In Defense of the Princesses

In the LA Times yesterday, Rosa Brooks wrote a fiery little opinion piece on the dangers of Disney Princess. “Resist the princesses!” she implores the Mothers of America – they’re the antifeminists without strong maternal relationships and they will brainwash your children!

Start with some light feminist analysis. It will not have escaped you, Mothers of America, that Disney princesses -- Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty and the rest -- rarely slay dragons, play sports, pilot jets or do open-heart surgery. Instead, they fiddle with their coiffures, linger over invitations to the ball, flee ineffectually from evil crones and swoon.

You don't have to be Gloria Steinem to realize that these are not, for the most part, useful professional skills in today's world. So I was not thrilled when my 3-year-old informed me, over lunch, that she wants to be "a pwincess" when she grows up, and I was unhappier still when her 6-year-old sister expressed a similar ambition.

"Girls," I said, "you can do anything when you grow up! You can be scientists or ski instructors or hedge fund managers -- I beg you, be hedge fund managers. Why would you want to be passive, anorexic princesses?"

They looked at me as if I had gone mad. "Because princesses wear pretty dresses, Mama," they explained.

Oh, Rosa. I’d look at you like you’d gone mad, too. Your daughters are three and six and you’re encouraging them to be hedge fund managers? No. Let’s move away from Disney Princesses for a moment (but not too far away!): haven’t you ever seen Pretty Woman? Hedge fund managers don’t make anything except money, and lately they’re not doing that very well, at least not with their scruples intact. And let me tell you firsthand that working at a hedge fund, even Nice Hedge Fund, is killing my creative soul one day at a time. I would never wish that upon my daughters.

Ms. Brooks would probably say that I’ve been brainwashed, too. While I agree with the critics that grown women who want to act out their favorite Disney Princess fantasy for their fairytale wedding are absurd, don’t crush your little girls’ dreams just yet. Pop in the DVD of The Princess Bride and introduce them to a world where Princess Buttercup is not only beautiful but also smart and strong. Read them Still Life with Woodpecker (with a little editorializing over the sexy parts) and show them a fairy tale where the princess has to rescue herself from herself and Prince Charming is just a toad. Please.

When I’d announce, like the author’s young daughters, that I planned to be a princess as a future career, MomOh made no effort to stifle my imagination. Instead she and DadOh encouraged every ridiculous occupation to which I aspired because – now listen very closely, Rose – they knew I’d eventually grow up and find my best path. Look, let your kids be kids and wear their tiaras proudly. If they’re anything like me (or if you’re anything like MomOh in the parenting department, which I highly doubt), they’ll turn out just fine. Who knows, maybe they'll strike a happy medium between feminism and fairy tale so they can play sports and enjoy pedicures! Sure, they’ll wear a sparkly birthday princess tiara at the bar on their 24th birthday, but maybe they’ll work a secure, well-paying job with good benefits for two years before going off to pursue whatever ridiculous dream career they’ve finally decided upon (writer).

And their residual love for Disney Princesses will only manifest itself through the occasional purchasing of Aurora, Cinderella, Belle, and Ariel chapstick at the drug store and the lingering belief that Someday My Prince Will Come.

Easter Egg Hiking

Happy Easter Monday, lovers! Did the Easter Bunny bring you lots of candy? Hooray, Lent is over and I can drink beer again! That was a toughie to give up, though I surely benefited from the decreased empty-calorie and alcohol intake these past forty days.

Shhh, don’t tell God that I didn’t go to church yesterday. Instead I went hiking with two of my girl friends at Breakneck Ridge in Cold Spring, NY, about an hour drive outside of the city. Now, I haven’t been hiking since my Girl Scout days, but I loved those summers of sleep-away camp what with all the living in cabins and peeing in latrines and tromping through the woods. So when S and J invited me on this day trip, I jumped at the chance to be a little nature-y and adventurous. It was awesome in the truest sense of the word! We climbed huge mountains, did some rock scrambling, and of course got hopelessly lost in the woods at one point. What was supposed to be a four hour hike turned into nearly seven hours, and by the time we returned to sea level our legs were shaking from exhaustion (and a little fear, we climbed really high and had to come back down!). Afterwards, we went out to dinner at a cute restaurant in the town and each inhaled an entire pizza. We must have had “city folk” written all over us because everyone in the place kept staring at us – or maybe it was just because we were filthy, guzzling water as fast as the busboy could refill our glasses, and dressed in workout gear in a restaurant on Easter Sunday!

I had a wonderful long weekend full of cycling and hanging out with friends, but hiking was really the highlight. I’m hooked, and I can’t wait to go again when the weather gets warmer and our bodies have recovered.

