Random Crap
TiMer.
Sep 8th
**I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I just don’t seem to be able to get my Femme Writes post down to blog yet. Sorry for the delay.**
Last night, I was up late listening to the huge storm outside. I love thunderstorms. There’s something about them I find so comforting and cozy. There wasn’t enough thunder for my taste, but there was plenty of rain.
After sitting on my wet balcony reading for a while, I decided to watch a Netflix recommended movie. TiMer had been on that list for a while. Called a “sci-fi romantic comedy,” I was a little more than skeptical. I was right to be, as I would barely consider it “sci-fi.” In a technical sense, maybe, but on a practical level, it is simply a sort of love story.
The premise is this: Someone has invented a way for people to know exactly who their soul mates are and exactly when they will meet said soul mate; they call it TiMER (and they implant it in your wrist for $79.99). They don’t even try to explain how this TiMER works, other than some vague statement about oxytocin levels. The divorce rate has fallen, couples are happy, few people leave anything to chance any more. (The TiMer only works if both members of the soul mate pair have one; if only one member has it, his or her TiMER is blank until the other person gets the implant.)
What unfolds is a question about love, fate, and destiny.
What happens in the movie doesn’t really matter, as I am left with the question: If I could know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I could meet the “right” person for me, because of some TiMER implanted in my wrist, would I get one?
Let’s set aside (for now) the fact that I don’t believe in soul mates or the “right” person. Is life about the journey or the destination? I’ve always been in the journey camp. Would knowing your destination affect your journey? I think it would. Maybe for the better, maybe for the worse, but it would definitely be affected.
In this movie, all these people are running around with these TiMERs implanted in their wrists, just waiting for the moment they lay eyes on their soul mates. How could you possibly have any other relationships, if you knew that the “one” for you was out there and you would meet him or her in 536d 4h 46m 17s? What if you meet your “one” when you’re 14 years old? What if you know that you won’t meet your “one” until you’re 70?
Life is all about cultivating relationships, in my opinion. The idea that you would know exactly who the “one” is when you meet him or her just takes all the fun and adventure out of it. I don’t think I would want to know.
Five things that are way sexier in movies than they are in real life, in no particular order.
Sep 1st
Personally, I kind of think movies (and television) are ruining us for real-life interactions with actual people. Despite how often Hollywood may try to think that they’re giving you “real people” characters, they’re just not. And now it’s all so much a part of our lives that I think we’ve almost forgotten how to be real people and interact with other real people. Nowhere is this more true than the sexy time.
And so I give you, in my opinion, five things that are way sexier in the movies than they are in real life:
Affairs: In the movies, everyone is always wearing matching underwear and getting it on in a beautiful hotel suite. That’s just not how it works. In real life, they are messy and usually take place in closets and hallways and cars and stuff.
Sex: In the movies, well, we usually only see the end anyway, but no one ever sweats or does anything clumsy. In real life, sex is sweaty and sometimes you bump heads or laugh or cough in the other person’s mouth. Maybe they should make a movie based around my sex life. I’m one clumsy bitch.
Long Hair: In the movies, women almost always have long hair and it’s never in their faces or anyone else’s. You know, because it’s someone’s JOB to keep it that way. In real life, long hair is in my face, your face, my mouth, your mouth, and I’ve probably just shed it all over the bed and the couch. I still like having longer hair, but man, can it be a pain in the ass.
Big Romantic Gestures: In the movies, these are always awesome and sweet and perfect. No one is worried about money or someone saying no or the whole thing just being one big, cheesy mess. In real life, no one can afford to do nor coordinate the level of BIG ROMANTIC GESTURE you see in the movies. Plus, anything you can think to do, they’ve probably already done in the movies, so then you’re just a big copy cat. Take out the trash when you say you will. That? Is more romantic than you know.
The Beach: In the movies, beaches are the PLACE for the romance. People splash in the water and make out on the sand and have sex on blankets that are magically sand free. In real life? Sand sucks, man. Seriously. It gets in all your crevices and it won’t go away. I’d only have sex on a beach if I was in the market for some vaginal exfoliation. Don’t get me wrong, I love the ocean. Hate the sand. Could we just make the shore out of some sort of wet suit material? Then I will happily have sex on the beach, and not just the drink.
The one where I point out that someone summed up how I feel about something better than I could. And she did it with a Jersey Shore reference. Crap.
Aug 31st
I’m going to wait here while you go read this post by CityGal, a blog I’ll confess, I had never read before last week.
Finished? Okay, so yeah…
This pretty much sums up how I feel. And how I’ve felt about the whole marriage thing for quite a while, aside from my many other feelings about the efficacy of marriage as a social construct or legal institution. This is purely me, as a single woman. Minus the whole “Jersey Shore” thing. I’ll admit to watching four episodes out of train-wreck like interest, but I couldn’t stomach more than that.
But this “shirt before the shirt” concept is an interesting one. I actually remember the day when, “but you’re just so much…fun!” started to sound like an insult, rather than a compliment. And really, it’s not about marriage. I have no desire to get married.
