Giving Thanks for the Letter ‘M’: Moving On, Movies, Men, and Miracles

I apologize for the lack of posts in recent weeks. Hopefully you’re still reading.

I also apologize for the monster length of this post. I think it’s the result of weeks of pent-up, then messily unpenned  (bad writing pun) tension.  I’ve barely had the stretch of two uncluttered hours to put pen to paper, let alone fingers to keyboard.

And that’s because things are changing quickly in my life. Again.

Just in time for the anniversary of my father’s slow demise, I’m once again off to start—or restart–my life.

I think the shift started with the tectonic influence of my mother, a.k.a. Mara, who has been voicing for months now her complaints about my job at the restaurant: its hours, its lack of weekends, the way that my bosses have made unrighteous overusage of my helper-caregiver nature during times of economic distress (“Abbie, can you handle serving the entire restaurant on a Sunday night by yourself? We don’t have the money to hire another server right now.” “Uh, sure, I guess.”  ::Cue the anxiety attack::).  It hasn’t made living at home pleasant, and going to work is even less so.

Ruth can limbo really, really well when she has a stick to knock her head on. And a white tiger-print dress helps, too.

So I made up my mind to allow myself to start looking at other jobs. That was step one, which I took around the time of my last post. Then I made myself stay up later so I could apply for other jobs online—and this step happened about two weeks ago.  This week, I fell into the we’ll-call-you/interview-you-soon-so-stay-tuned stage, which is like playing limbo without any stick to tell you how far to bend while you try to continue on with your regularly scheduled days.

And on the night of the 19^th, or really, the early morning of the 20^th, I decided to simply quit; to allow myself to just have-it-up-to-here with the hassle of working on back-pay (still no paycheck: this is week two), having no weekends (and hence, almost no dating), working heavy shifts by myself, and being responsible for far more restaurant-running than I was ever contracted to be.

I wasn’t at work when I decided this; I was actually out with one of my old gal pals in the middle of a screaming, writhing, hysterical crowd of well over 200 people crammed into a movie theatre (out of a full 1,200 or so total in the whole building). At midnight.  Awaiting the second coming–of the next installment of the  Twilight Saga¹, not Jesus Christ. But for all the anticipation in the air, you might have thought that we’d gathered there for that.

And I knew, while I was sitting there between groups of babbling fifteenish-year-old  and forty-something women, that I was being BAD. Very bad.

I’d not only worked a full double-shift at the restaurant earlier that day, but I knew I was going to have to work the double-shift the next day, which was a Friday, and to top it off, would be a night when live musicians were coming to the restaurant. I should have been home, sleeping under the fog of sedatives, preparing myself mentally for the coming equivalent of waitressing hell—handling six or seven tables at once, managing chef s’ delays, pacifying upset customers, and making bad tips in spite of how hard I try to make everyone happy—but instead, I was out watching a teenage girl’s epic love drama unfurl itself on the big screen in the wee hours of the morning.

And I couldn’t really regret it; I couldn’t even regret going out for a drink beforehand.  And I felt actually sort of mad that I was going to have to sacrifice a lot the next day in terms of sleeplessness and exhaustion to pay for one night of fun with a friend for the first time in nearly a month of working six and seven days a week—no weekends.  I was seething over the loss of autonomy. I was angry—truly angry—about being caged in a lifestyle that wouldn’t suit a hamster.  It was that anger, I think, that sharpened my focus and brought me to the conclusion that my vocation had to change.

Bella (Kristen Stewart) tries to connect with her reflection in a dream sequence that forces her to face facts about herself in “New Moon.” Edward (Rob) stands beside her looking pretty as a dream in a period coat.

And as I watched the film, I relearned some things about myself. Ultimately, I remembered that I had no one to be angry at for my circumstances except for myself. As Edward Cullen commented, it was Romeo who “destroyed his own happiness” in his personal tragedy; he had no one else to blame. I decided that I didn’t want to be a tragic literary cliché—so I needed to quit acting like one.

And I was grateful for the emo soundtrack, the dark, depressive facials of Kristen Stewart’s Bella, the self-deprecating sadness of Robert Pattinson’s Edward, the spunky, no-nonsense attitude and protective friendship of Ashley Greene’s Alice, and the fursplosive (furry + explosive) tempers of the werewolves. It felt like one massive cathartic experience.  As an audience, we collectively sighed, cried, gasped, laughed, raged, cringed, and felt that curious relief of knowing that, in spite of the strange and unfulfilling ending of this particular book (New Moon is book two of the saga), the ultimate ending for all involved will be happy.

