A Feminist Listening of Bruno Mars

I drafted this up a while ago and never got around to hitting 'Publish' somehow. So, for a Valentine's Day special, here's a bitter rant on something meant to be romantic...

When one is looking for social truths, one rarely turns to the top 40 pop hits on the radio. After all, we all know that those California Girls can't hold a candle to us Texas gals. But sometimes, on repeated listening, a song just offends my sensibilities so much that I have to rant about it. Maybe it's my Sarah Lawrence education that turns every thought into a thesis, and Lord knows that pesky feminism can be so debilitating in day to day life. But since everyone within earshot is sick of hearing about it, it's time to pester the blogosphere.

After just a few times hearing Bruno Mars' song 'Just the Way You Are', the cute catchy song revealed some slightly unnerving lyrics. Here's my issue: this song perpetuates some really annoying stereotypes about the way girls are supposed to act. Even while it seems to be uplifting, it is in fact rather patronizing. Let's break it down.

Right in the first verse, there's her hair. It 'falls perfectly without her trying.' Because beauty isn't beauty if you know that she used her Chi and doesn't actually wake up perfectly quaffed. But a minor infraction, you say. Perhaps I'm being a bit to nitpicky.

Fine. So explain the fact that when he compliments her she won't believe him? That doesn't seem a little strange? Sure, he says it's sad. But kind of like a pleading puppy dog's eyes are sad. Low self-esteem is such a turn on. In girls, at least. Who cares if she's apparently constantly asking him if she looks okay. Better that than a confident girlfriend who doesn't rely on your lyrical hyperbole to feel attractive.

And then there's her laugh. It's so sexy. But she hates it. Am I cynical to think that part of the reason it's sexy is that very fact that she hates it? Again, why is it so important that every attractive feature be followed by her own negation of it? After all, if she didn't need you to tell her she was beautiful every day, maybe she wouldn't need you at all.

When I think of the girl in this song, I imagine that classic Hollywood cliche where the suave gentleman pulls the glasses off of his secretary and has her shake out her hair, proclaiming in surprise that she's beautiful. And she, of course, can't believe it either. Her beauty is dependent on his viewing of it, almost as much as it is dependent on her disinterest in it. After all, if she cared, suddenly she would be a vain seductress. No, there must be innocence and naivete to match the sparkling eyes and shiny hair.

I'm sorry, but this is really not that cute. It doesn't make me think that Bruno Mars is the sweetest guy and would make the nicest boyfriend. It makes me think that he's yet another media outlet telling me and every other girl to shut up and look pretty. Pretty, of course, as judged by boys. Not yourself. You have nothing to do with it.

No Dewey Decimals Here

There is a terrible truth which I have been avoiding for a few months now, but must be faced. Much as I would like to simply forget and hope for the solution to magically put itself into place, it will not be so. Here is the plain and awful fact: I have too many books.

No, that's a lie. You can never have too many books. There are even books you can never have too many copies off. Which means that actually, I don't have enough bookshelf. I have passed the point where squeezing and strategic arrangement will make them fit, and have at least one shelf's worth of books more than can currently be housed.

And so, I will have to find more room for my books, which more than likely means making room in my room for another shelf. And that is only the beginning of a very serious and personal process. Because anyone who collects books like Halloween candy (and enjoys a similar high from digesting their loot) and harbors that strange sense of organization that never seems to translate into actually keeping things clean but likes to arrange things just so...well, they are bound to have their own way of organizing things. And it's not by Dewey Decimals.

Unlike my CDs, which used to be organized alphabetically (before they were imported into iTunes and boxed up), and my DVDs, which are alphabetized after separating film from TV, my books are much more artistically arranged by subject and when I read them. There are several shelves of school reads which were memorable enough (but not too traumatic) to make a permanent place in my heart. A little further back in time are my collection of extra-curricular young adult books, like Sweet Valley or, on the complete opposite side of the spectrum, Cynthia Voigt. After that, it's mostly fiction versus non-fiction, worthwhile literature versus guilty pleasures. There are a lot of personal choices which have to be made. And aside from accurate placement, it also matters that sections form neat, full shelves rather than spilling onto half of another shelf. Anthony Trollope should not have to touch covers with 'Knocked Out by My Nunga Nungas'.

