The sticker price of lady-dom.

Dude, do we realize how much it costs to be a woman?

Like, cash money, costs to be a woman.  (If you’re going to do it “properly” that is…)

You are supposed to have facials.  Recommended minimum: once a season (cheap=$60+tax+tip). You are supposed to have your nails done (hand and feet).

You’re supposed to remove hair from most of your body.  As by waxing ($75+).  And done the recommended way, that means products for before and products for after. Preparatory gels, exfoliants, “soothing creams”.  Little special loofahs, brushes and scrapers.  Done every 4(ish) weeks.

Those who shave get to experience Venus’ pyramid of extortion and redonculous packaging.  Where replacement razor blades >$20.  (Presumably the prices have gone up to cover licensing of “I’m Your Venus” for the ads).  Or you can bleach (bleaching creme) or burn off (depilatory cream). And then tweeze.

Basic skin care regimes are to include cleansers, toners, and moisturizers.  Some for day and some for night.  Subdivided into formulations each for general body, for feet, for hands, for face, and for eyes.  Probably specific treatments for “problem areas”.  Oh, and one product line for summer (light) and one for winter (heavy).  Plus, of course, your standard masks for once a week (or month… if you want to be ugly).

It’s not enough for women to just have clean teeth.  We (in this case, just like the boys) are supposed to let no pesky enamel stop us from getting them shiny glistening “OH-GOD-MY-EYES-IT-BURNS” white.  So it’s not a toothbrush and some paste, it’s a Tooth Whitening System. Plus touch-up sticks to keep in your purse for post-coffee, and mints for post-coffee breath.

And then the makeup.  It doesn’t start with foundation.  First there is pre-foundation, primer, blemish cover, then foundation, and possibly a powder or tanner to set it.  Special brushes, wands and sponges required for each product.  Mascara, eyeliner, shadow, lipstick/gloss/liner/stain, blush, bronzer.  Then all the junk to get it off again (lotions, creams, gels, pads). You’re wearing makeup every day of course, so that’s a sweet burn rate on these products.

And sun-kissed cousin to the bronzer is the fake tan. Which you can pay to have sprayed on, or airbrushed on, or which you can buy in tubes and apply yourself (with, of course, separate products for face and body). You might need to buy a set of towels and sheets for when you use these as well, as the less expensive ($20) ones may come off your body post-shower/sweat/existing. Daily application for the gradual tanning products, every 1-2 weeks for professionally fake ($50).

“Going grey” isn’t even a thing anymore, and salons pimp dying your hair early and often, telling teens and up that there’s no such thing as a natural hair colour as desirable as dyed.  Pay to have it done in the salon, or save by buying all the products in the store and doing it at home.

In addition to the dye itself (plus separate bleach depending on the colour), you’ll need more towels again (though you may be able to reuse your tanning towels here) and combs and prep gels, and post-dye special shampoos and conditioners, and root touch-up solutions.

Even for the undyed head there are still the deep conditioners, to be used at least once a month, and the styling products and paraphernalia.  Straightening irons, curling irons, blow dryers (with dedicated attachments).  Before-styling lotions, during-styling sprays, post-styling gels/cremes/glosses/wax.

Then the clothes.  Sure, a proper suit for a fella costs $1K plus.  Cry me a freakin’ river.  Women are supposed to dress well, but also change up their wardrobe FOUR TIMES a year.  Min-i-mum.  You thought a once-every-5-years pilgrimage to Hugo Boss hurt? Pfft.

And, of course, the underpinnings to make the clothes possible.  Strapless bras, halter bras, convertible bras, a nude coloured bra, a dark coloured bra. Something with thin/thick straps. Padded to wear under t-shirts.  Something for sports. A whole line of somethings for… entertainment.

Jewelery for casual wear, for office wear, for fancy wear.  Purses for work, for expensive dinners, for relaxed evenings out. Shoes for any and everything (which, naturally, must go with the aforementioned purses).  And then all the bits and pieces you need to make women’s shoes wearable — moleskin, anti-blister sticks, insoles, athletic tape, liners.