This seems counter-intuitive, but I love it when movies wake us up to the world of real life.  I love it when they remind us of our part in the God-authored stories we inhabit, stories that are complex, difficult, and sometimes frightening, but that God promises us will at least end well.  I guess the experience restored my faith a little.

So, when my gal pal and I walked out of the theatre at 2:30 AM, only to discover that her car’s battery was dead, we felt no real sense of panic. She called AAA, we returned to the bar from whence we’d started our evening to await our rescue, and we re-encountered the bartender who had flirted so assiduously with me some hours before (he’d brought me a whole bowl of cherries for my Long Island; apparently he’d been staring a me while I used a straw to chase down the lonely cherry in my glass and then decided he liked the combination of me eating cherries enough to bring me a bowl).   We talked to him and discovered that, lo and behold, he was not only a neighbor of mine, but that he was competent with jumper cables.   He had us safely on our way by 3 AM. Since it was a chance meeting in the first place that led to our deeper acquaintance with him, I felt like we’d experienced nothing short of a miracle in his act of chivalrous assistance.

Ah, real-world heroes.  They’re better than vampire-heroes anyday (sort of).  At least, they deserve a nice kiss on the cheek, if not a bite or two (okay, there was no biting, I promise).  What a nice ending to our Twilight Night!

So, now I’m off on another adventure of sorts.   When all of the counselors in my life back up my instincts when they tell me that it’s time to move on from somewhere, I take that as God’s voice projecting through the mind and the people he’s entrusted to care about me.  My allotted stint at the restaurant is over, and in good time.  I’m going back on the job market, this time looking for a position that has a little upward mobility, maybe benefits, and most of all, God’s stamp of direction. I’ll have my days free to actively pursue other job opportunities, to visit much-neglected friends, and to also have the requisite downtime required to handle the heavy emotional turmoil of the holiday season caused by my bereavement.  November 13^th marked the anniversary of my dad’s “death sentence”–the day when the doctors told him there was nothing left to do but wait for his body to give in to the cancer.  The rest of this holiday season is going to be a landmine of emotional memory triggers from my father’s death, which means I’m going to be doing some heavy grief work in the days to come on top of my job-searching.  Wish me luck.

-Ruth

Notes (Skippable unless you’re a Twihard):

1. “The Twilight Saga: New Moon” beat the opening-weekend records for the Harry Potter films, and it even killed the all-time opening-night record previously held by “The Dark Knight.” This just proves that women are a powerful economic group. Current stats have the audience for the films as being 80% female, 50% of whom are under the age of eighteen, with the other 50% being made up of twenty-somethings and Twimoms. http://movies.yahoo.com/news/movies.ap.org/new-moon-wolfs-down-1407m-opening-weekend-ap  The movie is now the #1 film in the world for this whole year.  Yeah.  I know.          Crazy.

 

Update: Where’d Ruth Go?

Dearest Readers and Fellow Bloggers,

I’ve been on a mini-hiatus from all-things-Internet (except for email, which I put on the same level as my cellphone in terms of communication) for the week.  Why? Because I’m trying to sort several things out at once.

For one thing, I’m considering quitting eHarmony. Not just because of the money (seriously, it’s like $30 per month, and that’s their best deal), but because of the fact that, frankly, it just feels too strange for me to keep sifting through pictures and 300-word profiles like I’m shopping in a catalogue.  I have heard of people finding Mr. Right in this fashion, but quite frankly, I’m thinking it’s the wrong way for me to go about it. Mom found her Mr. Right only when she gave up and told God to do the scouting and the matching for her.  God is more efficient, and he’s usually cheaper (although he sometimes incurs some charges for processing and shipping; more on that in later posts about why God gives and takes away).

