PREACH, LINDY: In response to Lindy West's piece about modesty

While I continue my job hunt, I've been lucky to snag some holiday work at a family-owned toy store where Mama Jan has worked since I was in second grade.  It is unbelievably pleasant.  Truly.  Why?

1.  It is the exact opposite of the work I was doing during the 2012 cycle-- there is no pressure, I'm working alongside a large team of people, I never have to wear pantyhose, it's almost entirely physical, and all of my tasks are completely black-and-white.  For example, there will be a massive pile of empty shipping boxes after a ton of toys have been received, priced, and put away, and I get to take a box-cutter, and turn the massive pile into a tidy stack of flat cardboard-- and then the manager will be like, "Ugh, THANK YOU for cutting all of those down!".  It is unbelievable.  I'm given a simple, finite task.  I do the simple, finite task-- while wearing jeans, a hoodie, and Chuck Taylors, and listening to the dentist-office-adult-contemporary station that plays on the PA system [sometimes they play 80's Cher or Heart, and I LOVE that shit]-- and then I am praised for my work.  Sometimes I'm asked to wrap gifts.  I do that, hand the wrap gifts to the waiting customers and genuinely wish them Happy Holidays, and every time, the customers are all smiley and grateful.  It's amazing.

2.  Sometimes, one of the staff will bring in cookies or treats that are kept in the break room.  This happened yesterday.  Even though I am doing my level best to avoid wheat flour, I had one of those peanut-butter-chocolate-chip-coconut bars or whatever the fuck they were, and WOW.  Delightful.  Such a simple thing.

3.  A lot of the toys that are made for girls perpetuate the worst kind of gender politics and social programming-- the shit that I rant about on a weekly basis-- and even though it drives me nuts, seeing those items is sort of motivating for me.  It reinforces my ambition to make things better.  Also, one of the product lines has this little set of arts-and-crafts kits that feature drawings of female "rock stars"-- not actual musicians, just illustrations of girls singing or whatever-- and it's pretty awful.  Women didn't pick up guitars or sit behind a drum kit, defying male stereotypes and pushing boundaries, to sell a bunch of plastic shit in hot pink packages to little girls.  Hey, parents, if you want to introduce your child to actual female rock stars, here's a wild idea: visit a record store or your local library's music collection.  Ok.  So, you can easily see how this could turn into Something for me.  I mean, I could go on and on, and that shit never gets old for me.

4.  A lot of the toys offer serious amusement to the irreverent among us.  For instance, this.

5.  Several of the people that behind-the-scenes-- either in the stockroom or in the shipping department-- are younger than I, and while I usually cannot stand anyone born after 1984, a few of my younger associates have really impressed me.  I told Wifey Laura that I was 99% sure I'm supposed to be the spirit guide to a girl I work with.  I take this very seriously.

Anyway, so my current job is a pleasant one.  However, one complaint.  There seems to be this perception that it's a good idea to wear awful, cheap perfume or scented body products to a retail location where there's no fresh air and the furnace is cranking to combat the December chill.  Let me the blow the whistle on that.  It's NOT.  It is not a good idea.  I daresay it's a bad idea.  No good comes of that, at all.  The only benefit is to the wearer, and that benefit is temporary, as the wearer's nose will quickly become accustomed to the scent and then be inured to it.  So, then the rest of us have to smell it, whether we want to or not, and some of us get wicked bad headaches from Vanilla Sparkle Paradise or Wonderstruck by Taylor Swift or Beautiful Heat by Beyonce or whateverthefuck it is.  To all 4 people that read this blog, please spread the word.  Nobody wins with bad perfume except the perfumer.  TSwift and Bey have enough money, I promise.  So, I left the store last night with a MOTHERFUCKER of a headache, laid down to take a nap around 7:30pm, and woke up at 4am, ready to take shit on.

Cut to now.  I read my entire Twitter feed, made coffee and enough brown rice to last me a week [I probably shouldn't be using my big-kid chef's knife before 5am, but those onions weren't going to chop themselves, 'nawm sayin'?], and read some good stuff.  Cue my love letter to Lindy West.

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One of my favorite writers is Lindy West-- she writes for a number of different publications, but I'm most familiar with her work for Jezebel.  I had read a lot of her stuff, but didn't start paying attention until this piece:

[NOTE: THE FOLLOWING IS NOT MY MATERIAL.  LINDY WEST WROTE IT.  SHE WROTE THE HELL OUT OF IT.  I COPIED AND PASTED IT FROM JEZEBEL.  IF YOU ARE READING THIS, AND YOU'RE A LAWYER, AND YOU WANT TO SUE ME FOR COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT, THEN THIS DISCLAIMER PROBABLY WON'T HELP MY CASE BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW HOW TO WRITE A DISCLAIMER, BUT I THINK THE JUDGE WILL BE LIKE, "Y'KNOW WHAT?  SHE GAVE IT A TRY, AND THAT'S GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME.  CASE DISMISSED." AND THEN WILL DROP THE MIC.  ONCE AGAIN, I DID NOT WRITE THE FOLLOWING.  I PROBABLY COULD'VE JUST POSTED A LINK TO IT, BUT IT'S TOO GOOD TO NOT INCLUDE THE FULL ARTICLE.  BY THE POWERS VESTED IN ME BY THE INTERNET, I NOW PRONOUNCE THIS COPIED-AND-PASTED ARTICLE DISCLAIMED.  IT IS TOTALLY DISCLAIMED.]

Congrats, New Grads! By the Way, You Don’t Know Anything

It's the time of year when the internet is deluged with condescending lists of "advice for graduates"—stuff like "experience Paris" and "learn to wear purple until you laugh until you cry until you laugh"—and since all of that shit is just literal barf smeared on a laptop screen, I decided I might as well take a stab at it myself. Let's help some kids.

1. Experience Paris. Just kidding.
You know what? International travel is great and all, but it doesn't magically turn you into a genius or a good person. If you make it to 30 without ever having had the financial flexibility to purchase a $1000 plane ticket, then you're pretty much just normal—not some barefoot hill-goblin. And you know what? Everything in Paris is fucking covered in gruyere. You're only 22-years-old (or something). Do you really want to get sick of gruyere already? Seriously. You want gruyere in your life for as long as possible.

2. This is the most important thing of all the things: you think you know stuff, but you don't.
People act like college is this gateway to adulthood, but it's really just more playtime. Adulthood is the gateway to adulthood. It's not that you're not smart, but I'm like a decade older than you and I'm STILL half baby. I only know like two things at this point, and I am literally the Albert Einstein of being in my twenties. You're going to keep learning stuff constantly for the next 50 years or so, so just calm down and let the learning happen.

3. No one wants to hear about your semester abroad in Thailand.

4. Take all the help. Take it!
Okay, so there are no jobs, you have tons of debt, and everything is fucked. I'm sorry. If moving in with your parents for a while is a viable option, if you have the ability to ease into independence, you should take it. Otherwise, when you actually become independent, you'll have thousands of dollars in credit card debt and a shitty rental record, and then when your car gets towed because of unpaid parking tickets you won't be able to afford to get it out of the impound lot, which means you essentially just went into debt so that you could give away your car. These things affect your credit for years and can come back to screw you even after you've learned your lessons [Ed: After ten years, I'm still dealing with the effects of my just-out-of-school credit fuckery. Take this advice VERY seriously. Don't be me.]. So if you have help available to you, take it. If you can, move in with your parents and get an unpaid internship. Then get another unpaid internship. Write a blog or whatever. Get to know people in your chosen field, don't be a presumptuous dick (nobody owes you shit), and remember that it's your privilege (i.e. parents) that got you here. Your responsibility as a privileged person is to not be a Republican.

