(Semi) Naked Men in a Movie... YES!

Because we all know I'm a slut (thanks to my ex's authority on such matters), it's not surprising that I'm super excited about seeing Magic Mike. 

I'll share my excitement through these user e-cards from some ecards (and through the knowledge that I already purchased tickets for the Friday showing).

Love, a Four Letter Word Vomit

I've decided I shouldn't be allowed to speak anymore. From this point forward, I should only be allowed to communicate via text and sign language. Maybe, just maybe, incidents like this morning won't happen again.

Let's be clear here, this is not the first time my mouth's got me into trouble. This time, I can't take back what I said without looking like more of a fool.

You see, this morning I told my boyfriend I loved him before getting out of his car after he drove me to work. This is the same boyfriend I've been dating for almost three months. Just three months. Three little months. God help me.

The words just came out of my mouth as I said goodbye and then were followed by an awkward I'm sorry and a quick exit (well, as swift of an exit as my mortification would let me).

Side note: I almost face-palmed in front of him after my impromptu declaration. Now that would have made the experience way more awesome, agreed? What is wrong with me?!?

So here I sit at work, vowing to never talk again in his presence. Apparently, my mouth cannot be trusted to follow the strict instructions set by my will of not saying "I love you" to my boyfriend before he says it to me.

But no, oh noooo, the moment my brain is slightly turned off and I'm not thinking of anything in particular My mouth decides to blurt "I love you." Jesus Christ. Clearly, I can only be trusted with text and sign language. From now on, the sound of my voice will be a privilege to hear and not a common occurrence --as it is right now because I just LOVE to talk. There is is again, that word. Ugh. I disgust myself. I really do.

To make matters more interesting, le boyfriend is picking me up from work today (as he usually does because he refuses to let me walk four miles each way --see, how could I not l*** him?). I briefly considered walking home in order to avoid the obvious awkwardness (because the scene keeps replaying in my mind to my simultaneously oscillating humor and mortification). A vow of silence seems appropriate at this point so that I don't end up blurting that L word every five seconds.

Honestly, I do feel this way, but I'm mostly upset my mouth ran away with it. It was supposed to be my decision, dammit! My mouth created this mess and didn't give me the tools to solve it.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck!

A vow of silence may be the way to go. Seriously.

Grad School's Bitch

The more educated I "get," the more I start to wonder if it's worth it. Of course, an education has been one of the most important things in my life for me, and pursuing a graduate degree in what I love was one of the non-negotiable aspects in life. In fact, you could say I'm now single because I left my home to pursue a master's degree (on that front: best decision ever). However, with graduation looming in the near, near future, the graduate school bubble has burst and I'm left with the following:

• My graduate degree in the humanities will not allow me to make a decent living.
• The more I am in graduate school, the less I feel like I can interact with the non-academia world around me. 
• I've learned to justify every single thing I do with a logical argument.
• The graduate program I am currently in parallels high school a lot more than I would like it to. It's just petty.
• Again, I won't make a decent living after this.

Now, the people I've met in graduate school are between the best and worst I have ever met. There's no grey area (unlike in my recent dating experience, where every damn thing is a grey area). I think that the good outweighs the bad, but sometimes, just sometimes (and by sometimes I mean every time they open their mouth) I want to stick an used sock down some of the worst people's throats --and then duct-tape their mouths shut. Just saying. 

These lovely creatures aside, I think that graduate school has allowed me to grow as an intellectual and to think critically about everything --which just means that I can't just enjoy a movie anymore, I have to theorize about it. Between graduate school and the changes I've undergone in the past few months (hey, I was called a stupid slut) have changed the way I look at the world and the way the world looks at me. The stress of a broken engagement, calling off the wedding, having long white dress that won't be worn any time soon, getting back into the dating scene, having bad dates, teaching, and oh that little thing called graduation looming around the corner have very effectively added more wrinkles on my face than there should be at twenty five. 

Twenty five has not been the best year of my life, and if I were superstitious I would have thought that my horrendous birthday was enough of an omen, given the fact that my family forgot my birthday, got me the wrong cake, and my then fiancé took me to an auto shop so he could fix his car (romantic, no?). Note to self: On second thought, maybe I should become more superstitious. 