And you know what? I felt way closer to God and myself while admiring the breathtaking view at the top of the mountain than I ever could have in a church. Oh shit, I’m becoming a tree-hugger!

You Know, Like the River in Egypt

So I’ve been thinking a lot these days about Love and Relationships because, well, I’m not IN either of them. It’s the No Boyfriend in 2008 pact, and I’ve hung onto my “single” status on Facebook for over two months now! This is something of a record stretch in recent years, as many of you well know. And no, the pact isn’t some girlie master cleanse because I’m SO Over Guys and I Just Need to Be on My Own for a While, it’s more like I Don’t Know Where I’m Going to Live After My Lease Ends In June. Unless divine forces intervene to bump me up from the waitlist I probably won’t be in New York City, so starting a relationship now feels a bit foolish. But you know, if the dude is really hot and fun and all-around perfect for me, the pact has a specific opt-out clause. Anyway.

The impetus for all this annoying thinking is rather simple: my ex-boyfriends are haunting me. Did the support group suggest they all seep back into my life as step 9 of the healing process? Fuck, they’re everywhere lately. They’re in my running class. They want to hang out and catch up. They’re moving back to New York and want to grab drinks. They’re in the neighborhood and how about breakfast? And I go! I agree to these olive branch excursions, the platonic lunches and the museum visits, and we have fun. Girl friend DC thinks I’m nuts, and even MomOh is skeptical about staying in contact with exes. Have I compartmentalized these relationships to the point where I can isolate the friendship quotient and drop the romantic remainders like elementary division? And is this even healthy?

I generally believe that keeping a friendship (or at the very least a friendly connection) is important whenever possible. Don’t burn bridges, you never know what the future will bring, blah blah blah. Sure, a friendship is not always possible and at the very least takes some time to establish after the heartbreak heals (ahem, R), but some of my ugliest breakups have turned into valuable friendships. There’s P – we split four years ago in what takes the cake as my messiest break up to date, but he still nails my music taste when he sends me cool new songs to check out. And T – we can still chat easily about running and triathlons and we’re genuinely happy that the other is doing well. So I’m sticking to my guns here and if it feels okay, it must be okay. Right?

Then there is this other little nagging thought, the one about missing people. See, I’m not so good at it. I have this piss-poor memory and I’m visual to a fault (seeing is believing; eyes on the prize; out of sight, out of mind; etc.). Sure, I've said "I love you" a handful of times, and in each case I believed it, meant it. But after, when the feelings fizzle and fade as they always have, doubt creeps in and I'm not so sure anymore. Was it Love or Lust or heartburn or worse, nothing at all? Maybe I've been cavalier with love, but missing someone in that can't-wait-to-throw-my-arms-around-him way, well that I'm certain about. So when I do actually miss someone, the feeling broadsides me and simply saying, “Whoa, I wish he would come back from his trip” isn’t really an adequate response. Instead I’m forced to admit to myself (ever the blind referee in the game of Emotions) that perhaps what I’m actually IN is Denial.

I'm Only Happy When It Raiinnnnss

Disregarding the current economic climate, however briefly, Nice Hedge Fund hosted a delightful Health and Wellness fair in the big conference room today. The subject line of the email that HR sent around to all employees read: Do you know your BMI number? One unfortunate woman accidentally hit “reply all” before writing back, “Don’t know and don’t want to know either!” and then tried to recall the message. (According to the dude who took these measurements, I have the lowest BMI of all the women tested at Nice Hedge Fund. Nothing like a little body fat analysis to get my competitive juices going!) So D and I headed down there around noon to poke around before our lunches arrived. I expected the same sort of dinky health fair that Overpriced Private University held regularly where the best giveaways were a Bic pen, a condom, and a pamphlet listing the signs of alcoholism. Not so! The stations were surprisingly interesting and varied, from blood pressure testing to Bikram yoga information. I got a Nalgene bottle from a physical therapist, a Crest Spinbrush from a local gym, and tons of good pocket food for cycling. Hooray for free crap at work!

More than a little concerning were the results of my cholesterol test. I consider myself a relatively healthy eater, but it looks like I need to try a bit harder. I say this after inhaling a huge, delicious Rice Krispy treat…maybe I can start being healthier tomorrow. Oh, right, I love cookies. And cake. And ice cream nom nom nom. It’ll be fine! I’ll just buy a box of Cheerios because that’s what television tells me to do for high cholesterol! Or maybe I’ll make an appointment with my real doctor instead relying on the traveling finger-prickers hired by Nice Hedge Fund. Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.