Why all this thinking about God and matchmaking?  Why even think, at age twenty-two, so seriously about marriage?  For several reasons, actually, and I’ll be honest about them all:

1. I held a baby tonight to give a mom a reprieve.  It not only earned me a nice tip, but I think my ovaries were screaming at me from all the cuteness.  The girl was cornsilk-haired and had a sanpaku gaze (yin, not yang).  So. Adorable.
2.  Said baby not only approached me and put her hands on my child-bearing hips in a clear demand to get picked up, but she fell asleep while I was holding her.  Babies don’t do that stuff to perfect strangers unless God tells them to. Seriously. They don’t.  I therefore conclude that God’s telling me to be a mommy, and to start preparing emotionally and intellectually for the task.
3. (I know my brother reads this blog, so I’d like to apologize for number 3 in advance). I think I like sex.  I can’t say for certain, of course, what with my intacta status, but all my hormones are fully functioning. As is my imagination. I’ve deduced that I am not called to singleness because of this; if I am so called, then God is meaner than I thought.  And not just to me.  I feel sorry for whatever guy might miss out if I removed myself from the sex-kitten pool.  I say that in all humility, and not just with full knowledge of what I look like naked…
4. I think I have some things to offer in terms of my companionability, too.  I’ve been through a lot, and not much scares me anymore, let alone the rough patches of marriage. How many other girls  their early twenties can say that they’d already nursed someone who was going through a devastating illness?  Been the emotional support for someone who was facing the prospect of their own death? Learned to cook, clean, sew, and run a household?  Learned to budget?  Learned to laugh at the stupid little things and decide when to make their own fun during the dry spells and economic downturns?

And that’s about it for my reasons, but I think they’re good ones. You might think I’m full of it. If so, please comment.

So, now you know where I’ve been: off in my own world, contemplating marriage. Forgive me for my absence.

For my next trick, I’ll be forcing myself to write about an uncomfortable subject:  Naomi.  That’s right; she’s an important character study in the book of Ruth, too, and my own Naomi is a lot like her. I’ll let FB know when I update! 

Thanks for reading.  I mean it.

 

Love,

Ruth

 

P.S.

In addition to avoiding the computer for contemplative purposes, I was also avoiding looking at this until it officially came out today (presented by the actors themselves at the MTV VMAs, no less), and it made my otherwise very long night spent carrying trays and cleaning out soy sauce bottles much more interesting:

Twilighters, enjoy.  I know I did.  It looks better than the book, but I may just be saying that because I thought New Moon was Meyer’s second-weakest of the quadrilogy (Breaking Dawn being the worst because of the stretches in character and the way SM treats Edward like a caricature of himself).  Chris Weitz (the New Moon director) is made of WIN.  Just look at those gorgeous fursploding werewolves!  The vampy smackdowns!  It makes my geeky self very happy.  Can’t wait for 11-20, and apparently, neither can the aliens. Check out these crop circles:

New Moon Crop Circle/Maze, located in Utah. Because there's nothing better to do in Utah than worship RPattz and TLaut.

Full article here:

http://www.radaronline.com/exclusives/2009/09/field-dreams-09-utah-corn-maze-pays-homage-twilight

 

Fate Staring Us in the Face: the Smack Down between Genetics and Choice

 

In the wake of making a few brain-fart-style mistakes on an editing assessment that had me in self-frustrated tears on the drive home from really great publishing company, I had an epiphany.  Well, Mom had a strange comment, and it forced my epiphany while I sniffled and stir-fried the fajitas for supper. 

“I am so sick of hearing about genetics!” she exclaimed. 

“What?” I said. 

“I’m tired of people saying that, because of my genes, I’m doomed to this or that.” 

Well, I thought, the makeup of our bodies do rule certain things about us.  Take, for example, today, when low blood sugar combined with an anxiolytic in my blood stream combined with the draining effects of mensus (TMI?  Too bad. I’m fertile. Deal with it; I have to!). I just wasn’t on the top of my game.  I’m hoping against hope that I still managed to at least score high enough on the assessment to get a callback, but I noticed during the exam that feeling queasy and anemic wasn’t helping my concentration at all. 

 Was I doomed just by the confluence of being hungry and being a girl at the mercy of the lunar cycle—the disappointing sum of biology plus genetics plus astrology?  What about the sheer force of my will? You know, mind over matter?  Shouldn’t that trump circumstance?  What about all those prayers people have been saying for me and those that I’ve spoken into the night?  Is God in this, outside of this, or all over this? 

It all led me to thinking, what guides fate?  