What it IS about, though, is someone saying, “You. I want to be with you, even when things aren’t fun. Even when you’re in a bad mood or upset or sad. I want to be with you because of exactly who you are…but yeah, you could be a little less sarcastic at me, okay?”
I’m just trying to be realistic.
Being the girl who’s “a lot of fun” is great, for a while. I’m sort of tired of it now, though. I think I’ve been trying to make myself less fun, actually, in an effort to escape this bullshit. With one exception, pretty much everyone I’ve dated for any length of time has married or moved in with (quickly) the next woman he dated. It’s starting to feel like the plot of a really bad chick flick. Didn’t they make something like this with…Dane Cook? See? My life, reduced to a movie starring DANE COOK. That’s not good, people.
I can’t be anything but myself, though. It’s just that “myself” is pretty complicated. As, I imagine, are most people.
What is it about me, though, that screams “shirt before the shirt”? Why is it that married men are drawn to me like cats to catnip? To be fair, men who cling to me like Saran Wrap scare the ever-loving crap out of me, but there must be a happy medium, right?
RIGHT?
Someone asked me not too long ago why I’m not married. My reply? “I’m not marriage material.” I’m really not. I’m strong-willed and opinionated and sarcastic and funny. I probably won’t do your laundry or have dinner on the table by 6:00 every night. I’m unlikely to be waiting for you in heels and pretty dress with a martini, all fixed up after my hard day of vacuuming. I have dreams and goals and aspirations. Most of all, I don’t need you, whoever you are.
I know what you’re thinking right now. You’re thinking, but Shine, not all marriages have to be that way. Plenty of smart, funny, strong women get married. And I won’t argue with you. But in my experience (at least in the place where I live) the people who find marriage to be important? They subscribe to much more stereotypically traditional gender roles. Moreover, most people, whether they admit it or not, in my experience, really like to feel needed (to a point). I’m unlikely to make anyone feel that way, unless I’ve lost my mind. It happened once, sort of, and it wasn’t pretty.
Plus, I just think marriage is a ridiculous idea. I even think I won @newslacker over at dinner last night. He’s basically the only person who ever agrees with me about any of this stuff (and he’s every bit as cynical as I am), but he’s still sort of on the marriage train. And he’s done it before, so he has no excuse. To those of you out there who are happily married: Congratulations! I’m happy for you. But I don’t think it works for everyone and I think as a concept, it’s outdated and a little silly. As a romantic gesture? I totally get it. As a business contract (which, legally, it is), though, it doesn’t make any logical sense. Especially if you don’t want to have children, which I don’t.
So because I don’t think marriage is important, am I forever doomed to be the shirt before the shirt? If you’re looking to meet the woman you’ll marry or live with or whatever, feel free to date me for a while. You’ll probably find her immediately.
Remember when your little black panties were enough?
Aug 26th
Disclaimer: No, this has nothing to do with my date last weekend, in case any of you try to jump to that conclusion. I started writing this several months ago and forgot about it.
I remember the days when all it took were five little words: “I’m not wearing any underwear.” I fear those days are gone, my friends.
Sex these days is like a three-ring circus. Or at least, it sounds that way. My suspicion is that sex actually hasn’t changed all that much, just the way we talk about it. But the fact remains that there is so much porn now, with people doing things that…well, that I probably don’t even want to do. And the sex toys. Wow. I mean, not that I’m against a good sex toy. I think we all know I’m not.
It’s weird, though. Maybe I’m just crazy, but it doesn’t seem that the expectations of men in the bedroom have really changed all that much. Show up, well equipped, all engines firing, and you know, get the job done. Women, however, are now supposed to be up for anything. It’s like an actual game of Hide the Salami, only apparently now, we’re expected to let you hide it anywhere. And while you’re hiding it, we should be gymnasts who are open to the idea of having sex with a woman (if that strikes your fancy) and don’t mind dressing up like your third grade teacher and giving you a spanking all the while making you feel like the king of the castle manly man.
It wears me out. What happened to regular ol’ sex? Which, by the way, was really good.
I don’t want to swing from a chandelier, dressed like Catwoman, while I regale you with my fantasies of making it with the toaster oven, but of course I’ve never done any of this before because you, you’re the only man I ever want to touch.
PLEASE.
Actually, in my life, I’ve mostly only dated simple guys (long-term). Guys who were happy with a girl in some cotton panties and a T-shirt. Guys who, if I tried to wear anything that might be considered fancy (we’re talking more than three hooks, people), would look at me and say, “Seriously. Take that off, it’s ridiculous.” And of course, I never had SEX with any of them. Hi, Aunt Kim.
For most of my life, the only thing I’ve really been confident about was sex. Again, not that I’ve had any. Hi, Mom.
These days, though, sexy feels cheap. Okay, plus, I SUCK at being sexy. Like in any sort of obvious way. I’m much more likely to giggle and fall on my face than be actual sexy. But sex was the one place I always felt I owned.
NOT in a wetsuit, with five of my girlfriends and a trout, waiting to be shot in the eye with man juice.
Just sex. The good old fashioned kind. Without a movie set full of props.
