Zooey Deschanel is one celeb who isn’t afraid to let her inner “fiery feminist” fly. And I love her for it. It seems like so many female celebrities nowadays are almost afraid of the F word — feminist. Not so for Zooey. In an interview with InStyle, she talked about how not every woman’s dream is to be a mom, saying,
Like every woman is dying to give birth! I don’t think so. Nobody asks guys that. And you go into a supermarket and every tabloid is like, ‘Pregnant and Alone!’ Stuck in the 1950s ideal of how a woman should live her life. This brings out the fiery feminist in me.
I started officially calling myself a feminist in college.
From my liberal arts point of view, The University of Michigan was a fantastic place to be a young woman. I was exposed to an excellent education on the history of feminism as a civil rights movement, what it meant, and what it means to be a woman in this country then, and now. It was exciting to discover that I was a feminist that way.
That being said, I was always sure to say, “I’m a feminist. But, don’t worry, I don’t, like, burn my bras and stuff. I’m, like, normal.”
Looking back, I’m sure both disrespecting my foremothers, and saying like in the same sentence would have gotten me booted from club We-Can-Do-It. But, honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure who I was and, really, just sort of talked too much because I didn’t know much. I knew that I was proud to be a woman, and that suffragettes were the coolest, and that maybe people would think I burned my Target bra if I called myself a feminist. I was in my early 20s, so I was still pretty stupid. In my older, wiser nowadays (representin’ the mid-late 20s, y’all), I leave that part out.
Simply put: I’m a feminist.
Have you heard about “Sandwich Girlfriend” yet? It took me a while to even find her real name. She has a blog called 300 Sandwiches. Here’s the site’s mission:
My boyfriend E is obsessed with two things: Star Wars and sandwiches. During a Sunday lunchtime viewing of “Return of the Jedi” he told me: “you are 300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring!” … And so, I got cooking …
I honestly thought this blog was satire at first, but it turns out the sandwichmaker in question is one Stephanie Smith, a writer for Page Six. How could anyone not think this was satire? The intro on her blog begins with,
“Make me a sandwich.”
That’s what my boyfriend, E, asks without fail every morning. Not “babe, where are my keys?” Not, “honey, where are my socks?” And no, not even, “c’mon, just the tip?”
And then comes right out and says,
That was it—a proposal hinged on me making him sandwiches.
And she describes herself as,
I’m a Midwest girl living in New York, a writer and foodie who loves a good meal. I love chocolate, pork buns, and sushi more than I love a sale at Saks. I’m a woman who loves her man, but also never backs down from a challenge. If he wants three hundred sandwiches, then I’ll deliver.
(NONE of these are bad things. They just seem so very Onion-y. How is “Woman Makes 300 Sandwiches For Boyfriend To Get A Proposal” not the title of an Onion article? How is her description not the description of a character from an Onion article? “I’m a woman who loves her man”?)
But she’s very serious. Her blog contains recipes for every sandwich she makes. And she sees nothing wrong with making sandwiches for an engagement ring. Which, hopefully, both adults in the relationship realize is much more than a ring, but is in fact, a promise to marry. It’s a marriage. She’s trading sandwiches for marriage. I guess marriage has been based on lesser things in the past?
The thing is, I kind of don’t hate her.
I can’t remember the first time I heard the phrase “you can’t have it all” but I don’t think I’ve ever heard it without understanding that whoever was saying it was referring to women. People seem to love to tell us that we can’t have it all. (Most recently, Glamour magazine.) I recall an episode of Sex and the City (and isn’t there one for everything?) where Samantha, sick with the flu, sobs to Carrie, “We can’t have it all!” I think by the end of the episode Carrie determined that she didn’t need to have it all as long as she had Aiden and a handbag or something, I don’t know, isn’t that how they all ended?
Here’s the thing: who the hell decided what “all” is? Who decided that “all” is a husband, two kids, a house, and a career? Look, there’s absolutely nothing wrong if that’s what you want. That can be your all. But it’s very annoying being told that you can’t have it all when you don’t want what people are denying you in the first place.
Why Dating is Better Now Than Then
Men know we are feminists.
None of that “make me a sandwich” crap is ever expected, unless it is a deep, deep-rooted fantasy like Princess Leia in the gold bikini.
Women can date women.
Men can date men. Hell, in my state, we can all even marry each other! I am not naïve or optimistic enough to suggest that no one has to suppress their true sexual desires, but I am here to say that it is truly getting better all the time. You gotta admit.
When the Washington Post decided, in January of 2013, to run a story about feminists’ disputes over Michelle Obama’s time as first lady, it ran in that magazine’s Style section.