5. To the non-privileged people, yes, you will have to work harder than the people in item #4, and that completely sucks.
The world isn't fair. I'm sorry. It just isn't. But take the job you have to take, and try and do the work you love in your free time. Chances are, you're smart and tough and not a dick. That will help.

6. You look really pretty today.

7. Say yes to everything. Take the meeting.
Any job in the field that you eventually want to get into is better than any job that's not in that field. Pay your dues. Nothing is beneath you right now. And be shrewd. Like, if you graduate from culinary school and what you want is to be a fancy chef, it's better to get a job as a dishwasher at a nice restaurant than as a line cook at Denny's. I thought I wanted to be a writer, so my first unpaid internship was at a shitty fake magazine that was owned by these super sleazy Young Businessmen in the Valley. It was basically just a coupon book that kept the dudes afloat while they focused on their real project—inspirational corporate fire-walking. So mostly my "editorial internship" consisted of picking up firewood at a seedy lumber yard and driving it across town to this weird, empty porn-condo that, I guess, was Creepy Firewalking, Inc.'s HQ. Then the dudes would touch my arm and try to get me to walk on hot coals because "it's spiritual," and then they would give me $20 and it felt dirty. It was fucking awful, but I'm still glad I did it, because I totally got real magazine jobs later. Resumes are all smoke and mirrors anyway.

8. Be nice to your parents, because they are going to die and you will be sad.
Unless your parents were horrible, in which case fuck your parents! (Not literally.) One of the best things about being a grown-up is that you get to burn bridges with people who are complete dicks to you. You make your own family now.

9. That said, you should also never ever burn any bridges.
My dad was literally nice to everyone he ever met for his entire life, and every time shit got complicated some old rando would pop out of the dumbwaiter and be like, "Hey, do you want this job? I love you!" He called it luck, but I call it being fucking nice to people. (Just kidding, we didn't have a dumbwaiter. But maybe you can, once you get one million jobs from being so nice all the time!)

10. You are a no-strings-attached person right now. Congrats!
This is your big chance to be responsibly poor, before your poverty starts fucking up anyone else's life. You (probably) don't have kids, a spouse, a mortgage, or responsibilities of any kind. What you do have is the stamina and the drive to cope with a staggering amount of discomfort (i.e. an air mattress in a windowless closet in a garbage shack under the freeway with 13 vegan roommates growing white-people dreads) in the name of freedom (i.e. an unpaid internship supplemented only by your busking salary and plasma sales). Do it now. Because believe me, by the time you're 30, you won't even have the patience to sleep on a fucking couch, let alone share a microwave that smells like the ghost of Braden's ravioli.

11. Don't get confused, though: Unless you are actually poor, you are not actually poor.
I know I said "poor" in item #10, but I was being lazy. I'm sorry. What I really meant was "broke." Don't get some chip on your shoulder about how disenfranchised you are because all you have is a liberal arts degree and 100 Top Ramens. It will make you sound silly and careless. Some people have been systemically disadvantaged their entire lives and now they live in their cars and don't even have Bottom Ramen. Here's an easy way to tell the difference: If you got arrested, do you have someone that could bail you out of jail? If the answer is yes, then you are broke and not poor. "Poor" is not a game. You are "broke."

12. You should care about politics.
Unless you care about politics too much, in which case please stop caring about politics so much because you're making everyone tired.

13. Invest in potatoes.
Potatoes are delicious and they cost almost negative money. Any idiot can cook a potato, and if you're following this guide, there's a good chance you're going to be very hungry for a very long time. Potatoes!

14. If you must make art about your own life, go for it.
But don't expect anyone to take you seriously until your life actually has stuff in it.

15. Don't believe anything that someone sitting at a folding table on the street tells you.
They are either a weird monk who wants to give you a "free book" for $15, or they think 9/11 was an inside job, or they want you to sign up for a garbage credit card, or they are Lyndon LaRouche.

16. Your time as a libertarian, Buddhist, and/or bisexual is over.
Unless you're an actual bisexual, in which case I TOTALLY BELIEVE IN YOU. PLEASE DON'T YELL AT ME. I know a lot of you guys are mad at me right now. Shit. I feel like I'm breaking my own rule at #9. But I told you, I'm still learning! (See half-baby, item #2.) And also, libertarians are mean. I am not sorry for that part.

17. It's time to figure out your weird sex stuff.
I know that when you were younger you hated yourself for liking anything besides tender vanilla caresses, but hush. If you can only self-lubricate by imagining that your mattress is stuffed with Michael Landon's hair, embrace it! And remember that there is someone on the internet who has an actual mattress stuffed with Michael Landon's actual hair, so you are not even close to being the creepiest Cheerio in the box. Also, if you really just like tender vanilla caresses, that's adorable! Do that! Don't let anyone tell you what to do with your parts.

18. None of the stuff that you think is a big deal is a big deal.
Like, nobody on the entire earth cares if you got your period and stained your pants. Fuck, nobody even cares if you just SHIT your pants. Just go home and change your stupid pants! People have bills to pay! People are busy! No one is looking at you!

19. Don't structure your life based on lists on the internet.
That's crazy. You do you, special snowflake.

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Ok, now this is me (Dana) writing again.  How hilarious is that piece?  LW has pieces with more gravity, certainly, and she gave a pretty powerful speech about internet trolls [if you're not familiar with that term, look it up, but to Cliffsnote it for you, it has nothing to do with bridges or riddles], too, but the legit belly laughs that she gave me from that piece is what cemented my Lindy West fandom.  So, anyway.  LW's latest piece is about modesty, written in response to some young women in South Pasadena starting Modesty Week at their school.  Oy.  Here's LW thought about it:

[ONCE AGAIN, I DID NOT WRITE THE FOLLOWING MATERIAL.  LINDY WEST DID.  AND THEN SHE PUBLISHED IT ON JEZEBEL.COM, AND I COPIED AND PASTED IT HERE BECAUSE I THINK LINDY WEST IS AMAZING AND IT IS VERY IMPORTANT TO ME THAT EVERYONE AROUND ME KNOWS ABOUT HER.  DON'T SUE ME FOR COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT.  I HAVE VERY LITTLE IN TERMS OF LIQUID ASSETS AND I HAVE NO NEFARIOUS INTENT SO A LAWSUIT AGAINST ME FOR COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT OR THEFT OF INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OR WHATEVER WOULD BE NEITHER A FINANCIAL NOR MORAL VICTORY, AND ISN'T THERE A BETTER USE OF THE LEGAL SYSTEM?  BOOM.  DISCLAIMED.]

Hey, Girls, ‘Modesty’ Is Bullshit

 Lindy West

The Merriam-Webster English Dictionary defines "opening your article with a quote from a dictionary" as "the most bush-league garbage move of all time"—but that's because it's mainly used by pimply baby boys in red states who want you to know howpersonally wounded they are by the existence of Black History Month. In some cases, consulting a dictionary can be legit instructive. Like right now, when we have young women running around proselytizing about "modesty" in the name of women's lib. Um, ladies, no.