Personally, I think God works in mysterious ways. He pulls from circumstance, like body stasis, from temperament, from our own natures, and yes, even our genes and physical features to place us in the right state at the right time to (he hopes) make the right choice.  

I could type about determinism vs. voluntarism until my wrists fall apart and you decide to go check your Facebook rather than read this post.   Instead, I’ve decided to avoid discussing Calvinism and boring you all to death (because Calvinism bores me to death by recycling the same scripture verses as “proof” that God determines our eternal fates, all while ignoring the many other verses that discuss God’s wish that man will make good choices concerning his own eternal destiny. Bleh.).  If you all’re game, I’d like to play with a weird theory that has been running around in my head like a mouse on the loose in a grain silo.  (And, as always, I also want to hear your theories about what elements contribute to our “fate,” or our path—or our lack thereof!) 

Maybe I’m too much of a Victorian, and therefore put too much irrational stock in physiognomy and even, to some extent, phrenology.  But I’m honestly fascinated by how physical features sometimes reflect what goes on behind someone’s face.  I often wonder if our looks reflect our personalities, our outlooks, and maybe even–like a talent or a predilection–point us to some kind of future interest or destiny. 

In a curious, information-collecting mood, I discovered that I have what are known to the Japanese as “sanpaku” eyes (san-bai-ku: three-white-eye, by my Chinese rendering).  I ran across the word in a physiognomy treatise, Googled it, and came up with some articles on Wikipedia and the crack-pot of fun called Educate-Yourself.org that explain the concept this way:  

“Sanpaku references the belief held by some that the visibility of the white of the eye between the iris and the lower eyelid is a sign of physical and spiritual imbalance. Some societies consider Sanpaku (San Pacu) eyes to denote physical and mental superiority, also beauty. By all accounts it is a very rare and significant physical characteristic, envied and admired by some, but misunderstood, resented, and feared by others. Some representations of certain gods and heroes are shown with this characteristic.”1 

Sanpaku eyes are strange because they’re apparently out of our natural alignment. 

“When a baby is born, the iris, or colored part of the eye, is usually beautifully balanced between the upper and lower eye lids. It touches the upper and lower lids, so that no white, or sclera, shows above or below. The sclera is visible only to the left and right of the iris. This indicates a balanced and healthy nervous system. . . . When a person dies, the iris rises so that it partially disappears under the upper eyelid. The white sclera shows below. In Oriental Medicine, we call such an appearance sanpaku, which means “three whites” showing. Three whites, or sanpaku, is common among those who are ill or exhausted. It is most severe among those who are gravely ill and approaching death.”2 

Raw Mahdiyah, author of the Educate-Yourself.org article, argues that there are two kinds of sanpaku eyes:  yin and yang, appropriately.  Yin is the most common.  In the yin sanpaku eye, the iris rests above the natural center line of the eye and reveals the “third white” in a sliver of sclera below the iris, even when the person is looking straight ahead.  Yang sanpaku has the opposite effect on a person’s gaze: the iris floats towards the bottom of the eye, revealing more of the white above the iris.  

According to Mahdiyah, each type of sanpaku comes with a distinct set of problems.  Yin sanpakus apparently draw in danger “from outside. A person with yin sanpaku eyes will place himself or herself in dangerous or threatening situations unwittingly—and may not survive.”  Mahdiyah adds that yin sanpaku can be caused by an excess of “yin substances, such as sugar, refined grains, alcohol, and medical drugs.”  Yin, of course, is also associated in Chinese medicine with strong feminine energy.  No wonder it’s linked to an excess of carbs and sweet stuff like chocolate. 

Mahdiyah goes on to explain that yang sanpakus, rather than drawing danger to themselves from the outside, are flippin’ dangerous to others. Charles Manson  (pictured below right) apparently had a startling yang sanpaku gaze.  A yang sanpaku’s menace manifests itself in impulsive violence, and his diet, according to Eastern Medicine tradition, is excessive in meat, hard cheeses, and salt.  Yang is the masculine force of the Dao in Chinese tradition.  Apparently, this kind of gaze reflects an over-machismo’d inside. 

Charles Manson, showing some major "yang" above his irises. Scary.