In The New York Times in March 2012, Sarah Hepola’s profile of Gloria Steinem—complete with discussion of where the next feminist icon like her might be—ran in “Fashion & Style.”
And when the young (male) publisher of Jacobin magazine was profiled in the Times’s Books section in January, women editors and publishers at The New Inquiry protested—when their similarly intellectual publication was featured in the Times the previous fall, they had been in “Fashion & Style.”
“Now all you have to do is pick out your perfect prince, and zero in for the kill.”
Don’t forget, never “hang around with uggos!”
“Maybe young women don’t wonder whether they can have it all any longer, but in case any of you are wondering, of course you can have it all. What are you going to do? Everything, is my guess. It will be a little messy, but embrace the mess. It will be complicated, but rejoice in the complications. It will not be anything like what you think it will be like, but surprises are good for you. And don’t be frightened: you can always change your mind. I know: I’ve had four careers and three husbands.”
Since our book came out a few weeks ago, the support has been overwhelming, CNN, Business Insider, Elle, Glamour, The Village Voice, Bethenny Frankel, etc… We’re so lucky. We’re particularly lucky in that Dating & Hookup’s message to cultivate all your relationships for a fullfilling life, has also been interpreted by Internet crazies as 1) advocating reckless promiscuity, or 2) cultivating a harem of men. A special thanks to Google Alerts!
1) On the lovely Newbusters Site, a piece titled Ethical Sluts: CNN Health Promotes Promiscuity and Demeans Monogamy. (How did they know? We actually love the word slut!)
2) The awesome Fellowship of the Minds published the thought piece More Feminism Baloney. “Heaven forbid a woman have some moral standards and a dream to find a soulmate.” (I think this piece was ghost written by my uber-Catholic high school French teacher. She dressed exclusively in one of three plaid skirt-suits from the 70′s, carried a ruler at all times, and used to lecture us on how birth control was wrong…in French.)
3) The perhaps not even hilarious spoof / response written on Chateau Heartist, Every Man Needs a Harem of Women, which garnered a frightening 155 comments. (Oh, that place where the FBI goes to look for serial killers? Found it!)
And guys, I’m not even quoting the comments sections overall. Check out the ones on CNN if you’re interested. Or don’t, you’ll just feel bad. Sadly, it’s not news that women get massacred on the internet…and harassed in daily life.
We’ll just go ahead, be thankful, and keep a comic distance. Because, I mean, REALLY YOU GUYS?
It seems to be work-life balance / motherhood / daddyhood week here. But really, Internet-with-a-capital-I, you shape the dialogue.
Anne-Marie Slaughter’s Atlantic cover story “Why Women Still Can’t Have It All” is generating that perfect storm of talk and traffic. After two years in her dream job, as the State Department’s first woman Director of Policy Planning, she had to quit. Her family needed her.
Women today are better educated than men and hold increasingly more powerful professional positions, yet most of the highest ranking jobs are still held by men. Why?
In her piece, Slaughter feels that women today are falsely told they can have it all. She believes dialogue like Sheryl Sandberg’s commencement a address to Barnard’s graduating class,” contains more than a note of reproach,” because “the women who have managed to be both mothers and top professionals are superhuman, rich, or self-employed.” Yes, we have the brains, but are we allowed the flexibility required to be both parents and professionals?
Formerly a professor and a dean at Yale, Slaughter had always considered herself fortunate to have flexibility in her career. Except she…
“had no idea how lucky until I spent two years in Washington within a rigid bureaucracy, even with bosses as understanding as Hillary Clinton and her chief of staff, Cheryl Mills. My workweek started at 4:20 on Monday morning, when I got up to get the 5:30 train from Trenton to Washington. It ended late on Friday, with the train home. In between, the days were crammed with meetings, and when the meetings stopped, the writing work began—a never-ending stream of memos, reports, and comments on other people’s drafts. For two years, I never left the office early enough to go to any stores other than those open 24 hours, which meant that everything from dry cleaning to hair appointments to Christmas shopping had to be done on weekends, amid children’s sporting events, music lessons, family meals, and conference calls. I was entitled to four hours of vacation per pay period, which came to one day of vacation a month. And I had it better than many of my peers in D.C.; Secretary Clinton deliberately came in around 8 a.m. and left around 7 p.m., to allow her close staff to have morning and evening time with their families (although of course she worked earlier and later, from home).
Ah. No one has to line up, for anyone, that being a parent on that schedule (even with a husband willing to shoulder more responsibility) is ridiculously untenable. And, naturally, women are “not going to choose to do both if it keeps coming down to a choice between one or the other,” i.e. career or their children.