Superstitions aside, the truth is that while I'm completely grateful for the experiences graduate school has allowed me to be a part of, the end of this stage of my life brings me back to a place that it didn't prepare me for: the "real" world. I know a lot of people feel like this at this point in their semesters once they reach that one semester they will graduate. I know that I'm not the only one with an existential crisis.

But sometimes... Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one. 

I Heart Assholes (No More)

If you know me, you know I harbor a shameful love of romantic comedies. 

Oh, Kate Hudson... You make me believe love is for real
and always starts with a dare (or bet, or article assignment).

When I think about this shameful love (in times where I am painfully aware of my sad, sad life) I realize it's because romantic comedies are often simple to figure out. 

We (and by we I mean anyone who's seen at least two of these) all know who the protagonist is going to end up with (spoiler alert: It's usually someone she hates at first sight). 

If this were true, I'd end up with one of the many douchebags I know. 

... And I'm not in the mood to deal with that kind of shit. 

However, we all love our Mr. Darcys (thanks, Ms. Austen) and even our Mr. Rochesters (oh, Charlotte Brontë). These two characters, in particular, have created my love for arrogant, self-absorbed, assholes with a seemingly soft spot.

Enter a parade of all the boys I've liked and dated.

Sure, they all had their redeeming qualities, but if they were right, wouldn't have they lasted, or is it that I'm just not leading lady material?

From today on, I hope to stop living like my life is a romantic comedy and being surprised when the assholes in my life don't suddenly convert to the perfect boyfriend. The facade of the "changed man" lasts about three months (or less), in my experience.

When all is said and done, why don't they make more romantic comedies of what happens after the wedding? Or is that just reserved for a tear-jerker?

Ah, the questions of life. 

Call Me a Slut

Like many others reacting to Rush Limbaugh's smear campaign against Sandra Fluke's decision to present to the Democratic hearing about Obama's contraception policy, I am enraged (to say the least) at the thought that even today women are still being slammed for having a voice. Now, the fact is that this Limbaugh character seems to be the epitome of what is wrong with taking beliefs to their extreme (when they're no longer recognizable); it also reflects some things that are fundamentally wrong in our society:

• Instead of attacking ideas, we resort to attacking people. 
• We do not take into account our personal history before attacking others' personal lives.
• We believe our opinion to be fundamentally more important than anyone else's.  
• We do not think twice before calling a woman who is threatening a slut. 

How I see it, the most problematic aspect of Limbaugh's argument (attack, really) was his muddling of Fluke's argument in order to make it seem petty, and then demeaning her on a personal level by calling her a slut.

The derogation on basis of (hypothetical) sexual promiscuity as a reactionary response to a woman who clearly has a voice is a troubling move, but it is (to a point) an expected one. Our society values women as physical and reproductive beings, while wanting to negate any aspect that denotes the same sexual freedom men seem to enjoy. 

Sure, a woman can hold a job just like a man, is asked to set aside any plans to start a family because that would cause some logistical problems in the workplace if she wants to advance, but is denied the same sexual freedom men are freely given on the basis of their genitalia. Sure, men can have families and be successful in the workplace, but at what cost? Does that mean his partner stays at home and takes care of the children or does this mean that they have to hire someone to take care of the home?

More often than not, women are waiting longer to start families in favor of achieving career stability. I commend them for that. If that means that employers should include birth control as part of their health insurance, then so be it. In fact, that's not at all what Fluke's argument was; indeed, her argument listed other medical reasons for which women take birth control pills. The bottom line is that Fluke's argument was that birth control is not about promiscuity or sexual freedom (though, seriously, when all is said and done who cares? Viagra isn't prescribed for other reasons, yet health insurance covers it): it is about other medical reasons, such as regulating periods and so forth.

Yet, instead of attacking this argument, Limbaugh made the choice of calling Fluke a slut or a prostitute, even going insofar as extending his argument to: 

“A Georgetown coed told Nancy Pelosi’s hearing that the women in her law school program are having so much sex they’re going broke, so you and I should have to pay for their birth control. So what would you call that? I called it what it is. So, I’m offering a compromise today: I will buy all of the women at Georgetown University as much aspirin to put between their knees as they want.”