I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

Exhausted and poor.  No deal, Unreasonable Social Conventions.  No. Deal.

The importance of narrative

Once upon a time Whedon made a comment about how you always have to give the audience an explanation.

Just a little something.  You don’t have to go into great detail.  It doesn’t have to be elaborate.  It’s just that you can’t leave your audience with empty space where a “because” should be.  “How did they run away so fast?”  “Why didn’t he just use the gun?” “How come that guy didn’t see what happened ?”

Something.  In Whedon-world, he creates universes where usually implausible explanations can be tossed out casually, and will be seen as perfectly sensible.  E.g. They ran away so fast because they were with X, who can mess with time; he didn’t use the gun because his breed of demon is allergic to metal; the guy didn’t see what happened because he was mystically charmed by Y who did it to spite Z (and Whedon will circle back to that about 5 episodes from now).

You gotta give’em something.  Because if you don’t, the audience is going to get stuck in that empty space, that void of explanation, and they’re not going to come with you the rest of the way, to where you want to go with the story.

I’m turning into a fervent believer in the need for an explanation.  Not just in consumable entertainment like movies or TV shows, but in life.   The need for a spot of narrative to get you out of “but-it-just-doesn’t-make-sense”ville.

Allow me to demonstrate with an example.

Let’s say, hypothetically, that you have neighbours.  Troublesome neighbours.  They’re not like, tormenting the dog or spray-painting your car troublesome.   But they are noisy.  Constant, scratching on your brain, knuckling into your eye socket noisy.

As the live studio audience of your life, you wonder, “why?”  You need a character explanation.  It’s too thin to just write them off as “just jerks”.  You gotta thicken it out.

Here’s what I’ve come up with:

They’re having an extended slumber party.

Their parents are out of town for a while (13 months) and they’re so excited that they’ve invited all their friends (thugs) over for refreshing beverages (beer) and to listen to music (gangsta rap).

They don’t want their guests to get bored (wreck their stuff) so they have an exciting list of activities (lifting weights; pimp limping; hacking up lung butter) to keep them entertained. Sometimes things get low-key (toke time) but then afterwards it picks up again (raucous toke-induced laughter).

They get to know one another (“you like bitches?”) and show off their special skills (loitering in communal areas).  They like to let each other see their new outfits (underpants) and the different ways they can wear them (topless).  They stay up late (2AM on a Tuesday) not because they want to wake up the parents (us), but because they’re so excited their friends are over.

See? Now it’s all better, because now it makes sense.  It fits into a bigger picture.  There is both a rhyme (“bros before hos”) and a reason (“…so I was like, I could just be at home on EI”).  God bless you narrative.

*eyetwitch*

Dear Pixar…

Remembering (though I often forget) that Pixar is a subsidiary of Disney…

From NPR:

Dear Pixar, From All The Girls With Band-Aids On Their Knees

by Linda Holmes

Dear Pixar,

This is not an angry letter. It is especially not an angry letter about Up, which I adored. I could have sat in the theater and watched it two more times in a row. I cried, but I also laughed so hard in places that it wore me out.

So I’m not complaining; I’m asking. I’m asking because I think so highly of you.

Please make a movie about a girl who is not a princess.

Of the ten movies you’ve released so far, ten of them have central characters who are boys or men, or who are anthropomorphized animals or robots or bugs who are voiced by and imagined as boys or men. These movies feature women and girls to varying degrees — The Incredibles, in particular — but the story is never “a girl and the things that happen to her,” the way it’s “a boy and what happens to him.”

I want so much for girls to have a movie like Up that is about someone they can dress up as for Halloween, as Anika Noni Rose said about starring as the voice in The Princess And The Frog. Not a girl who’s a side dish, but a girl who’s the big draw.

And I’d really, really like it not to be a princess.

More… 


My people grow potatoes in the fog

Some people go out in the sun and nothing happens.

Some people go out in the sun and tan to a beautiful bronze.

Some people go out in the sun for fifteen minutes, turn lobster red, and sprout piles of new freckles — including some in the formation of a mustache on their upper lip.

Guess which group I belong to?