So there you are. An all-too-disturbing look into the quirks which make everyday activities serious endeavors. It is exhausting being me.

Doctors and Dentists: Nag, nag, nag!

Okay, so I know that it's a health professionals job to make us patients as healthy as possible, promoting all the things we could do better. But seriously, it sometimes feels like all there is is a series of things you HAVE to do to be healthy, and your only reward for doing each one is moving onto the next one.

First, I had my teeth cleaned at the dentist. It had been 9 months rather than 6 since my last visit, mostly because making appointments gets complicated when working retail with about two weeks notice of my schedule. So I guess my teeth were filthy. But anyway, I've been flossing every day for the past few years after being guilted into it by my dental hygienist and the fear that congenital gum disease might strike me down.

The problem is, apparently just flossing isn't enough, because she doesn't always believe me. As she was cleaning my teeth, she told me, in the nicest way possible, that since I was a writer, I should write down to floss everyday. I said that I do, but I guess not hard enough. So she told me to make sure to catch the back teeth. Seriously, though? It's annoying to floss your teeth every single night, no matter how late it is or how tired you are. To hear that despite improving your habits, there's little difference made, that's pretty freaking discouraging. However, I'm still flossing.

Then later this week I had a doctor's visit. I went into it feeling pretty good, ready to show off my continued weight loss. And things did go well. For the one day. The next morning, I got a voicemail about my blood work. Apparently my cholesterol is high, so I've been instructed to start taking fish oil supplements to bring it down.

Aside from being downright unappetizing (belches that taste like fish are apparently the most common side-effect), fish oil has calories. With the dosage they gave me (the maximum recommended, by the by), it could be up to 100 calories a day in pill form. Now, I just cut my calorie intake by more than half over the past year or so, I'm not about to make further cuts to make room for another pill based on one blood test that I didn't even fast for (which you normally do).

After a little mental and emotional breakdown, I got my physician's assistant to call me back, negotiated a lower dosage, and sullenly agreed to add another pill to pop nightly. If anyone has any advice on taking fish oil without gross side-effects, give me a shout-out. Also, I then had to decide on an even lower dose because when I got to H-E-B, the capsules all came in dosages that didn't match. Because it's not just about lowering cholesterol, it's also about testing math skills every time you take it.

I know this is a rant, and I'm lucky to be so relatively healthy. But it just seems like, despite all the things I have done to make myself healthy are met with the short term congratulations, and the long term return to that darn list. It feels like you aren't allowed to live at a certain point, in order to extend your lifespan. What comes after flossing with the force of a drill and downing fish oil? Are they going to tell me that knitting is in fact cavity-causing? Or will they forcibly curb my television-watching time? Because you can take my mac and cheese, but I'm not giving up Tim Gunn!

This is a Public Service Blog Post

Okay, I know this isn't a very interesting topic, but it's one I've come across often enough that I have to speak out: People, you need to stop not signing your credit cards.

Every time someone uses a credit card to pay for a purchase at work, I have to ask to see the card to approve the signature. But very quickly, I learned that asking for the card doesn't help with the task, and most of the time I also need a driver's license. The reason I need that identification? People don't sign their cards, apparently to prevent thieves from being able to copy their signature after stealing the card. I find it hilariously disturbing that they don't realize that leaving that space blank means that they don't need to go to the trouble of copying the signature, they can just make one up themselves.

So please, if you don't want to sign your card, I understand. But for the love of credit theft, put 'Check ID' in that blank space. That way whoever has your wallet has to go to a lot more trouble to have a spree at the mall.

There, I feel better now.

Another One for the Rant Files...

I follow the tweets of Roger Ebert, and while that often means a barrage of re-tweets and incomprehensible references, it also means that once in a while, you get a gem of information or entertainment. This morning, as I perused the dozens of accumulated tweets produced by people who stay up later, wake up earlier, or live in another time zone than me. One tweet caught my eye, a re-tweet from Ebert about bloggers not being slaves. Well, how could I resist?

It seems that the Washington Post, like many other newspapers, is looking to expand its online content to stay alive. By creating a local blogging network, they are providing several markets with a directory of blogs, which they find and ask to sign up. The blogger gets their photo and biography on the website, along with a link to every new blog post. They also get to create content for the Post on demand and engage in discussions with other bloggers and editors. But what they really get is nothing.