This, of course, misses the mark on every single point. Limbaugh distorts and further reduces Fluke's argument to one that teeter totters on the border between unbelievable and ridiculous. I can only insist that his attempts at paraphrasing are completely unreliable. 

Perhaps Mr. Limbaugh could benefit from a course of freshman composition, in which us instructors make sure that students understand how logical fallacies and wrongful paraphrasing detracts from a rhetor's ethos instead of adding on to it. Instead of attacking an idea, Limbaugh acknowledges the threat Fluke and other women may pose to his conservative views and calls her (and like-minded women, by extension) a slut.  

And you know what? I, for one, am not a stranger to being called a slut. In fact, my ex fiancé called me a stupid slut because I chose to kiss someone else some time after he broke off the engagement (via telephone, I might add). I resented the qualification of stupid he chose to bestow upon my sluttiness, but I could not be any prouder to be called a slut. 

I choose the direction of my life. I control my body. I decide whether I want to participate in sexual activity or not. I have a voice and an opinion. I understand that some people may want to muddle the truth with concocted lies and distorted realities. I chose to pursue my education and goals in life. I will not be silenced.

So yes, go ahead and call me a slut. 

Boobs Up to My Chin and Other Forms of False Advertising

A good pushup bra will get you places in life. If it doesn't, it at least lets your boobs get places (and by places I mean up to your collarbone, at least).

I'll never forget the day my affinity for push-up bras was discussed by my parents and my least favorite aunt on the way to a restaurant. This aunt of mine is the one whom I have whom I have the least amount of affection for, given as she's always stated that I'm never getting married or keeping a man because I'm too smart and don't keep my opinions to myself; if that's the case, I am shocked that she's divorced twice and hasn't had a long-lasting relationship for as long as I've been alive.

I was about nineteen at the time, and my mother was loudly complaining that I didn't appreciate the minimizer bras she had bought me because I favored bras with lining (or padding, as she referred to them).

Um, excuse me:

1.  There's nothing wrong with liking push-up bras, especially when your boobs are big enough to succumb to gravity. Damn gravity.
2. I. Don't. Like. Minimizers. They squish everything down and make me look more boxy than I already am.
3. It's not like I was a DD or anything. I was a perfectly acceptable C who was looking for a bit of lift, that's all. It's not like the so-called padding was designed to make my bust appear larger.
4. Speaking of which, I've never liked bras without lining. Possibly because I never want to be in a situation where people can see my nipples through my shirt. Just saying.

Anyhow, my aunt turned in horror towards me

Yep, that's about right.

and asked, "What will happen on your wedding night when your husband realizes that your boobs aren't as big as they seem?"

Ok, a few things:

A) Why does it have to be on our wedding night? Can he not see my breasts before? And does he have to be my husband?

B) Come the fuck ON. It's not like once they're in his hands or mouth he's going to be like, "Gross, they're not as big as I had estimated them being. Get dressed this instant and never show those hideous things to me ever again!" Dude, not even a gay man would say that about breasts (let's not get into my propensity to attract those type of males).

C) I'm not stuffing my bra for goodness sakes! It's just a pushup! It pushes my boobs UP to my chin!

D) Who the fuck cares if I wear pushup bras?

"Well, then, he can sue me for false advertisement," I replied.

My father's roaring laughter was the only addition to this conversation, though my mother and my aunt discussed the horrible nature of the false advertisement my boobs were conveying to the world.

Jesus Christ!

As a single lady (this inevitably brings Beyonce's song into my head), I've come to realize that false advertising isn't just in the form of makeup and pushup bras. Sure, some of us ladies use torture devices (i.e. Spanx and wire bras) in order to look our "best," but guys are oftentimes guilty of the worst kind of advertisement: they tell us everything we want to hear (or leave us to fill in the blanks for them) and then don't deliver.

Some of these guys, like Mr. Hot and Cold, knowingly use girls to fill the void of loneliness but aren't interested in "settling" down in any way, shape or form. The problem with this is that you can't tell by looking at most of them. They all look slightly geeky and perfectly nice (which is a problem for me because I just love the geeks), like someone your parents would approve.

Other ones, like church boyfriend, look like they're going to be the biggest douches in the world, talk like the biggest douches in the world, but end up being the nicest human beings possible once they think no one's looking.