I’m just not sure how I feel about it any more. Mostly, I feel like because sex has never been some hugely emotional thing for me, I’ve had a fairly casual attitude about it. Not that I’ve had a lot of it. I mean, you know, because I’ve never had sex and all that. Hey, sister’s boyfriend.
This is getting awkward. So I’m going to shut up and just say this:
Men? When did sex become this big production? Do you guys all feel like this, or is it more talk from the peanut gallery than anything else? Is just sex good enough? Should I keep my little black panties, or shall I wear a French Maid costume permanently under my clothes? Do you feel like women have crazy expectations of what you’re willing to do during sex, too?
On being right. And an apology.
Aug 23rd
There are lots of people in my life who would probably tell you that I have an overwhelming need to be right.
They’d be right.
Ha. No, but really, I do like to be right. I like it a lot. But, believe it or not, I can admit when I’m wrong. It just doesn’t happen very often.
Again, I joke. I’m wrong all the time. I just approach being wrong with less enthusiasm than I approach being right. Generally speaking, I try not to shout from the hilltops about things, unless I’m pretty sure I’m right. Even then, I really don’t shout from the hilltops because that’s really obnoxious. At that point, it ceases to matter if I’m right or wrong and it only matters that I’m being an obnoxious prick.
I have confidence in my opinions and the things I believe because I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about them. I do the research, if I can. I study. I like to know things anyway, so it’s not really a chore. I am certainly not the expert on everything, however.
I would also never presume to tell you how to live your life (aside from this whole leggings as pants situation, and I think we can all agree that no one is listening to me anyway, right @gingermandy ?). Which is why I find “life coaches” or those “quarter-life crisis” types really irritating. Also, seriously, people. Twenty-five? It ain’t shit. It’s not a crisis. It’s growing up. It’s life. It’s figuring out who you are and who you want to be and how to achieve your goals and chase your dreams. It’s not a crisis. It’s LIFE.
/rant
And now I’m going to tell you about being wrong. Lots of people would probably say that I’ve been pretty unfair to men, in the past (I’d argue that it was mostly with damn good reason, but that’s not the point). Over the last, say, eight months or so, I’ve really been thinking about my attitude about men and what it says about me. I’m a feminist, yes, but I’m not the sort of feminist who dismisses opinions or ideas simply because they came from men. In my opinion, that diminishes the message and makes you a hypocrite.
What I never really saw, though, was how much pressure there is on men to be…well, men. It comes with very strict rules, you see. You must not be emotional. You must never appear weak. And above all, you must never, ever, in any way, appear to be feminine or gay. This can dictate your reactions, your clothes, your attitudes about everything and everyone.
Now, in my opinion, this speaks to the sad state of all things men and women, but today, I want to apologize. I want to apologize for anything I’ve said or done to promote a masculine stereotype that forces men to be anything but “like women.”
I don’t like crying, but that’s about people, not just about men. I will admit, that despite my best attempts to curb it, there is something more unsettling about a crying man than a crying woman. I’d rather not be around either, though. It makes me uncomfortable. I have no idea what to do or what to say. I think it’s safe to tell you guys that I’m a bit of an insensitive ass, so my only recourse is to try to make said crying person laugh. This doesn’t mean that my friends can’t come to me with problems. They just have to be aware that my default switch is set at “make the crying stop.”
Also, seeing someone cry makes me want to cry sometimes, and I don’t really like to cry.
(True confession: I totally cried at the end of a book a month or so ago. Like heaving sobbing had-to-get-a-box-of-tissues hiccuping crying.)
I’m apologizing because I don’t really ever want to spread around an opinion that promotes traditional gender roles. I don’t think the man needs to be the care-taker, any more than I think the woman must do the laundry. Such ideas are ridiculous to me. I mean, if that’s the way your relationship works out, I have no issue with it, but those aren’t the sorts of things that should be forced on someone just because of their genitalia.
Everyone is different. That’s what makes relationships so complicated. We all need and want just what we need and want. Some people are willing to make compromises, some aren’t. Some women want a nice guy, some want an asshole. Some men care about nothing but a skinny girl, some want to be with someone who is confident and smart. Some of us want it all, wrapped up with a lovely bow.
So while it’s easy to try to put everyone you meet in some neat little box, it just won’t really work.
I’m working on my attitude, and really learning to think about things before forming an opinion. I’m keeping in mind that it’s pretty ridiculous to pigeonhole someone simply because of gender, since I don’t like it when that’s done to me. I think it’s important to be cautious and to use your experience as your guide, but not to let your fear get in the way of something that might be good for you.
Life is hard, y’all. And this maturity thing is for the birds.
And a note to my girlfriends: If you’re going to get all outraged that he couldn’t look past the size of your ass and see the real and wonderful you as a human being? You best the fuck not count some guy out because of a bald spot. It oozes hypocrisy and it’s kind of disgusting. Also, he can probably do less about that bald spot than you can do about the size of your ass. Just sayin’.
Yes, this is coming from someone who doesn’t really like to date guys who are shorter, but there’s a REASON for that. Shallow as it may be. And it’s not even about height. So there. Also, I like to think I’d give anyone a shot who impressed me in some way, unless I just legitimately couldn’t stand to look at him. Funny goes a long way, but attraction is key.