Tonight is going to be insanity – it’s the first session of a new running class. The spring session is always a bit more crazed than its winter counterpart as everyone signs up for April and May races and then realizes they’re out of shape. And don’t forget about bathing suit season, yikes! I’m counting down the minutes until I can pack up my winter coats and unearth my flip-flops. I’ve never been so certain about my self-diagnosed seasonal affective disorder as this past winter. Everything is coming up roses for me lately – new Life Plan that’s actually coming true, new laser-shooting eyeballs, new friends and crushes – but I feel like I’m staving off celebration until the warm weather arrives. We’re past the midpoint of March, but the forecast reads 37 degrees and rainy for this evening. Come on, Sunshine, I want to have some fun!

Watch Your Back, Loud Guy

Loud Guy, you’re on notice.

It started way back in the summer when I was tanned and freckle-faced and the novelty of having a new job hadn’t yet worn off. Back then it was your ex-girlfriend, the charming lady with a mermaid tattooed on the nape of her neck. The volume of your telephonic arguments earned your moniker and with no evidence to the contrary I had to assume that you are a spineless jackass.

It’s been nine and a half months now, Loud Guy, and I’ve gotten to know you. Sure, mostly through unwittingly overhearing your phone conversations, but you’re not such a bad dude. Spineless, yes (first impressions were correct on that one), hapless, sure, but you’re never intentionally rude. You occasionally share your Women's Wear Daily with D and you generously paid for most of the tab when we celebrated C's last day. You just have volume control issues.

But you’re pushing your luck this month, Broski.

I dealt with your apartment search. Heard you talking to brokers, making plans, discussing bathrooms and bedroom sizes. Then the movers, oh, the movers. Negotiating rates, ordering clothing boxes, and making special arrangements for that one work of art you own. Then the furniture ordering, the eighteen calls to Pottery Barn about your bed delivery. Finally, the home theatre installation coordination. I thought we’d get a little break, but I was mistaken.

Next it was subletting your old place. The same spiel over and over again: the iron gate entrance, the Upper West Side charm, the bedroom on the lower level. And every time you shot yourself in the foot with your nervous banter including phrases like “old facilities” and “not a luxury building.” There is no end in sight.

And now this. You traveled this past weekend, flights were botched, late, and missed, and luggage was misrouted. You’ve been on the phone for four days repeating your travel woes to every customer service robot on the other end of misery. Look, lost luggage is a lousy situation, and it sometimes takes a few tries to get a hold of the right person who can help. But Christ Almighty, when you DO get that person on the phone, don’t drop the line to pick up another call because you WILL NEVER get him or her again. You might just be the least competent phone call maker on the planet and if I have to hear one more time about how the flight to Seattle was delayed so you were rerouted to Philly I can’t reasonably be held accountable for my actions. On the third loop of the story this morning I actually had to walk away to avoid saying something regrettable.

This is your final warning, Loud Guy. HR is sucking up to me hard these days because they want me to take on yet another boss (that would bring the tally up to five if you’re keeping track) and I think I could parlay that into a bargaining chip to get you relocated. I hear the Nice Hedge Fund office in Istanbul has some open real estate.

Twenty-Twenty And Then Some

For the first time since I elementary school, I woke up this morning and could read the clock clearly. Of course, the time on the clock told me that I had overslept and was going to be late for my post-op appointment with my eye doctor…I guess some things can’t be fixed with lasers.

I have 20/20 vision! I’m still a little blurry and light-sensitive, and my eyeballs have big red blotches from all the levers and pulleys they used to pry my lids open, but the surgery went perfectly. I’m wearing sunglasses in my cubicle, I have my watch alarm set to go off every hour so I remember to put drops in my eyes, my eyelashes are glued together and I wasn’t allowed to wash my hair yet so I look pretty gross…but I can see without glasses or contacts!

I’m happy now, twenty-four hours later and mostly recovered, but I was a mess yesterday. The actual surgery freaked the heck out of me and I wanted to leap out of my skin for all seven minutes of it. They gave me a teddy bear to hold on to and I had it in such a tight headlock that I’m surprised we both survived. My doctor had to hold my head still and remind me to breathe the entire time, and I nearly hyperventilated from being so nerve-wracked. For something as serious as having lasers shot into one’s eyes, the procedure was very unceremonious. Afterwards the nurse pumped my swollen eyeballs full of steroids that stung like a bitch, slapped a pair of sunglasses on my face and sent me on my way. In my infinite stubbornness I turned down QZ’s offer to pick me up – I’ll just take a cab home it’ll be fine! Big mistake. Keeping my eyes open (especially outside in the sunlight) was agony and I couldn’t tell if cabs had their light on or not, but I somehow managed to blindly hail one and make my way home to sleep it off. Wearing a pair of oh-so-sexy protective goggles (yes, really), I slept for the entire afternoon, which wasn’t hard to do after fun-filled weekend I had!