When will we stop having to adjust to the workplace and when will the workplace adjust to us?
Two great pieces.
The original Atlantic piece.
Edith Zimmerman’s interview with Anne-Marie Slaughter, in which she asks, “How do I be more like you?”
Relationship Rants are about that beloved someone, and the things they do that drive you nuts.
Ladies and gentleman, welcome to my adulthood. I co-habitate with a man I expect to marry. I have multiple friends who have babies, multiple friends who own houses, multiple friends whose weddings I attend, am in. I am thirty. Only, like most women of my generation, I grew up thinking marriage was an option, not an absolute. And in the same way marriage or even partnership is an option, the terms of what it entails and the paths to it are also open.
For me, I determined this to loosely include:
1) Moving in with the person I think I want to marry first.
2) Waiting till I knew myself pretty well to make that decision.
3) Finding a man who knew himself equally well.
4) Finding a partner who loves the things I love.
5) Finding a partner who compliments my personality and I his.
6) Finding a partner who would share our responsibilities as partners equally, financially, emotionally…domestically. Oh, wait.
Because, ladies and gentleman, this is how my boyfriend folds things.
That is, if he folds things, because that picture was taken while we were doing our laundry together and I said “Here, Babe, fold this,” when he started to stuff all our hot, freshly laundered clothing and sheets back into the laundry bag to die wrinkled deaths in a compacted ball.
Now, you guys, it’s not like my boyfriend, Brad Pitt, doesn’t know how to fold things. Ask him about his stint in retail at Abercrombie and Fitch in 2001. And, if any of you have ever worked retail, or hell, been inside a Gap, you know that retail stores are folding Nazis. I worked at Benetton in high school and they had a special board you had to fold the sweaters around so that they were all exactly the same size.
Other domestic events that have also happened in our first month together.
Brad made our bed. He couldn’t figure out the fitted sheet and put it on so that the narrow part of the sheet elasticked to the wide part of our queen bed and visa versa. The sheet puffed over the top of our mattress like the top of a chef’s hat and came off the first night we slept on it with a loud “SNAP.” In Brad’s old apartment, his sheets weren’t the right size for his mattress, so he had no frame of reference. He also washed said sheets about every six weeks.
When Brad does the dishes, he’ll puts pots still caked with food in the dishwasher. And as a dishwasher is not actually a fleet of tiny dish elves who scrub pots and pans, those pots come out still not clean. He will also sometimes stack those dirty pans on top of the expensive and pretty plates that I have been collecting piecemeal in discount stores for several years.
Sometimes, when I watch him try to do something in our house, I feel like I’ve walked into a romantic comedy. Except, I thought those gender generalizations were just jokes. And condescending ones at that. I mean, the idea of a clueless, wrinkled bachelor à la Knocked Up isn’t exactly complementary. But, when Brad and I moved in together, I found that I either did or took the lead on almost everything having to do with setting up our house and running our life together.
Now, I suppose we could all just dump our stuff in the closets and go about our day. There is no rule that you have to wash your sheets once a week, do the dishes and keep your taxes in files. And, truth-be-told for a lot of the last decade I, too, lived in a sometimes-vacuumed 100 square-foot section of a medium-shitty Brooklyn apartment. Everything remotely important I kept in a plastic accordion folder shoved somewhere in the back of my closet.
Except, now that I’ve done this “growing up and settling down” thing, all the lessons my mother and grandmother ever taught me about how to make a home and a family have become relevant and are starting to kick in.
This year, when I went to visit my grandparents at Christmas, my cousin Lydia and I shared the downstairs bedroom. We had both arrived at their house exhausted from the craziness leading up to the holidays and were feeling the joys of finally decompressing. This meant we were being a bit lazy, particularly about cleaning up our stuff. Clothes poured out of our suitcases. We left the beds unmade and some towels on the floor of the bathroom. Two days in my grandfather walked by our room and immediately – as he is not a man who is known for keeping his opinions to himself – came to find us napping on the couch, “Your grandmother doesn’t keep a house like that!” he thundered. He had a point.
For my family, and probably for a lot of up-by-the-bootstraps American families, the state of things is a source of pride. You wear a dress or “slacks” to go out to dinner. You make your bed. Neatness means industry, success.
And indeed, at my grandparent’s farm, everything has its right, efficient place. I love the soft, clean cushions on my grandmother’s front porch chairs in the summer, her vegetable garden, her dinner on the table every day between six-thirty and seven. There is a splendor and a safety in my grandfather’s pressed shirts hanging behind the laundry room door and the smell of freshly cut grass.