Let's consult the dic.

modesty (n.)
1530s, "freedom from exaggeration, self-control," from M.Fr. modestie or directly from L. modestia "moderation, sense of honor, correctness of conduct," from modestus "moderate, keeping measure, sober, gentle, temperate," from modus "measure, manner" (see mode (n.1)). Meaning "quality of having a moderate opinion of oneself" is from 1550s; that of "womanly propriety" is from 1560s.

This is what "modesty" means. The key points here are "correctness of conduct" and "womanly propriety." If we're looking at the concept of modesty in the non-humble sense, it is a gendered term. It means adhering to a paternalistic and historically oppressive moral code. It means "know your place." It means that certain behaviors are "appropriate" for a woman and others aren't—not for a human being (we're not talking about murder or dog-marriage here), but for awoman. It means that ladies need to be covering up their tittayz.

Ladies. You do not need to be covering up your tittayz.

Now, that doesn't mean that you need to be showing them off and waggling them about in church, or splitting the difference by sort of intermittently flashing them like a strobe light. It just means that you get to do whatever you want with them, regardless of any and all 400-year-old notions about "womanly propriety." Barring public nudity laws (which are also kind of silly, but whatevs), the idea that society can tell you how much of your body to reveal or hide implies that your body does not belong to you. The concept of modesty is proprietary and patriarchal and ancient. I'm pretty sure that even the most hardline anti-feminist can admit who owned women's bodies in the 1560s, when the term came plopping out of the etymological birth canal. Hint: it wasn't women.

Anyway, that hasn't stopped the city of South Pasadena from declaring December 3-7 "Modesty Week" (oops, guess you missed your chance to wear your high-necked chemise with your most dour stomacher!), in response to one high school student's pro-modesty crusade:

Saige Hatch, 15, launched the South Pasadena High School Modesty Club in September to combat the proliferation of short shorts, miniskirts and bare midriffs. Hatch blames popular culture and peer pressure for sexualizing women and girls.

"Women have fought for their rights, liberty, and honor more in the past 200 years than in all recorded history," reads a statement on the club's website, www.modestyclub.com. "Our bright, heroic women are being made the fool. A fool to think that to be loved they must be naked. To be noticed they must be sexualized. To be admired they must be objectified."

Fine, fine, yes, sure, fine. Sounds pretty good so far. I am against the hypersexualization and objectification of teenage girls, and I don't love it when I come downstairs and find my 11-year-old stepdaughter watching The Real Housewives of Gonorrhea Island or whatever. I've done my share of railing against gratuitously "sexy" Halloween costumes. I get it. Also mini-skirts are gross because your vagina touches the chair!!! Unfortunately, further research into the philosophy behind Hatch's Modesty Club makes it clear that this isn't some thoughtful, progressive anti-objectification thinktank—it's more like the South Pasadena High School Slut-Shaming Club, or the South Pasadena High School Uphold the Patriarchy Club. Great.

The club asks girls to pledge they will "wear shorts and skirts at knee length," "shirts and dresses that cover my stomach, lower back, breasts and shoulders" and "not ask, persuade, or allow a boy to do anything with me that will jeopardize the code of chastity."

Boys have less to worry about, but are called on to keep "a neat and clean appearance" and "maintain the utmost respect and honor for the virtue of girls."

F-PLUS. CLICK.

To be very clear, I don't have a problem with these kids wearing turtlenecks and having a club and doing whatever the ding-dong they want (I'm trying to work clean here—Hatch's brother made headlines a few years ago for starting a No Cussing Club, no joke). They seem like sweet kids, and I'm sure their motivations are honest and heartfelt. But I take issue with puritanical standards of female chastity and virtue (which are deeply tied up in conservative religious rhetoric—Hatch, perhaps not coincidentally, is a cousin of Orrin Hatch) being publicly validated by city officials.

Obviously "modesty" has shed some of its patriarchal baggage in the long, slow slog toward modernity, but its fair to say that it's fundamentally intertwined with the concept of women-as-property. "Oh no! Don't let other people see my stuff, because then the stuff will get gross and lose its value!" Cover your goodies, ladies, because everyone knows the menfolk are too busy thinking about man stuff—like winning hella bread, and being all of the presidents—to restrain their penises from homing in on your holes like hungry little dowsing rods.

The idea that the onus is on women to "preserve" their chastity by not "tempting" men—instead of on on men to stop themselves from taking it forcefully—is a fundamental imbalance in our society that creates tangible problems for women every day. And it's coupled with the idea that women who DO "give up" their lady-flowers (and maybe even enjoy it) are somehow tainted and less valuable than women who wear knee-length skirts. However subtly, the word "modesty" is pregnant with all of that meaning (sluuuuuuut!!!). "Modesty" is about men, not women—it's no coincidence that patronizing bullshit like this "Guys on Modesty" Pinterest pageis a thing:

Guys on Modesty is a male perspective Blog on the subject of modesty. We aim to redefine modesty from a negative virtue-a long list of don'ts-to a positive: A way of living that woman aspire to be.

That is the purest distillation of "modesty" I can think of. Couldn't have said it better myself. Just like with the Modesty Club, it's the intent and the context that matter. Wearing a high Peter Pan collar is not objectively problematic (and some of the dresses on the "Guys on Modesty" page are fucking cute, goddamnit). The problem is the implication that there's a "right" way to be a woman, and that men—anonymous, strange men on the internet, no less—have some say in what that "right" way looks like. And I'm very sorry, "Guys," but my only "womanly duty" is to myself.

I have no beef with the kids, regardless of how misguided I think their reasoning is. I only take issue with the adults who indoctrinated these girls into the idea that their personal worth is tied up with their "purity" (notice that no such rules apply to the boys—they're only asked to try to not sully the precious womenfolk). The idea that women's bodies are some kind of exceptional holy commodity undermines equality in a million ways—from access to reproductive health care (hey, how 'bout you cover my vagina the same way you cover the rest of everyone else's body?) to the fact that 2012 is a banner fucking year in the America household because we've elected 20 whole lady-senators to the United States Senate (we can't elect any more or there'll be menses blood all over the Senate chamber!). There is nothing wrong with wearing a modest blouse. There is something wrong with wearing a modest blouse because some dinos told you it is your "womanly duty."

I want my kids to understand that they have value beyond their sexual capital—that they shouldn't dress just to titillate (at least until college, or whenever that phase happens), but they don't need to hide under baggy smocks like their knees and shoulders are some sort of irresistible garden of penis-witchery. They get to live their lives for themselves. Not in thrall to some ancient notion about the commercial value of unsullied vaginas.

I am a person. I'll dress the way I want and act the way I want, and if I want to show all of my boobs that is not an invitation or a justification to rape me. And the fact that I had sex out of wedlock does not make me tainted or virtueless or lower my "value" in any way, any more than it lowers some horny little dude's "value." So fuck these kids' parents and especially fuck the city of South Pasadena. Because if any of you really give a shit about women's safety, then how about you make it "Don't Rape Women Week" in South Pasadena? Or encourage your earnest little kids to start an "End Sexual Violence Club"? ...No? Just "Cover Up, Ladies, You're Making the Rapists' Erections Cry Week"? 'Kay, then. 'Kay. Bullshit.

