched an episode where Mr. Roarke battled with a totally flaming Satan played by Roddy McDowell, and mindfucks him into giving this chick her soul back (she sold it to save Adam West's life!). So glorious. Especially the part where Ricardo Montalban says "I guess you could say... I am in love with love." Seriously, say it out loud in the voice and you'll know what I mean.

Yay! My friend is no longer in a Chinese prison!

Ok, so I was just about to write a thing about how my old friend Jeff Rae was in a Chinese prison, and how, ya know, that kinda sucks, and I was going to tell you all to call some legislators and stuff... but I just checked the website (beijing6.org) for info, and they've been released! So yay!

This is going to be a week or so of insanity...

Cripes.

So, today I have to clean my room, do some laundry and get some financial aid stuff figured out, tomorrow I work and then Allen and I are going to the Venus Magazine party for good times, free rum, and of course to promote the show- which we do merely by existing. I've gotta go shopping for prizes sometime this week, and also come up with trivia questions- which is tougher and more time consuming than you'd think. There's Panic on Friday, and then on Sunday, of course, we've got the show. Then my parents are coming to visit for a week. I've also got boy issues galore all over the place, which is- sigh- obnoxious.

BTW- Come to my fucking show! Sunday Night Sex Show! This Sunday! At The Burlington! 7:30pm!

Girlcrush!

Sarah Haskins, the ladies of the maxi pad have spoken, and we have decided that you must be our new bff. We would like to buy you a cocktail and some delicious yogurt. Because we're women.





and the new one! Eee!

Bouef Bourguinon

It was recently revealed that during WWII, Julia Child was a spy. I know, not merely because I read it, but because pretty much everyone I know called me to inform me of this. Why?

Because those people who are lucky enough to know me well have heard the tales of my childhood obsession with Julia.

It was kinda weird, I guess. I didn't really watch much TV as a kid- I didn't have the patience for it or something maybe- I was totally ADD and didn't much care for any activity that didn't involve me talking. But when Julia was on... I sat there hyp-mo-tized, wearing my Mister Potatohead glasses, watching her methodically chop onions. And I was not to be interrupted. She was on right after Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. Which I did not much care for, as I found them rather patronizing (Near? Far? Yeah, I think I've got that, thanks.). But Julia didn't talk down to me. She totally assumed my mom let me near knives and the oven. She assumed I knew some French words. She assumed I had dinner parties and drank sherry, or even knew what sherry was.

I tried to be just like her. There is video footage of me at age three making a sandwich involving chopped carrots and cheese and talking about boeuf bourguinon in a Julia Child voice. I really, really liked to say boeuf bourguinon in that voice, and whenever anyone asked me what my favorite food was, I would insist that that was it, even though I had no idea what the hell it was.

I also once made my mother walnut soup. Which consisted entirely of unshelled walnuts in lukewarm water. It serves as a testament to my mother's unyielding devotion that she actually ate it.

At my pre-interview for kindergarten, they asked me what my favorite show was, and, of course I said Julia Child, quickly lapsing into my best impression of her. I forget what else I said, but afterwards they informed my mother that while I was "precocious," I was going to have horrid social problems, and that she should prepare herself for the next few years. They were right, but still- what did they have against Julia?

At the end of the year, they gave us one of those assessment tests. I had one of the highest scores, and my teacher reccomended they send me to a special "camp" called College Gate. College Gate wasn't camp- there were no kayaks or sing-alongs involved. It was like school, except you got to pick your own courses. I picked sign language, paper mache, some sort of English course involving writing haikus, and, of course, cooking. I totally had to fight my mother on this, because she wanted me to take more academic type courses. Which makes sense, because it probably cost a lot of money, whereas I could probably take cooking lessons at the Y for cheap. But I insisted, and I won. And I made fresh spaghetti, and ravioli, and shishkabobs, and pizza, and french fries, and it was awesome.

You should also know that I totally won the "camp's" invention contest! I made a paper dress (with notations on it such as "Spill some Kool-Aid? Cover it up with a paper flower!" and "Add paper ruffles for flair!" It's actually still in my parents basement if you ever want to see it.

As I grew older, I grew out of my Julia obsession I guess. Around third grade I got really conflicted about liking to cook/being a feminist, and sort of stopped it. It sounds stupid now- obviously I can cook and still, you know, want equal rights- but I generally rejected anything vaguely connected with what women were "supposed to do." I was young and strident- what can I say?

I've still never eaten bouef bourguinon, but it kinda warms my heart to know that Julia was such a bad ass.

There never was a woman like Gilda...

Gilda is on the TCM OnDemand thing right now. It's pretty much the best movie ever, so you should probably watch it if you have cable.

I wonder if McCain has a pickled Abba turd hidden away somewhere...