At night, after my grandmother has put dinner away, her kitchen is quiet and smells of Palmolive. Before she leaves the room, her last step is to dim the lights. And before I go to bed, I like to sit on the counter in silent kitchen and drink a glass of water. There is a special kind of peace and joy in their home, the kind that comes only after you’ve worked all day for it. It is this robust, happy peace that comes at the end of a productive day, that I always aspired to emulate when I made a home.
But this is 2012. By the age of 30, my grandmother had had three of her four children. Her only job was that of a mother and a homemaker, and she did it well. Whereas at 30 I have a career, not an engagement ring. Yet, I still maintain this standard for what a home and family life should be. Just in my vision, keeping a house wouldn’t be my only job, nor would I do it alone.
And I think this is a good model. My grandparents partnership has been happy and successful for over 50 years. Largely, I’d wager, because they had a solid structure on which to build a it. In its most pragmatic elements, I believe a marriage is a lot like a business. Successful ones run efficiently.
And Then We Clash
Now, Brad is as kind and sweet and devoted as they come, and – this is important – he would never actively neglect to help me. That said, I don’t think anything like “a vision for a home” has ever crossed his mind. Is it genetic? Probably a bit. Is it cultural? Definitely. Brad’s mother is the sweetest, but very traditional. She cooked for, cleaned for and spoiled her only son and only child. That said, while genetics and culture are all well and good, I do not intend to shoulder the burden of administrating our life and home alone.
Therefore, Brad’s gap in experience regarding has caused some sparks between the two of us.
1) My vision is not his vision. Just because I want something done a certain way because it has value to me, doesn’t mean it has value to him. It would appear that compromise applies here. Also, a bit of understanding. Brad tries hard to be a good guy. It’s a top priority for him, so I can understand how he might feel beleaguered or overwhelmed when I get annoyed at him for not doing things “my way.”
2) At the same time, there are real and functional reasons keeping things nice is well, nice. But because Brad’s lived as a poor writer for a decade, I feel like he doesn’t completely understand those upsides. (Like having friends over for dinner in our clean, airy kitchen with flowers on the table, to eat that tomato eggplant bisque I made from scratch). This make me seem like a taskmaster. Things he’s said, “I don’t want to walk around my house with some kind of list of things you want me to do floating above my head, when I don’t even know what that list is.” Whereas I’m thinking, “There’s crap on the rug. Vacuum. Isn’t it obvious!?”
3) Brad’s gap in housekeeping experience puts me in the position of having to teach my partner things like, why a pants hanger is good, or how to use the vacuum cleaner attachments to suck up the cat hair under the couch every week or so. This is a weird, unequal place, that frustrates both of us even when Brad is cool with learning, and my children, regardless of gender, will know what the fuck dryer sheets are.
4) The disparity between our experiences freaks me out. It feels – in my most panicked state – like an uphill battle and an injustice. I start having visions of those headlines about how modern women still do most of the housework in addition to having a career. And I also have flashbacks to my mother’s short-lived marriage to my father, where her job was to clean things up and his to drop them. Those worries cause me to get a little ahead of myself. Example: “We can’t have two children running around in diapers and you just sitting there playing video games for three hours in the morning!!!” God help me, I said this.
5) I also get annoyed because the things that I’m doing aren’t for my own benefit, but rather for the two of us, and yet they end up being a source of conflict. I want us to have a nice life where we eat good dinners, pay our bills on time, and walk through our house without getting cat litter stuck to our feet, together.
And Then We Make Up
Ultimately, I realize this is all just part of the learning curve of living together. And this problem would be a very different one if Brad expected me to cook and clean and set up a house, rather than just not always understanding the particulars. But two generations away from my grandparents, this experience is not one that I expected.
However, there’s another factor at play here. Which is that, while I’m really good at things like making our plane reservations and watching the mail for coupons. Brad’s really good at things like relaxing, taking things in stride, and not yelling at our nuts downstairs neighbor. In fact, I could make an argument that Brad is actually the sweeter and more sensitive of the two of us, which certainly defies gender. And given my tendency toward Type-A obsession, his warmth is invaluable.
Brad and I love each other. Both of us bring things to our relationship. And in the end, because of course Brad isn’t a bonehead romcom slob, he has started to Swiffer. On my end, I’ve remembered that hardly anything can be what you expect or plan it to be entirely, and that’s okay. Because, whether it’s my grandparents in 1950 or Brad and I in 2012, what’s most important is that couple’s respect each other equally. What is equally? It’s a long life. It’s hard to say. These are little things.
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