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Back to me again.  Once again, LW left me breathless.  I couldn't agree with her more stridently.  This is an important issue to discuss with young women because we get really conflicting messages about how to present ourselves.  And, I hate to bring this up, but for women with more pronounced curves, it's a tougher row to hoe.  Two of my BFFs are naturally lean, and therefore have smaller bustlines, so they can wear pretty much anything on top, without issue.  Put those ladies in a camisole, and they look gorgeous.  But, my sisters and I have much larger bustlines, and it's really easy to make some innocuous garment look full-on slutty.  It's tricky!  Trying to find professional clothing is a total assache-- find button-down blouses that fit a large bustline wtihout gapping, without drowning the rest of one's frame, is just this side of impossible.  Also, if you're curvy, and you put on a pair of heels, guess what: you get curvier!  Your butt gets higher, your calves get more pronounced, and your breasts may as well be put on a fucking stage with spotlights and a velvet curtain.  

Working in electoral politics, this is a legit thing.  Because so much of it is attending events, meeting new people, navigating through groups, whatever, one's appearance is a part of the game.  I attended a training last spring with EMILY's List, and there was a designated part of the program that addressed how to dress and groom oneself.  Because, for better or worse, politics is a man's game, so the differences between men and women are thrown into sharp relief.  If a woman wears a pants suit, she runs the risk of appearing to underplay her femininity and ZOMG-she's-anti-woman-and-she's-probably-a-lesbian-and-definitely-anti-family.  If a woman wears a dress, she runs the risk of appearing to sexualize herself and ZOMG-she's-anti-woman-and-she's-probably-slept-her-way-into-the-general-election-and-is-definitely-anti-choice.  This past campaign, I attended a ton of fundraisers, and I can say without hesitation, that my appearance played a significant role in how "well" I did.  If I wore pants and a conservative sweater or maybe something less feminine, I'd have one set of results.  If I wore a dress, and heels, wore my hair down or used a slightly heavier hand with my make-up, I'd have an entirely different set of results.  To be honest, I really enjoyed the opportunities to dress up and I imagine that I carry myself different when I'm fully "done", and I struggle with rationalizing that to the militant feminist that lurks within.  I never wore anything super low-cut, and I never tried to use my decollete as a bargaining chip, so is that the difference?  Like, is that where the line is drawn? I can be feminine or whatever, and it's all kosher as long as I don't throw my cans in someone's face?  

I have no answers for this.  For Halloween, someone suggested that I dress up as Joan from Mad Men.  So, I dd.  I altered a day dress, found some spray-on red hair colorant, teased the shit out of my hair and put it into this elaborate twist, etc.  And it was pretty fun.  I was all proud of myself because I didn't fall victim to the "slutty ______" Halloween costume pressure, but I'm unconvinced that my "pride" is warranted.  I even prepared a Rosie the Riveter costume in case I ultimately decided that dressing as Joan was antifeminist.  I mean, I still had shit on display, like deliberately.  I still wore bright red lipstick, and wore something to cinch my waist, etc.  So, where does that fit into a point of view that finds archaic norms about female modesty totally fucking ridiculous, but that also finds slutty Halloween costumes to be repugnant, offensive, awful?

And to be honest, there are times when I wear something lower cut, when I kind of AM throwing my cans in someone's face, and I feel like myself.  I don't have a tight waist or an ass that won't quit [but high-five to those of you that do!], but my breasts are pretty spectacular and fairly symmetrical.  I have a constant internal debate about whether or not this point of view is healthy.

Y'know, I'm thinking that the main reason I like LW's take on modesty so much is that is validates my desire to bring 'em out more often.  Hmm.  Like I said, I have no answers for this, only questions.

On whose shoulders do you stand?

Happy Holidays, readers!  This is the worst kind of symmetry, but the last time that I wrote an entry, it was soon after the passing of my maternal grandmother, Edna Mae-- and this entry comes soon after the passing of my paternal grandmother, Clara.  I am fresh out of grandmothers and I won't mince words: it fucking sucks.  I miss them.  I had all of my grandparents for almost 26 years, and it was an incredible fortune that I sometimes took for granted.  So, now I'm 30 and I'm down to 1 grandparent left.  I recognize that I need to take advantage of the time that I have left with my pepe (my paternal grandfather), but it's like I don't know how to go about it.  What am I supposed to say?  "Pepe, you're the only grandparent I have left, so I'mma need all of your free time from here on out, mmkay?"

It seems almost too right that I'd have to start this entry with a nod to my grandparents, because what I really want to write about is what comes before us, on whose shoulders we stand, and what inspires us.  [Sweet CHRIST, I hate when I have this much to say because I have to get it all down in one fell swoop or I know I won't have the right words the next day, or I won't have the same fire.  I don't like to write unless there's something I HAVE to write.]  So, let's get into it.  Strap in.

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Alright.  BFF Molly and I have been BFFs for a length of time that is now closer to 2 decades than it is to 1 decade.  You can surely imagine how many mixes have been exchanged.  We have our own styles of mix-making.  I won't write to Molly's approach, but mine is usually pretty wordy.  I once sent Molly a set of mixes with "liner notes"-- like, 5 or 6 pages explaining why I included each song and what she could take from it.  Sometimes it would include some music history-- God only knows what I wrote when I included songs from Sam Cooke or Jeff Buckley.  I'm fairly certain that Molly didn't read everything that I'd include, but I LOVED writing those notes.  I threw together 3 mixes for her over this past Thanksgiving, but didn't have time to write any notes, or even fuck around with the song order for each one.  [There's a scene in High Fidelity, both film and movie, that discusses the construction of a mix tape.  The order is key.  I'm a firm believer.]  I made copies of each mix for myself and have listened to them over the past few days, and sat down tonight to write the liner notes.  I haven't written anything longer than a few paragraphs in quite a while, and I was getting the itch, so I thought that liner notes would be a good starting point to get my swagger back.  The first mix I was chronicling is called "MKD's Ladyfierce Mix".  I include that information so that you might get deeper insight into how much fucking FUN I have with this stuff.  Here's how the liner notes started:

1.  You Drive Me Wild (The Runaways)-- The thing about most Runaway songs that really gets me is how confident the lyrics are, despite being written by 15/16/17-year-old girls, decades ago.  It's my understanding that they were the first girl group to be so overt and aggressive with their sexuality, when historically female ensembles had been good-girls or just total jailbait.  The lyrics here, in "I Love Playing With Fire", and in "Cherry Bomb" are so self-assured, self-actualized, that even if it sends a somewhat irresponsible message to really young women, I don't care because it's genuinely refreshing.  

2.  The Wild One (Suzi Quatro)-- If nothing else, Suzi Q is from Detroit.  Word.

3.  Tymps (The Sick In The Head Song) (Fiona Apple)-- I love how Fi-Fi writes her lyrics.  Kayne West interviewed her right when this album came out for Interview Magazine [they shared a producer right around that time, Jon Brion], and I will never forget reading that Kayne literally told her that her "vocabulary was so ill".  

4.  Tell Him (The Exciters)

5.  Rock N Roll (The Runaways)-- This is the original version of that song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=osOq7G-fiY8  I enjoy that The Runaways changed it to "that LA station".  When I release an album of cover songs, this song will be included, and I'll change it to "that Dee-Troit station".