Actually, to be honest, I belong to a fourth group.  If you’re in the fourth group, you don’t even have to go outside.  You can just say… no, you can just think “hey, it looks nice out, maybe I should sit on a patio” and the back of your neck will blister.

Time to bulk buy the aloe vera.

The Position of “Matthew” is filled.

Canadiana analogy:  So you know in Anne of Green Gables when Anne asks the matron at the orphanage if there are any twins?  As twins are her “lot in life” (<-not said with love)?

Well Matthews are my lot in life.

And it’s only getting worse.  The thing about something being your ‘lot in life’ is that you just acquire more of them as time goes by.  So the longer your life, the larger your lot.

It’s at the point now where when I start a sentence to the husband with “So Matthew…”, that’s as far as I can get before he interrupts with “wait, which Matthew?”

Because you see, I might be referring to my brother, or his husband, or one of two Matthews (at different companies) I currently work with, or more than one additional friend.  There are approximately six Matthews I am /presently/ in regular contact with.

It’s close to the point where I think of them by colour.  Based on the Gmail labels I have associated with them.  There’s light blue Matthew, and sea blue Matthew, and purple Matthew …

BAH!

Dear Fashion

I know that we don’t always get along.  And that I have a lot of hateful things to say about you.

(And they’re all true.)

But the point is, when someone does a good thing, you should tell them.  You should say “you’ve done a good thing (someone)”.

And so, Fashion, I would like to thank you for making tops longer.

After a scant few decades of having everything be just *ugh* a little bit too short, just a couple of inches, just long enough to fit, just short enough to drive you mad tugging at it all day, you are now cutting everything long.  And for that, I thank you.

I know you’re not doing this for me.  I know you’re doing this so that teenagers can wear a sweater and call it a dress.  So that those young things can pull on a tshirt, belt it, and say “I’m ready to go now”.

But you should know that the rest of us, being all gauche in our shirts /and/ pants, appreciate these tshirts and sweaters and cardigans that reach not just to, but past our belt buckles.

I’m sorry… I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

Anyways, thanks Fashion.  Keep up the good work.

Best wishes,

me.

It’s worth being married just for this.

I ‘ate telemarketers.

We’re on the list, we have the stickers, we’ve got the call display.  Short of getting one of those gizmojiggities that automatically disconnect the calls, we’ve pretty much done all we can do.

But every once in a while, you still get a call from “Mkt Probe Canada” and you know, you know you don’t want to take it.

But then they call back.  And call back again.  And call back again.  A few times an evening, for many (many) evenings in a row.  And I say boo.

And eventually I answer.

MKT PROBE:  “Hello, is {husband’s name} there please?”

Me:  “Who is calling please?”

MKT PROBE:  “I’m calling regarding a customer satisfaction survey.”

Me:  “I see, and which company is this with?”

MKT PROBE: “{stammer} Due to {stammer} confidentiality, I cannot reveal that to anyone but {husband’s name}”.

Me: “Ah, well this is HIS WIFE and he won’t be participating in the survey.  Good night.”  {click}

In a household that is almost wholly phone-averse, I am still the one more likely to answer.  Which means it is often me fielding the random calls.  For the many years when we were together but sans labels, I used to trip up in trying to shake them off the line (like so many coke monkeys).  “This is his… partner” just doesn’t have the same BAMness to it.  You could try lying, but as professional liars themselves, they have finely honed detectors, and just push harder.

But “wife”?  Wife has definitiveness.  Wife is the steel-toed boot of phone calls.  You want him, you’re going through me.  All those nasty associations with ‘wife’ have to come in handy sometime.  And apparently that sometime is with telemarketing.

MKT PROBE: “Oop, we’ve got an angry curlers-wearing slipper-totin’ wife* on line 3, abort! abort!”

I do not wish to participate in your customer satisfaction survey, and I hereby tick off the box where I agree to risk the dire, irreversible repercussions this will have on the good service you so desperately want to provide me.

I may be the market, but I reserve the right not to be probed.

* While I do not wear curlers, I have toted some fierce slippers in my day.