I'm totally serious, I think he does. Blender gets Obama and McCain to list their favorite songs (with comments on the site from Girl Talk and my boyfriend Randy Newman)

JOHN McCAIN
1. Dancing Queen - ABBA (Do you know what this does to my head? All I can picture is John McCain's head on Toni Collette's body, just twirling and twirling around in a room filled with pictures of ABBA.)
2. Blue Bayou - Roy Orbison (Eh. It's a good song. I have nothing bad to say)
3. Take a Chance On Me - ABBA ("Now that I'm running for president, my life's just as good as an ABBA song!")
4. If We Make It Through December - Merle Haggard (Would have been so much more awesome if it was "Hello Darlin')
5. As Time Goes By - Dooley Wilson (Whatever, John McCain. I bet you don't have a Humphrey Bogart action figure. Which I totally do.)
6. Good Vibrations - The Beach Boys (I don't like having things in common with you, John McCain)
7. What A Wonderful World - Louis Armstrong (Blah, blah, blah...)
8. I've Got You Under My Skin - Frank Sinatra (Easy)
9. Sweet Caroline - Neil Diamond (Going for the fratboy vote... but does he know that it was written about Caroline Kennedy?)
10. Smoke Gets In Your Eyes - The Platters (Really? The Platters version? You must be kidding me. Dinah Washington's rendition is far superior.)

BARACK OBAMA
1. Ready or Not- Fugees
2. What's Going On- Marvin Gaye
3. I'm On Fire Bruce- Spingsteen
4. Gimme Shelter- Rolling Stones
5. Sinnerman- Nina Simone
6. Touch the Sky- Kanye West
7. You'd Be So Easy to Love- Frank Sinatra
8. Think- Aretha Franklin
9. City of Blinding Lights- U2
10. Yes We Can- will.i.am

Good lord. I get it. It's not even worth multiple comments. You're totally inspirational, Barack Obama! Wow! Oh, and way to pick a song about yourself. It kills me that you are just so that guy. I'll bet anything that your yearbook quote was the whole Robert Frost thing about the stupid roads diverged in the woods. You totally remind me of this guy I dated when I was 17 who told me that my karmic path had led me to him for enlightenment. Because he was totally deep and wrote poetry, and I was a failure at life for liking "Breakfast at Tiffany's." That guy was an asshat. Don't be that guy.

'Cosmopolitan' Institute Completes Decades-Long Study On How To Please Your Man

My apathy extends even to invisibility cloaks

http://www.reuters.com/article/scienceNews/idUSN1029418920080810?feedType=RSS&feedName=scienceNews

Scientists are like, one step closer to creating invisibility cloaks. Which will of course aid in the war against the deatheaters...

So, of course, I think to myself- "Gee, Robyn, what would you do if you were invisible?"

If Clay Aiken were invisible, he would just watch you in your room. Which would be totally horrifying. Seriously, these are the things nightmares are made of. I don't care if he's not getting off- it's just weird.

But me, I honestly don't know what I'd do. Maybe I have no imagination- but mostly I think it's that I really have no reason to spy on anyone. It's not like there's anyone where I'm like "Gee, I'd sure like to see them naked, so much so that I would don an invisibility cloak to do so!" I mean, quite frankly, I'm pretty sure I could just like, ask or something if it were all that much of an issue, though I can't imagine why it would be.

I don't really want to spy on anyone- I mean, I already know way too much about other people's lives anyway. I always figure that if someone doesn't want you to know something, you probably don't want to know it yourself.

Sigh. Ideas?

An unbelievably tragic tale...

As I was walking through West Fest... I noticed that a brand new vintage store had opened up just a few doors down from me- which, a) is awesome, and b) is terrible... you know, for my wallet and all, considering my penchant for dresses and the fact that I really shouldn't be buying anything until I get rid of the shit ton of clothes I need to get rid of.

I try on several super cute dresses... the cutest of all being a glorious, glorious, glorious Chloe dress- which is so mod, and gorgeous, and just like, my freaking dream dress. It's navy blue, with like, a cute sailor type neckline with ruffles and a tie thingy hanging down, and ruffles on the hemline! And the skirt part is tight and the top part is blousy, which is like, my favorite dress cut ever... It is everything I have ever dreamed about in a dress and more, and it fit perfectly.

And it was only 100 dollars. 100 dollars! For vintage couture! For fucking glorious, Lagerfeld era Chloe. Not See by Chloe. Chloe. Motherfucking Chloe for 100 dollars. Could you just die?

But then the salesgirl tells me... there's a reason it's only 100 dollars...

And on the ass, there are like, weird greyish faded areas. I couldn't even wear it at night.

Not fair. Not even a little bit fair. Very few things in my life have been less fair.

But there is hope! I have heard of a magical tailors/cleaners place on Oak St. that can supposedly work miracles. I'm going to call them tomorrow and see if there is anything they can do about it.

A girl can always dream, right?