6.  River Deep, Mountain High (Ike and Tina Turner)

7.  Lollipop (Squeak E. Clean & Desert Eagles Remix) (The Chordettes)-- You can hear that drum sample I mentioned at the :40 mark.  It's from Tone Loc's Wild Thing.  Check it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=387ZDGSKVSg

8.  The Kind Of Boy You Can't Forget (The Raindrops)--  I didn't know this UNTIL RIGHT NOW, but The Raindrops were not an African-American girl group like The Crystals or The Ronnettes, but rather the name that Ellie Greenwich and Jeff Barry used for their own songs.  They were married, and were 2 of the biggest songwriters in the Brill Building.  As soon as you read a bit about Ellie Greenwich, you're going to be like, "Fuh REAL!?" because she's responsible for some of the most delightful pop music.  Check it: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ellie_Greenwich  AND HOLY SHIT, she wrote my favorite pop Christmas song, too!  Check that, also: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UV8x7H3DD8Y

9.  I Love Playin' With Fire (The Runaways)

10.  I Drove All Night (Cyndi Lauper)-- I'm uneasy that Celine Dion covered this song.  Uneasy.

11.  Here's to Us (Halestorm)-- Is it too much to ask that I sit at a bar surrounded by campaign teammates and we randomly start singing this in unison?

12.  He's A Rebel (The Crystals)-- Another example of me being blown away by pop music...Darlene Love sang the lead vocal on this, and according to her Wiki page, she sang back-up on some of my favorite songs

I've been a fan of Darlene Love for a while, for several reasons, but visiting her Wiki page and then her AMG page [wait a sec, are you not aware of AMG?  Right that wrong, friend, and right it quick.], really drove home how amazing and criminally underrated she is.  CRIMINALLY.  I knew she had sung back-up for Sam Cooke, another of my favorites, and I wanted to know which songs she'd touched.  Looking at her credits, I noticed that she had worked on some of Joan Jett and the Blackhearts' albums, too.  Alright, to say that I "noticed" it doesn't cover what really happened.  I read those credits with the same emotional reaction that Allie had in The Notebook when she read the first of the 365 letters that Noah had sent her-- tearful delight, incredulity, regret at not having read those words before, etc.  I was on tilt, for sure.

And then I thought a little further.  Everything I know about Joan Jett-- which is not nearly enough-- indicates to me that OF COURSE she'd have Darlene Love sing back-up.  I LOVE Joan Jett.  I hella, hella love her.  I started listening to The Runaways after seeing the eponymous film last winter, and it really turned into something.  It made me get back in touch with the inner riot grrrl, and exploring female artists that I'd overlooked.  The overall ethos she expresses-- making noise, not apologizing, being your own advocate-- was the perfect companion to a seismic shift in my own sensibilities that started last spring. Then, a few weeks ago, I was in DC [for BFF Katie's wedding!] and I made an all-too-brief visit to the National Museum for Women in the Arts to see a special exhibit called Women Who Rock.  I wasn't sure what to expect, but on the real, I am grateful that I went on a Monday at midday because I was the only person in the entire exhibit, and it allowed me to really feel it.  The exhibit includes clothing, instruments, and random memorabilia from a ton of incredible women in music.  Check it.  And I saw things that took my breath away.  Truly.  (I described the experience on Facebook thusly:

Attention, residents of Washington, DC and the surrounding communities. If you don't take the opportunity to check out the Women Who Rock exhibit at the National Museum for Women in the Arts, please punch yourself in the face. I saw handwritten lyrics to "Cherry Bomb", a pair of Patti Smith's boots, Kate Pearson's wig, the dress Cyndi wore on the cover of She's So Unusual, one of Cher's Bob Mack

ie creations, an original issue of Bikini Kill, Kim Deal's bass, Madge's J-PG gold conical bustier, and I was sobbing for pretty much the entire time I was in the exhibit because HOLY SHIT IT'S JOAN JETT'S LEATHER JACKET WITH A PIN THAT SAYS "PRO FUCKING CHOICE" AND I JUST CANNOT HANDLE THIS EXCUSE ME WHILE I REMOVE MY GLASSES AND WEEP INTO MY JACKET SLEEVE AND CAN I JUST SET UP A COT AND HANG HERE UNTIL THE EXHIBIT CLOSES AND AREYOUFUCKINGKIDDINGMEHOWISONESUPPOSEDTOHANDLEALLOFTHISWITHOUTACOCKTAILANDALICENSEDTHERAPIST. StevieDonnaMarianneSheilaLindaPatSiouxsieDebbie, praise.) 

Seriously, sobbing uncontrollably.  [Oh, that's Nicks, Summer, Faithfull, E., Ronstadt, Benatar, Sioux, and Harry, respectively.)  My interest in/obsession with Joan Jett and female musicians only intensified after visiting the exhibit, so seeing this connection between her and Darlene Love was pure magic to me.  I couldn't help but think that maybe they're pals in real life.  Maybe they've performed together.

So, I pushed it a little further and found this.

And I lost my shit once again.  To cite another John Cusack film, it's like the universe keeps revealing these women to me.  [That's from Serendipity.]  (The tough thing, for me, about finding these little gems is that I get deposited onto some ecstatic plane of emotion, and can never seem to find anyone who can meet me on it!  ATL Laura and my friend Sara gave worthy attempts, but they really had to be there, y'know, in my head to fully understand.  It would probably help if more of my friends were prone to manic or hypermanic episodes.  Whatevs.  My friend KB gave it a shot but, again, she had to be there.)  It doesn't seem like nearly enough people in my life are familiar with Darlene Love.  It is ridiculous because NO ONE has a voice like hers.  She belongs in the same vocal stratosphere with Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Freddie Mercury, Aretha Franklin, Nina Simone, etc.  Aside from her own hits, she sang back-up for some true, true legends, and a lot of it was uncredited.  I cannot even imagine how much of her voice is out in the ether.  (Speaking of back-up, Joan Jett sang on Peaches' "Boys Wanna Be Her", which gives me delight beyond measure.)  She was there for arguably the most important time in pop music, when Phil Spector was producing his Wall of Sound.

Anyway, I posted the above video on Facebook, hoping beyond hope that I'd find some kindreds.  No dice.    Is it possible that not everyone is knocked out by these powerhouse women?  Why do I feel like more of the exception that the rule?

I think about the women who costumes and paraphernalia I saw at the NAMWA exhibit, and I'm just floored.  (Granted, there were some exceptions.  In addition to an explanation about rape threats on an Tumblr comment thread, I'll also need an explanation for why Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera get to share ranks with Joni Mitchell and Bonnie Raitt.  Sure, Brit has given us some fun shit to dance to, and some of my favorite car-singing moments were thanks to Xtina, but what barriers did they break?  What risks did they take?  Some current-day female singers might end up really accomplishing something beyond mere hooks and records sales-- truly, I'm optimistic about a few-- but riot grrls they are surely not.)  Time and time again, these women blazed a trail.  They made noise when everyone and everything was telling them to keep quiet.  And in the process, they created some of the most indelible moments in popular culture and a soundtrack to our lives.  [Quick question: how badly do you want to listen to "Edge of Seventeen" right now? Or maybe "Love Me Like a Man?"  So badly, right?!]  A few weeks ago, a friend was bitching on FB about being tired and unmotivated, and I just unleashed.  We just don't have time.  This girl has a ton of potential, and I cannot sit idly by as she wastes it.  What if Aretha had been like, "Meh, y'know what, I think I'm just gonna marry well and hang it up"?  What if Cyndi Lauper was like, "Eh, I'll probably just wear jeans and a t-shirt.  I don't want to be too weird"?  No.  Fuck that.  This is what I wrote to my friend:

"Think of all of the women who came before you, who didn't even have the option of professional everjetting*, who were relegated to hearth and home, forced to bear the responsibilities of a family instead of pursuing a career or chasing a quixotic dream in a faraway city. We stand on the shoulders of generations of silent, bored women, generations of untapped potential and missed opportunities. You have the opportunities that our foremothers couldn't have imagined, so don't fuck around and waste those hard-won chances that lie at your feet. You would be cheating yourself out of adventure and success, cheating the world out of your awesomeness, and spitting in the faces of those who came before you. I wouldn't relay these words to every woman; I'm relaying them to YOU because I believe you are exceptional. Wake up, get your ass in gear, and don't rest until you kick some ass today."