There is half of a delicious apple pie in my refrigerator, the perfect souvenir to a great visit from L and her boyfriend S. We never had an actual Team Free Pie reunion – A skipped out on the very cool CD release party we went to in Brooklyn on Friday night. (Probably for the best.) Saturday’s rainstorms sent us to the Museum of Natural History to hang out with the dinosaurs, and on Sunday night we had a big dinner party over at QZ’s apartment/mansion because he actually has a dining room table that can seat more than two people. S and his brother J cooked a fantastic meal: mushroom-stuffed pork wrapped in bacon with an apple glaze, the best mashed potatoes I’ve ever had, and (of course) a blueberry pie for dessert. It was heavenly.

I love the Year of Yes. Best. Idea. Ever.

Must Love Dogs

Recently I confessed my undying love for my newly-acquired, Admin-sanctioned space heater. I intend to blast that sucker until the office manager agrees to set the thermostat above 55 degrees and I don’t see that happening any time soon. But just when I thought my fate was sealed and I’d forever more wear a scarlet A when asked to present my résumé, I remembered another way in which I am not Your Typical Admin. Besides, you know, the whole getting into grad school and quitting in a matter of months thing.

Admins, on the whole, LOVE dogs. They all have stupid little yippie dogs with names like Daphne and Princess and Coco and they speak about them as if they were children. “She’s usually so high-energy but we took her to the park last night and she slept so well through the night!” They forward oh-so-effing-adorable pictures around the office of their puppy wearing a ridiculous outfit (cue the obligatory girl-pitched “AWWWW!!” reaction) and somehow relish retelling the story of how their precious fluffy wuffikins ate their best leather jacket – what a little trouble maker!

I do not like dogs, especially not little yippie ones who have to be carried everywhere and cost more than a month’s rent. The only dogs I have ever liked have been golden retrievers owned by friends and I knew them from puppies. And I’m not very good at faking that “awwww” refrain – I must have skipped that lecture of How to be a Chick 101. The professor probably also covered How Not to Look Like Crap Every Day at Work in that lecture, and I’m destined to fail that section of the midterm at the rate I’m going. Anyway. Dogs for me are like tattoos – I kind of like the idea of them, but having one puts you in a distinct category of people, they’re expensive, and I’m not all that good with commitment. I’ve never had any pet for that matter – even BrotherOh and SisterOh had fish at some point in our childhood, but not me. It’s tempting to blame my romantic blunders on this severe void of animal companionship in my upbringing…but let’s not kid ourselves, my cold, cold heart of stone is the more likely culprit. Instead, owning a dog becomes akin to marriage for me – it’s something that I might have in the future, but I can’t imagine it as a real possibility in my current state/city/apartment/lifestyle.

Where was I? Oh right. I don’t like dogs, but most Admins do. Most Admins also do their hair, wear makeup, and generally look like they at least give a shit about their pointless jobs. Easy just called me from one floor down and asked me to bring him a box of pens. Because surely there are no pens on the trading floor. It's tough to motivate myself to get dolled up for that kind of riveting stimulus.

Two hours until quitting time and then L (of Former Roommate fame) will be here for the weekend! Team Free Pie reunion! But I’m less than thrilled about the reunion including the third (ex-boyfriend) member of the team as it will most likely take EVERY OUNCE of my patience not to smack him at least once tonight. I better start drinking heavily.

I Got Into Graduate School!

YOU GUYS YOU GUYS YOU GUYS!

The letter arrived yesterday in a regular #10 envelope that usually means one thing: REJECTION. I didn’t even tear it open immediately downstairs by my mailbox, like I did with the first rejection letter I received last week. So there I was, sitting in the bathroom with my stack of mail (because I’m a classy broad), expecting to read “Thanks for the sixty bucks, sucker,” when instead my eyes landed on “I am pleased to inform you that we can offer you a place…” Holy shit! (I said, most appropriately), then hurried up to call MomOh to tell her the good news.

I GOT IN. I actually got into an MFA program. All along MomOh has been telling me that I only need one “yes,” and now that I have it I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I’m doing cartwheels on the inside, which is probably for the best given my propensity to klutz. DadOh’s reaction was predictably reserved (“I’m sure you could have gotten into law school, too”), but my friends have all been wonderfully supportive and congratulatory! Of course, I still have ten more programs to hear from in the next few weeks and it would be great to have some options, but the hardest part is over.

Whoa. It’s really happening. I’m going to be a writer…for a living! HOORAY!