Sometimes nothing can be a real cool hand to play

Oh my god... I just read that Paul Newman may only have a few weeks to live! How devastating! I will totally cry- in fact, I might cry now. You never know- read the previous post, I'm in that sort of mood. I totally love him. He's basically the reason I'm perpetually single. Not like, because I'm holding out for him, but because when compared to Paul Newman, every dude out there is just worlds and worlds of terrible. No one can beat him. I mean, your standards are going totally different if you had a crush on him as a kid as opposed to John Cusack or something. Any idiot can pull of stalking and moping and being "conflicted." It doesn't require much effort or intelligence- and if that impresses you, you've got quite the plethora of douchetastic asshats to pick from. But to be like, simultaneously retardedly hot, and tough as shit, and into saving the world... the man is the worlds greatest argument in favor of cloning, and the reason for the word dreamy. He can make organic salad dressing, rank 19th on Nixon's enemy list, race cars, ooze class and sex from every pore, and kick your ass to a bloody pulp. Paul Newman is what my parents refer to as a "stand up guy." Outside of my father and two of my uncles, and this one kid in elementary school who used to stick up for me when I was getting picked on, I have never known another specimen.

Alas.

Death eating a cracker/ halfway delirious

My whole world is totally vagtastic. I'm surrounded by other chicks both at work and at home, which would be totally swell with the exception of the fact that it totally fucks with my uterus. Seriously. Right now, I am batshit crazy, and I am not supposed to be batshit crazy for another two weeks. I am supposed to have another two weeks of delightful sanity and good skin, I am supposed to have another two weeks where I can go shopping and like something. But no, tonight I went to Akira, and Untitled, and American Apparel, and Urban Outfitters and found nothing. The only thing I considered was a shiny purple miniskirt which I have no reason to wear ever and would probably look like a hooker were I to attempt it. It's probably for the best, because it was from AA, and Dov Charney makes me feel a bit nauseated, so I don't really want to support anything he does, even if the clothes are cute and sweatshop free. I mean, I'd feel the same way if Joe Francis made like, the best peanut butter ever (better than the kind with honey in it, which I love more than life and often eat with a spoon)- I would not eat that peanut butter. I was raised on the boycott diet as a child, and did not eat grapes or orange juice for most of my early years.

I digress. I want an oatmeal cookie. More than I have ever wanted anything ever. But not a regular oatmeal cookie from a box, one from a bakery. I hate hard cookies.

The ladies want to go out. I don't think I can do it. I'm likely to lose my temper, or be so lost in my head that I can't formulate a sentence properly, and being someone with little else to offer the world but wit and logic... this can be awfully frustrating.

Yesterday was strange...

I guess it started getting strange when I found myself blanking out in the cheese section of Dominick's for five minutes while "To All The Girls I've Loved Before" played overhead. Which is less awkward, actually, than when they play Kelly Clarkson's "A Moment Like This" when I'm buying yogurt and box wine at 1am in pajama pants with my hair pulled into lopsided pigtails. It's happened, and it's kind of depressing.

Most of it was spent in the living room with Nicole, watching every episode of Fantasy Island available on the OnDemand, followed by every episode of The Facts of Life. Little known fact about me, I love me some Fantasy Island. Seriously, it's like, my favorite thing ever. Ricardo "Fine Corinthian Leather" Montalban and a midget fucking with people's dreams and then totally solving all their problems? Sign me up!


I want to put Ricardo Montalban in charge of my life, I feel like he knows better than I do. I have ideas about how my episode would go, but I'll save that for another time. Because by the time we got halfway through the episode of The Facts of Life where Blair's father uses her for tax evasion, the Emergency Broadcast System sounded.

I have never seen it actually used before. Like, ever. Usually it's "only a test." At first all the tornado warnings were for places that sounded far away... but when we heard Humboldt Park, we started freaking the fuck out. Jen thought it wasn't any big deal until we heard the siren go off. We scrambled to get the cats in their carriers and hauled ass down to the basement. It was totally like some ridiculous horror movie. Nicole was so freaked out that she dropped the wine on her way down the stairs. We stayed there for like, 45 minutes, watching the rain pour in, almost flooding the place, until it finally, slowly started seeping away into the drain.

I was fucking terrified. It seems like everyone we know had like, no problem with the whole thing. We were the only ones in the basement. But, fuck, at the end of the day, I don't give a shit. Something on my TV beeps at me and tells me to get to the basement, I go. I haul ass. I have no illusions about weather being my friend.

We had planned to go to Evil Olive last night with Kris, my best friend from High School, who came up from Florida to go to Lollapalooza. Instead, after the rain died down, we just picked her up at her hotel and spent the evening with The Golden Girls and some box wine. Having Nicole, and Jen and Kris all together in one car, or apartment or whatever is like my own personal episode of This is Your Life, because it's like- all my closest friends from various points on the Robyn timeline. And it's kind of awesomely weird, and shit, if I'm going to ride out a tornado, there aren't any other bitches I'd rather be with.