(*Everjetting is sort of an inside joke.  It relates to an alias I assigned to myself when I feel like I'm living up to my potential and kicking serious ass.)  I was a bit histrionic that morning, and I'd had some strong coffee, too, but I'll be damned if I wasn't being completely honest.  We truly stand on the shoulders who came before us.  Thank CHRIST I haven't had to blaze any trails!  It would not go well.  They've been blazed, for sure.  It's our job to make sure they remain that way, that we're guardians of our progress, that we don't take everything for granted, that we keep at it and speak up and make sure that we reach back at every turn to pull the next woman up.  I look at my niece and think of the friends she'll make, and my hope for her and those girls is that they be governed by grace and guts, not by bullshit.  If I can have a hand in that, then I can die happy.

I am lucky that I work in a field where I have ready access to strong, accomplished women, rife with grace and guts.  I'm addicted to them.  My quite amorphous professional ambition is to get good women elected.  Everywhere I turn, I see new examples of women being abused, ignored, or marginalized.  It's like technology has given society new and fun ways to be shitty to women.  Some of my favorite female writers have been vocal about the harassment they get from internet trolls, and it goes so far beyond ridiculous.  Honestly, can someone explain to me the psychosis required for someone to send a rape threat to a feminist blogger?  I sure as fuck don't understand it.  Is there some reptilian corner of the male brain that drives one to violence in response to a call for gender equality?  I just...ugh.  So, instead of just complaining, my response is to work towards getting more women elected to public office.  I could go into greater detail about the logic that connects "women are up Shit Creek" to "I need to work in politics", but now is not the time.  Here are some things that keep me motivated:

1.  Professional or collegiate football, and the related hysteria, commercialism, and mindfuckery
2.  The Kardashians
3.  Any of the Real Housewives [except maybe Caroline Manzo]
4.  The sheer number of women I know who changed their name upon getting married [yeah, yeah, it's traditional, but FOR FUCK'S SAKE, that tradition is based on flagrant and archaic patriarchy]

And then there are the things that keep me inspired:

1.  A strong female voice, musical or otherwise
2.  Women who can shred
3.  Men who get it
4.  Women who get it-- OK, so here I was going to include a link to something that Amy Poehler once said, but I couldn't find just one, so suffice it to say that Amy Poehler gets it.
5.  My mom-- we're not always aligned politically, we're not always aligned about what I should be doing professionally, but she approaches everything with circumspection and kindness, and thus sets a good example for me (a judgy bitch).

I'm between campaigns right now, so I don't know what's next.  My career in politics hasn't been easy, and I'm grateful for that.  I'm getting psyched for a new challenge.  I know that whatever I do next will involve smart, motivated people for whom the phrase "fire in the belly" is entirely apt.  I might never get to meet my favorite female icons, but I have gotten to meet some of their political counterparts.  Legislative rock stars, if you will.  Daydream: Secretary Clinton runs for POTUS in '16, I get to work on her campaign, and the entire living roster of the Women Who Rock exhibit all offer themselves as campaign surrogates, and I get to kick it with Dolly Parton and Kathleen Hanna.  And when I say "kick it with", I mean "shit my pants and hide in a janitor's closet so that I don't embarrass myself in front of".  I'd pull it together in the end though.  It's a part of everjetting.

*     *     *

Here's to DLove and Joan Jett, to the women who refuse to shut up and who dare to play with fire.

SuperRowan and 3-D Humility

Note: I have a cache of unfinished and unpublished entries. I want to cross the Ts and dot the lowercase Js, and get them up. I'll be doing this over the next few weeks, and to prevent any confusion with this blog's timeline, I'll make a note of the blog's original timestamp in the title. There's one about my favorite eateries in Baltimore that needs to be posted. I'm a little achy for B-more lately for a variety of reasons, so revisiting my favorite eats will be a little salve.

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Over the summer in Baltimore, I was blessed to have 3 interns reporting to me. They were each wonderful in their own way, and I miss each of them dearly. One of them, Rowan, asked me to send a recommendation letter to her high school, attesting to her performance over the summer and what she learned working on the campaign. It was pretty much the easiest writing assignment of all time. Rowan is still in high school, she's years from fully crystallizing into an adult, and I cannot wait to see what she does once she takes flight. I told her that I'd do whatever I could to help turn her into SuperRowan; this is an inevitability. I remember looking around at my classmates in high school, maybe during a lecture or when one of us was making one of the eleventy-trillion presentations we had to make in our four years, and thinking, "We're going to shake shit up." I met a few people over the summer who gave me that same feeling, and Rowan is one of them.

Now that the year is drawing to a close, I'm thinking back on how I spent my time and looking forward to what moves I want to make next. Since Thanksgiving or so, I've been circling some big themes, plotting what I want to do next, what I want my next writing project to be, and yesterday, I was smacked in the face with one of those "You're on the right track, girlfriend!" moments. And what beautiful serendipity that one Miss E-Cav was with me!

Let's begin with some classic DKM trivia. Question: How many times did DKM see "Titanic" in the theater? (I'll provide the answer in a future post. Ooh, suspense for all 4 of my readers who probably already know the answer.)

Suffice it to say that I spent well over an entire day in the theater watching that movie. Not in one sustained period, mind you. It was spread out over several months; that movie stayed in theaters for a long time due to its Oscar attention. Aussie Cat was my hype girl for several of these viewings because a) she had wheels and a driver's license, and b) she is as enamored of the grand/romantic/sparkly/epic/melodramatic/sweeping as I am, easily turning a blind eye to reason or logic [or discerning taste] in favor of a chance to be knocked breathless if even for a moment. (There aren't that many of us, and even fewer that aren't completely pathetic. See "Twi-hard" for some reference points for the pathetic among us.) Even at the time, I don't think that I was gushing about the quality of the movie. I probably talked some sugar about how much I wanted to make out with Leonardo DiCaprio-- that really shouldn't be in the past tense, if I'm honest-- or about Kate Winslet's performance, which still holds up. But I don't think I tried to convince anyone that it was the greatest movie ever. (It isn't. Like, at all. I could get fucking academic on that point, trust.) It was essentially a cheap high. Bear with me.

"Titanic" came out when I was a sophomore in high school. That is prime angst time, right? I was in the throes of the first major gut-wrenching, insomnia-inducing, borderline-unhealthy, unrequited crushes that I've ever had [there've been 3, and I'm pleased to note that all 3 have turned into genuinely interesting, accomplished, compassionate men-- my flawless taste started early], and I had no productive outlet for this vast store of lovey, starry-eyed, romantic drive that propelled me. I should've been learning how to write love songs or finding an agent to start a career in teen rom-coms because I probably would've been really prolific. (Yeah, that's right, Taylor Swift. You're not the only one who had high school crushes that basically made you cognitively impaired; you just managed to write some catchy and marketable songs about them.) It was like I had truckloads of bricks but no idea how to build anything with them and it was maddening. A major archetype in my heroine's journey is satiety. Even when I was really young, I remember feeling like I could never get enough of anything. I always wanted someone to pick me up. I always wanted one more person's attention. I always wanted to hear a song or a story one more time. I always wanted one more helping of whatever Jan was feeding us even if I knew, logically, that my belly was full. This 15-year-old version of that hunger/drive/craving was no different, and it just wouldn't go away. But, I remember sitting in the theater, when the lights would go down and the previews would start, and that gnawing feeling would quiet down a bit. I had 3 hours of relief that I couldn't find anywhere else. I would be captivated. I'd be swept up into something big and bombastic. Seriously, it was like a drug. It's efficacy faded, of course, but I was able to get an adequate fix for at least a handful of those viewings.