Sure, there is the prospect of increased traffic from being promoted by Washington Post on their local site, but there's no guarantee, especially since the blogs they choose could easily have more traffic than they do at the moment. Many bloggers write for nothing. It's like volunteer work. You write what you are interested in and take your pay however you can, either from pure satisfaction or Google Ad pennies. But that doesn't work when you know that someone else is looking to line their pockets with your content. If it's worth something to them, it should mean something for you.

You can read the post itself here. He has a really good point about why bloggers shouldn't sell themselves short. It's not just about us. It's about the other writers who have climbed their way to a position that actually gets them paid. If you provide content for free just because other people do, you contribute to circumstances that lead to paid writers getting phased out. For the sake of more page views, you dismantle a whole system of writers getting wages.

It's a diabolical plan, and it's probably working for them for the most part. But I believe in karma, and I believe that value eventually gets its due. So I'm going to end this rant on a positive note. See how we're evolving together?

A Little Unpaid Ranting*

As a part of my continued job search, I scan over the ads of various open positions, including the "gigs" on Craigslist in the area. And I'm just wondering: why is it that, when you're a writer, you're expected to accept unpaid positions with start-up companies for doing straight-up work? I'm pretty sure start-up banks don't wait until they get going to pay the tellers, and construction workers expect compensation for their time whether your building houses a money-maker or a flop. It seems that only "creative" careers can expect to work without compensation until the company they work for makes good.

Sure, a start-up can't pay as much as an established business. They can't afford to. But why should writers get paid nothing to provide the content for a magazine, whether online or on paper. The company which hosts the site still gets paid, and the printers get paid, whether or not there are readers in the end. But the writers, the people providing the actual words, are left to hope that enough funds are produced that they might just trickle on down to us. Doesn't that seem wrong? The point is, it shouldn't matter whether the company is starting out or going on 20 years. Work is work, and it should be compensated as such. Promises and hopes are about as good as Monopoly money, and experience and references only go so far.

Everyone can write. Well, most people can write. And I think it is because of that basic fact that writers are constantly undervalued. Because not everyone can write well, and not just any writing is going to get you the results you are looking for. Why do businesses realize their need to invest in their building, their computers, their accountants, but fail to see the value in words?

*This rant brought to you by Craigslist, and Friday afternoons.

Taking the Shame Out of Guilty Pleasures

Why are there some things we have to apologize for liking? Songs, bands, movies, television shows, books; it seems there is a whole category of pop culture based around making those who consume it feel ashamed of it. Guilty pleasures. I'm sure everyone reading this has one. I'm sure I have more than my fair share. But lately I'm just wondering: what's the point of feeling guilty?

Maybe it's because of my newly mature 23-year-old mind, but I'm starting to think that wasting time worrying about how the world feels about my taste in music, movies and literature is pointless. It seems ironic now that there seems to be just as much power pushing us to like the Top 40 pop singles as there is shaming us if we do. There is precious little middle ground of popular artists who have enough "cred" to be considered worthy of your iPod. I wonder what gets VH1 more ratings: the insane celebrity love shows, or the talking head shows which mock them? There's really no winning. Either you become part of the millions who like the popular, derided as lemmings, or you become the cynic with taste that isn't really allowed to like anything.

And when it comes down to it, what are we ashamed of? Food is the only arena of the guilty pleasure where the base act is necessary to life. We must eat. And so eating a HoHo instead of an apple can rightly bring on some shame just because you could have taken in nutrients that weren't invented in a laboratory (but if it's not a daily habit, there's no need to obsess). But when it comes to the food for our eyes and ears, it's all kind of superfluous. No one starves when they don't read, watch television or listen to music. And so whether you read Jane Austen or Danielle Steel, there's no quantitative difference, and there's nothing physically unhealthy about it. At least you're reading! Sure, PBS documentaries can give your brain synapses a work out, especially when compared to Survivor, but it's still you sitting down and watching television. There are levels of something being a "waste of time," but they aren't hard and fast and they don't lend you a heck of a lot of moral superiority. We're all still lazy, selfish no-good bums when compared to Mother Teresa and wonderful human beings when compared to Adolf Hitler. Everything in between is mostly grandstanding.

The bottom line is this: we all need something to take our minds off of things. We all deserve to indulge in the entertainment of our choice. And no one deserves to feel bad about it.