Admittedly, one false advertisement is superior to the other, but does that mean that I should be on the lookout for sheep in wolves' clothing from now on?  I mean, what happens if it's just a wolf?

In the larger scheme of things, pushup bras aren't that bad, now are they?

Well, mother, I could do a lot worse than a
push up bra!

Your Labia is Showing

Going to graduate school is a tough choice. I mean, you basically come to school, promise to renounce any semblance of a life, read until your eyes want to shrivel up and die, speak about things during class you can't speak with "normal" people because they would look at you like you're fucking nuts (and perhaps you truly are insane), and in the process meet the biggest nerds you will ever meet in your life. 

Seriously, when you think about it, graduate degrees are for people who wake up one day and think, "Oh, I miss school so damn much I'm going to go back and ostracize myself from society willingly."

Well, that and we have a crappy economy. 

Graduate school seemed to me like the perfect choice, but after a broken engagement and dissolved plans, I started to wonder what the hell was wrong with me. In this process of discovery I realized I needed to start going out more, something that I didn't even do during my undergrad years (On a side note: my parents are thrilled I'm finally having the real college experience). 

Here's the thing about going to bars where I live: Most of these girls have used too bleach on their obviously non-blonde hair and most of them seem to have forgotten their pants. Or half their dresses. Some of them, it seems have been mugged and have holes in their dresses where there really shouldn't be any. 

I want to go up to them and be like, "Oh, honey, your labia is showing."

I blame this on Lady Gaga, I really do:

Where are your pants? Were you mugged? Have you notified the authorities?

And what in the name of all that is holy is up with your hair?

I guess I'm old-fashioned that way because when I told church boyfriend* 

*Church Boyfriend (noun): guy friend who frequently accompanies me to church, talks about inappropriate things -such as sexual exploits- during mass, holds doors for old ladies, is constantly checking out every female in discernible distance, constantly sexually harasses me verbally, and insists I'm like a sister to him -I know, I'm rolling my eyes too at that one. 

about this very wave of absentmindedness that led girls to leave their pants home he said, "They know what's up" in that very The Jersey Shore kind of talk he mistakes for charm. For someone who claims to have never seen The Jersey Shore, church boyfriend does a pretty good job of displaying all the characteristics that the guys from the supposed show MTV pushes down our throats and some of us watch because we're too lazy to change the channel (and become too intrigued with the inner workings of that pouf of hair we call Snooki). 

However, church boyfriend was not as enthusiastic about this wardrobe choice when I stated my desire to start leaving my pants home in order to understand the appeal of the fad. This led to a discussion on why it was okay for other girls to forget their pants, but not me... Or his future wife for that matter (who he has yet to meet because his standards for women are ridiculously high for someone who is such a man whore and dresses like he got rejected from The Jersey Shore but is still auditioning). 

Speaking of wives, the lovely Michelle Duggar (who just recently miscarried what would have been her twentieth child) has some tips for us women to have better marriages or understand our role in marriage:

- A Husband Needs A Wife Who Accepts Him As A Leader And Believes In His God-Given Responsibilities: Husbands are commanded to govern their wives; God works through a man’s decisions — good or bad; Bad decisions reveal his needs and allow the wife to appeal and demonstrate Godly character; The more a wife trusts her husband, the more careful he will be in giving her direction; Never ask others for counsel without your husband’s approval; reassure your husband that you understand and believe that he is your God-given leader.

- A Husband Needs A Wife Who Will Continue To Develop Inward And Outward Beauty: How can you become more of the wife of your husband’s dreams?; discover and conform to your husband’s real wishes; explain your hairstyle to others on the basis of your submission to your authority; separate your 'rights' from your responsibilities.

- Ask Your Husband To Define Your Responsibilities: Ask your husband to tell you when you have a resistant spirit; dispel a backbiting tongue by silence.

Source: Perezitos

Wow, just wow. I now understand that why my relationship with my ex-fiancé didn't work! I obviously didn't accept him as my God-Given Leader and didn't ask him how to do my hair! Phew, what a relief! She's just saved me thousands of dollars in therapy and has given me the tools to prepare myself for my next relationship by being submissive and trusting his judgement above all others. I'm sure that'll work out perfectly.

I just have a question, though... Until then, how will I know how to do my hair?