So, bring it back to the present day. That lack of satiety is still a major theme. I know that part of a political campaign's appeal to me is that it is entirely captivating; it demands everything of you, physically, mentally, emotionally. If you have any sort of intensity, you can unload it on a campaign. You can be as passionate and competitive as you want and it's rewarded. It's fulfilling on a different level if you can tap into the idea that you're doing something for the greater good-- probably why lucrative private sector campaigns have zero appeal to me-- and there's definitely some romance and drama to it. It's a reasonable outlet for someone like me. But it's also a stop-gap, a Band-Aid on a bullet wound, a temporary solution. Campaigns end, everyone goes home, and then what? I'm in that "then what?" phase right now and it definitely activates the crazy in me. (It unleashes the kracken.)

I'm waiting for the next campaign to start, I'm working an entirely stress-free job in the meantime, and it leaves a lot of time and energy. I spend a lot of time ruminating over my own psychosis, amusing myself with the ridiculous shit that keeps things quiet for a few hours at a time, and trying to be productive with that incessant burn. Is it any wonder that the blog is suddenly active again? Or that I have 2 screenplay treatments in the offing? Or that I can't sleep or eat normally? Or that I suddenly have the energy to work out like I haven't had since, oh, 2001? [I've lost about 10 pounds in the last 3 weeks, for real.] I've gone through these phases before but this is probably the most acute it's ever been. Thank GOD that I don't have the appetite for actual destructive behavior because "right hot mess" would not suffice as a descriptor.

So, yesterday, I'm sitting at a movie theater with E-Cav [in the very same building that the "Titanic" shitshow began for me], and what preview do we see? Oh, yes-- it's for the 3-D re-release of "Titanic" to celebrate the centennial of the ship's failed passage. It was like getting a grinning middle finger and a beckoning gesture from the universe; "yes, Dana, you are entirely f'ed in the head, but you're on the right track so keep going". The movie that E-Cav and I saw was "Young Adult", a dark comedy about a woman in a suspended adolescence, returning to her hometown to revisit a high school love and ask some questions about what fulfills us and makes us happy. I'd like to think that I'm not as fucking awful as Charlize Theron's protagonist, but there were some moments in the film that seemed almost too germain.

So, what fulfills you? What makes you happy? Do you know anyone who is actually fulfilled and/or happy? Are you? I'm beginning to think that my hunger thing-- the void that is never filled, the voice that keeps saying "THIS ISN'T ENOUGH!!"-- is probably my greatest blessing while also being the main source of my demons. Someone once told me that I'm a building on fire; I can't ever extinguish the flames completely, but the choices I make dictate how long I can keep the building intact. When I was first presented with this metaphor, I was in a slow tailspin and it was way before I had any sort of grip on my own mental health-- it scared the shit out of me. It doesn't anymore. Part of it is that I like that there's part of my essential composition that is uncontrollable, unstoppable, ungovernable. And the other part is that it's not entirely accurate. I definitely feel my own destructive ability but I'm not the doomed building, ready to crumble at any time. In that picture, I might be the fire itself. I'm lethal at times, and I'm not easily contained, but I throw light on things, and I offer warmth and/or heat. (And I'm usually too hot, literally.)

Should I ever realize my creative ambitions and find that my name is heard outside of my immediate circle, then this blog will be fucking hilarious.

"That's the ABC's of me, baby!"

The quote in the title of this entry is from Jerry Maguire, spoken by the character Rod Tidwell as played by Cuba Gooding, Jr. I'm generally a fan of Cameron Crowe's work, and then I read that he'd told Janeane Garafalo that she'd secured the role of Dorothy Boyd in Jerry Maguire, suggested she lose some weight for the role, and then gave it to Renee Zellweger. I'll never be able to fully express how upset that makes me.

Anyway, Sister Carrie posted this little personality expose thing on her blog, and I thought I'd play along.

A. Age – 29. No one ever guesses my age correctly. An asshole at a college bar referred to me as "some bitchy 35-year-old", when I was in fact a bitchy 25-year-old; but usually people guess that I'm 5 or 6 years younger than I am. This is good because I'm a late bloomer and always have been. I might be 29, but I'm hitting 24/25-year-old benchmarks right now. (Mind your own business about that.)

B. Bed size – Twin. I sleep in the same bed that BFFs Katie, Molly, and Thea would sleep on when they stayed over at Chez Mofo during high school and breaks from college. I'm telling you: late bloomer.

C. Chore that you hate – Cleaning my bedroom. The majority of the childhood memories of my father are of him yelling at me about my messy room, and for those that know my dad, it should be clear that having him raise his voice to you is pretty much the least fun thing ever. It's pants-shittingly unfun. Also, I don't like having people in my room, so cleaning it seems like a waste of time because I don't really give a fuck if it's messy. My mentality, much to the chagrin of pretty much everyone that has ever lived with me, is that if you have an issue with my room being messy, then you are even further discouraged to come into my room. For real. Stay out. Does this indicate some sort of psychosis? Eh, probably. Add one more to the list, and once again, stay out of my room.

D. Dogs – I love all of them. I've been bitten by a dog and I still love them. We just get along well. Aside from the basic things that one can love about the species-- soft ears, warm bellies, unbelievably cute babies-- I like how dogs have a really developed social structure, and I like that so many breeds of dogs have a wonderful, storied heritage. Also, dogs exhibit the best human traits: loyalty, cooperation, persistence, intelligence, sensitivity, kindness, etc. And this.

E. Essential start to your day – If I'm working, coffee with soy milk. If I'm idling, it's reading or doing the NYT crossword in the can.

F. Favorite color – It changes frequently, but dark, rich navy blue is a perennial fave.

G. Gold or silver – There's a time for both.

H. Height – 5'6.5". I love my height.

I. Instruments you play – I used to play piano and flute, and I used to sing in a handful of choirs. I still love to sing and I'd jump at the chance to learn any instrument. I would love to be able to compose and make my own arrangements of my favorite songs. I have this long-held ambition to write an early Jewel version of Poison's "Talk Dirty to Me". I already accomplished one of my random "by the time I'm 40" goals, so that one has moved up the queue.

J. Job title – Seasonal sales associate, freelance writer/editor. I'm hoping that it's only a matter of weeks before I get to reclaim a former title: political operative.

K. Kids – Oh, Christ, no. I love the niece, and I will love whatever other offspring that my siblings and close friends produce; I'd gladly sublet my uterus or donate my probably-very-agreeable follicles, but it would be for someone else's benefit.

L. Live – Detroit 'burbs. I love my hometown, but I'd rather be pretty much anywhere than here, except maybe anywhere along the rural portions of the Trans-Siberian Railroad or in any politically unstable country.

M. Mother’s name – Jan. Jancita.

N. Nicknames – Dee, Dana Mofo, DKMofo, D-Skrab [this is an abbreviation of my hypothetical DJ name, DJ Skrabble], Danifer, Wifey.