Sounds kinda silly, doesn’t it?  Like a fortune cookie for the face.  Still, I had time on my hands, so I got curious and looked up the famous sanpakus that the Wikipedia article mentioned, including JFK and Abe Lincoln (both pictured on the Wiki), Princess Di,  Marilyn Monroe, and Robert Pattinson (I’ve thrown in picspam of the last, because he practically makes his living off of his exotic-looking eyes). 

Rob Pattinson's obvious yin sanpaku shows up on the red carpet, not just in "Twilight."

 These folks all were, or are, intelligent, magnetic, and slightly unstable yin sanpakus. Most of them were considered beautiful—even sex symbols—innovative, daring, unique, or in many ways simply other-worldly.  Many of them have been given roles of leadership, whether in a film or in the Oval Office.  Most of them have met an untimely death, often by drugs or violence or bizarre accident. 

Robert Pattinson, showing off his trademark yin sanpaku eyes in profile this time, as well as showing off a lot of other pretty parts of his face.

As a fellow yin sanpaku, I should, perhaps, be a little more worried. I think that the coincidence is uncanny, but the theory behind it smells strongly of superstitious speculation—the result of Asians that have become far too fascinated with the diversity of the large-eyed Caucasian gaze, the size of which naturally opens up the possibility for more visible sanpaku traits than an Asiatic eye. 

Young actor Ronald Reagan displays an extreme yin sanpaku.

I kept swallowing grains of salt while I read along and smiled to myself.  But I confess I still felt intrigued. I wracked my brain to think of some other sanpakus, just to see if they matched the personality types, too.  I came up with Johnny Depp—a yin sanpaku most prominently on his right eye—and the strongly-yin Ronald Reagan (pictured here as a young man in one of the rare pictures where he’s not smiling). Personality-wise, they’re both magnetic. Both actors, at least at one time in Reagan’s career, anyway, and both clearly creative individuals. In terms of expressing any yin-type danger, I had to dig a little deeper.  Depp is, of course, in good (heck, super-fine) health, but he’s revealed a near-suicide attempt in the past (weird story involving Tim Burton’s intervention), and Reagan was almost assassinated while he was in office.  Hmmm. 

 

Johnny Depp's devastating black-eyed, one-sided, yin-sanpaku stare.

I dug a little further and found that some folks on obscure discussion boards have suggested that Obama and Martin Luther King Jr. also share yin sanpaku features.  A sign of future danger for the president?  Maybe.  

Creepy?  Just a little bit. 

Anyway, I’m now reconsidering the old adage, “the eyes are the windows to the soul.” Is there wisdom in it? 

And if so, am I running to the end of a short expiration date?  If I am, I’m hoping I at least get a chance to leave a mark with the loved ones I leave behind . . .  And, I suppose, even if I’m not going to die young and leave a pretty corpse, I will at least continue to try to leave a positive impact on the world.  So here I go, tossing out some strange, deep thoughts to get you all thinking about God and your faces, your insides and your outsides. 

I hope you all have fun staring at yourselves in the mirror and trying to figure out if you have sanpaku eyes. 

Marilyn Monroe, with another telling yin sanpaku stare.

Sources (salt not included): 

1. “Sanpaku.” Wikipedia.  <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sanpaku>
2. Mahdiyah, Raw. “Sanpaku Eyes.” < http://educate-yourself.org/ww/sanpakueyes16feb06.shtml>.

 Images: Google.  I got lazy. 

Interesting side note: 

Macrobiotic diet guru George Ohsawa wrote a book entitled, You Are All Sanpaku (1963) and dedicated it to JFK and Lincoln, warning JFK specifically that he had “too much sanpaku” and was in danger.  The book was given to Kennedy just a few months before he was assassinated.

 

Concerning Gold Digging (and not the California Gold Rush kind)

Boaz, Mr. Rochester, Colonel Brandon, Mr. Darcy—and heck, even Edward Cullen.  What is it about men with laden purses that make women swoon?*  Is it the promise of being well-taken care of–and an inclination to look for that promise, even in the Post Housewife Era?

Mr. Darcy, as portrayed by Colin Firth

Feminists certainly balk at this seemingly instinctual attraction.  It’s the most esurient and lazy form of greed, some say. Others  will contend that it’s simply foolish to rely on a man to support you.  They might  even call you a dependent, or worse, a “parasite” (Simone de Beauvoir’s word, not mine).1

I say, pshaw, Simone.  I might even throw in a valley-girl-esque what–EVER to the musings of Gloria Steinem.  

