One time during my freshmen year of college I forgot to do a history paper that was worth 20% of my grade and the teacher didn’t accept late work, so I waited until the professor handed back the papers and angrily asked where mine was. The teacher felt so bad for losing it he let me re-do the entire paper and gave me an A-
So in the past week I’ve become obsessed with Check, Please! Like I can’t stop thinking about it. (Thanks to mamaliza for sharing it with me!)
Written and illustrated by Ngozi Ukazu, it’s the story of Eric Bittle, a figure skater turned freshman college hockey player who also bakes…
This is a major joy-giver for me and I was so meek about sharing it with anyone because it would sting if they didn’t love it too, but they did! And you should also read it if you like things that are cute, funny, or about boys.
I just read all of this in a DAY and you should too - oh man, so fucking great!
I got my hair done today. Is it possible to have a look that is both “cute redhead” and “Linda Belcher from Bob’s Burgers”? If so, I have NAILED IT.
I also realize in situations like that how little I am touched in my day-to-day life. I live in a city of 8 million people, I jostle against them every day on the subway, on the street. But I am somehow in this bubble where no one touches me deliberately, and it’s. Hard. It’s hard, sometimes. I talk about wanting regular massages because it would help my back, my posture, my breathing. But there is a not-small part of me that wants regular massages just to have skin-to-skin contact with another person who is touching me kindly, deliberately, even if I have to pay for the privilege.
A little heavy for a Saturday night, but what can you do?
In other news, I saw “Bayside!” the parody musical about Saved By The Bell tonight, and that was $20 well spent, I must say.
But what all these issues, no matter how gigantically separated an Esquire puff piece and a Tennessee mother’s jailing for meth may seem, reflect back at us: How, in this country, every barometer by which female worth is measured—from the superficial to the life-altering, the appreciative to the punitive—has long been calibrated to “dude,” whether or not those measurements are actually being taken by dudes. Men still run, or at bare minimum have shaped and codified the attitudes of, the churches, the courts, the universities, the police departments, the corporations that so freely determine women’s worth. As Beyoncé observed last year, “Money gives men power to run the show. It gives men the power to define value. They define what’s sexy. And men define what’s feminine. It’s ridiculous.”
It is ridiculous, and I wish we could all tell them how little it matters what they think. Except that of course most women, those who bear the brunt of these assessments, aren’t Beyoncé or Amy Poehler—who, not coincidentally, was on Junod’s list of newly un-tragic 42-year-olds. Instead, they are women who may not be able to pay for Pilates, let alone for day care or contraceptives, who may need but not be able to afford drug treatment, who Esquire would likely still rate as not-hot or more likely not rate at all, but whose fates nonetheless rest in the hands of empowered committees on the general value and status of womanhood in America.
I wish it were different. I wish that every woman whose actions and worth are parsed and restricted, congratulated and condemned in this country might just once get to wheel around—on the committee that doesn’t believe their medically corroborated story of assault, or on the protesters who tell them that termination is a sin they will regret, or on the boss who tells them he doesn’t believe in their sexual choices, or on the mid-fifties man who congratulates them, or himself, on finding them appealing deep into their dotage—and go black in the eyes and say, “I don’t fucking care if you like it.”