O. Overnight hospital stays – [see entries from February of 2009]

P. Pet peeves – religious fundamentalism, conspicuous consumption by the misinformed and Conservative new money enclaves outside of major cities, bigotry of any kind, reality television [with a few select exceptions], media illiteracy, mealy peaches, bullies, bad drivers, being told to watch my mouth, being dismissed, bad customer service, mixed metaphors and misuse of expressions and idioms, Citizens United, the objectification and subjugation of women worldwide PARTICULARLY when it's done under the guise of female empowerment or by the hand of women who are spoon-fed an easy alternative, how hard it is to make a living in anything creative, apathy, complacence, being told to calm down, and I really don't like when people put their hands on my bare skin without clear consent from me. (I have this gnawing memory from Election Night after this past fall's municipal primary; I was wearing a one-shoulder cocktail dress, and this dude was congratulating me and he kept palming the bare side of my back. It makes me skin crawl every time I think about it even if it was a basically innocuous maneuver. A lot of people crave physical contact and they're OK with fulfilling that craving with strangers; I am not. Keep your fucking hands off of my skin and keep your face away from my face.)

Q. Quote from a movie – I could write volumes from this prompt. From High Fidelity: "Well, I've been listening to my gut since I was 14 years old, and frankly speaking, I've come to the conclusion that my guts have shit for brains." I like pretty much every line that Carey Mulligan says in An Education. I love the last line of The Apartment. And I could watch the dialogue between Frances McDormand and Billy Crudup from Almost Famous-- watch from 3:05 to 4:50 -- about a billion times and never get sick of it. There's this tiny little nugget from The Muppets Take Manhattan when the whole gang is talking over one another, someone quiets them down, and Janice (the blonde from Electric Mayhem) goes, "I'm not taking my clothes off for anybody, even if it is artistic." I like most all of Olympia Dukakis' lines from Steel Magnolias. "There's no crying in baseball!", from A League of Their Own. For real, I could go on and on. Even if a quote doesn't have that same "I coulda been a contender!" punch that we crave, there are moments of magic when an actor's delivery of a line elevates the material beyond what is deserved by the shitty writing. (Kristen Stewart, I'm looking at you.) Rene Russo's line in The Thomas Crown Affair, referring to her character's lack of a genuine romantic history: "Well, men make women...messy." Joan Cusack in Working Girl: "Sometimes I sing and dance around the house in my underwear. Doesn't make me Madonna. Never will." Rosie O'Donnell's monologue from Beautiful Girls. Yeah, I have to stop now.

R. Right- or left-handed – Right

S. Siblings – 3 biological, 3 by marriage.

T. Time it takes you to get ready – That depends. Ok, from drenched in sweat to bridesmaid-appropriate, I'm 60 minutes with no distractions. From pajamas to work-appropriate, if I've showered the night before, 7 minutes.

U. Underwear – I'm a fan. I think thongs are ridiculous and I take issue with anyone who tries to convince me that they are comfortable. No, they aren't. And avoiding VPL is a waste of time-- yes, I'm wearing underwear! Stop the presses!

V. Vegetable you hate – I can make it work with any of them. I don't really like okra unless it's fried, and I don't like vegetables that have been pickled. Otherwise, I'm agreeable.

W. What makes you run late – Everything. I'm constantly running late. I recognize that it drives my friends and family crazy and it's a never-ending struggle.

X. X-rays you’ve had – Spinal column, teeth, jaw.

Y. Yummy food you make – I make really good risotto.

Z. Zoo animal – I really like big cats, particularly the massive matriarchs.

Open Letter to Adele

Dear Ms. Adkins,

Hello and happy holidays! I write to you today for several reasons, not the least of which is to praise you for your album 21,. I quite literally cannot stop playing it in my car while driving. (And if I'm honest, I play it frequently in my car without driving. Like on my lunch break. Or in my parents' driveway like a total rom-com single girl cliche.) But I'd be remiss if I didn't address a few other points.

I'm grateful to you for bringing back liquid liner, faux lashes, and hairspray usage. Some American celebrities who will absolutely remain nameless have taken to wearing faux lashes on their bottom lids or allowing their hairstyles to be influenced by Sarah Palin or Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi. I find it repellent. But, when you do it, it just looks bangin'. Keep it up. Your live performance at Royal Albert Hall gave us a reminder of Cindy Crawford's hair in the "House of Style" days, and I mean that in a good way. Velcro rollers, what.

I'm grateful to you for towing the line for the alabaster among us. I'll admit that I've fallen prey to the siren call of the airbrush tan or Tarte's Park Avenue Princess bronzer. But, underneath, I'm fair-skinned and proud of it. Snow White never got Mystic'd and things turned out pretty well for her.

I'm grateful to you for dressing like a lady. I've been puzzled since Madonna wore that Jean-Paul Gaultier conical bra, so you can just imagine the cognitive dissonance that Lady Gaga or Nicki Minaj have caused.

I'm grateful to you for fucking BELTING when there are too many female vocalists who play it coy because they don't have the pipes to back it up. (Yes, Rihanna and Katy Perry, I'm referring to you. Get your shit right.) Popular culture has brought us some incredible male vocalists over the years. There are men who can sing like Clapton can play a guitar. Sam Cooke and Freddy Mercury always come to mind. But there's nothing like a woman who steps up to the microphone and, without any tricks or cop-outs, can level an audience with just pure power and talent. I listen to your live performances and I just want to punch Ke$ha in the face.

I'm grateful that your lyrical content is organic and candid. You're not making up songs to titillate or make an easy buck. (Ri, Katy, I'm still referring to you. "S&M", "California Girls", really? No, but really?) You're singing about regret, rejection, desire, and heartbreak and I fucking dig it. The women that came before you, the original torch singers, the soul sisters, the ones who could bust down the doors with a single note-- they can rest easy for now.

Ok, now, about 21. If I never hear another album that is as intense, as satisfying, as moving, and as just totally fucking good, I genuinely think I'll be alright with it. I really wish that you'd included something boring and derivative, just one track that I felt compelled to skip, because then maybe I'd be less of a crazypants about 21. But, alas, we all have crosses to bear.

Lastly, I just want to extend my sympathies about the Glee cast's performance of "Rolling in the Deep". Yes, Lea Michele and Jonathon Groff can both sing. No, they are not without talent. But, their performance of it was a classic "is nothing sacred!?" moment, not unlike the casting of Ann Hathaway in the role of Fantine in the upcoming film adaptation of Les Miserables. Gwyneth Paltrow's version of "Turning Tables" and that kick-ass mash-up of "Rumour Has It" and "Someone Like You" are different stories altogether. But, Spring Awakening-does-Adele was just too much for me. And I'm sorry that you and your millions of fans were subjected to that dross.

Is it weird that I have a vivid recurring daydream of singing "I'll Be Waiting" to a packed house at a downtown club venue, dedicating the song to one of a number of men in my life? (Sometimes, it's an actual guy I know whose children I would happily bear; sometimes, it's one of a few celebrities with whom I can picture having an on-and-off-again love affair.) I've been rehearsing in my car on a regular basis should this opportunity present itself, and I hope that I'll do you proud.

Best wishes for a lovely holiday season,

*Dana

PS If it helps, your choices to pay tribute to some of the great music that came before you are not lost on me. The torch singer, Tin Pan Alley, Wall of Sound, and honest-to-God Delta blues-- what a refreshing departure from the robotic Ryan Tedderization of pop music. If you want to hang out with Ronnie Spector or write an album with some of the OG Brill Building songwriters, it would be awesome. Get it, girl.