I get the gall to do this because men have a controversial  instinctual desire, too. It’s the instinct to snatch up pretty girls.  After all, if you really  think about it, that’s not fair of them, either, is it? But men do look for beauty, and frequently, with a kind of primitive urgency, just like women can sniff out a platinum credit card tucked snugly in an Italian leather wallet.

It’s just how the world is, and it’s how we’re wired.

 The Chinese have an ancient adage about matchmaking that goes like this: “Nán cái nü mào ma”—roughly translated, “The talented (upwardly mobile) man should have the pretty woman.”

That seductive bedroom-eyed sagette, Marilyn Monroe, defends the reason for this matchup  in the film Gentlemen Prefer Blondes when she is confronted by a wealthy father who accuses her of gold-digging. I think her rebuttal is kind of clever:

“Don’t you know that a man being rich is like a girl being pretty? You might not marry a girl just because she’s pretty, but, my goodness, doesn’t it help?  And if you had a daughter, wouldn’t you rather she didn’t marry a poor man? No, you’d want her to have the most wonderful things in the world . . . . Well, why is it wrong for me to want those things?”2

I have to wonder if either desire is totally wrong, really.  They certainly seem natural enough. The male quest for the ideal, nubile female is on every football game advertising block.  A woman’s desire for a husband with a bit of cash has been recorded widely in literature, from Cosmo to Austen, and even celebrated in more ancient works, like –God forbid!–the Old Testament.

 Let’s take a look at my current primer (and the inspiration for this blog), the Book of Ruth. 

If you don’t know the story already, here are the Cliff’s Notes:  Ruth, her sister-in-law, and her mother-in-law Naomi are all widowed at the same time in a great tragic snare of fate that kills off all their husbands. Ruth alone stays and cares for the aged Naomi, while her sister-in-law returns to her own family.  Ruth and Naomi travel alone, penniless, into Bethlehem from Moab.  In the process, Ruth has to become the provider of the duo. She works hard, like a man, and independently, like a feminist, in the male-dominated threshing fields so she can bring home the bacon (er, wheat).   It’s backbreaking and exhausting work, but it enables Ruth and Naomi to survive, so Ruth does it gladly.  But old Naomi then makes the suggestion that maybe Ruth should try to get married to Boaz, a distant relative of her husband—and a wealthy landowner.    Naomi’s reason for this is explicit: 

Ruth 3:1- Then Naomi, her mother-in-law, said to [Ruth], “My daughter, should I not seek rest for you, that it may be well with you?”

Naomi then convinces Ruth to put on a sexy dress and sneak her way into Boaz’s bed after a party—effectively forcing a marriage and claiming Boaz as her kinsman-redeemer (because he’s somehow a relative of her dead husband, and by Levirate law should have dibs on his widow).  Ruth somehow gets away with this without any loss of face.  I have yet to try it.

This is where this entry gets personal, and more importantly, back on topic.  For you see, my recently-widowed mother has been prodding me to monitor my eHarmony account much more closely than I have been. I got a bit testy with her for butting in and meddling and asking too many questions about my matches, and I practically snapped at her when she shoved my laptop into my hands.

Wiping surprised tears from her eyes at my uncharacteristic outburst, my mother admitted, “I just want you to be happy.  To be settled—to be taken care of.”

My mother is Naomi version 2.0.  Possibly Naomi XP.  Not sure.

I softened then, and I told her that her wishes reminded me of those of my friend Maggie, who, in the weeks counting down to my father’s passing, said something to me like, “You need someone to take care of you.  I wish a Mr. Darcy would come riding into your life.” 

At the time, I was so exhausted from caring for the sick and depressed while wearing a cheerful expression that I’d felt like I’d had a mask soldered to my face. I’d begun to think that nothing was real except for my new mask, and that my mind behind it couldn’t be trusted, and neither could any other minds behind the other masks walking around .  So I’d laughed and mused aloud that, for all my love for him, dearest Mr. Darcy was still fictitious—and so were any men like him.

But the fantasy of the romantic male redeemer (RMR) dug under my skin like a dogwood splinter. I itched. I flexed my muscles and slapped my face. I calmed myself and chided myself and put my nose back to the grindstone of work and class.  I told myself to stop being silly and selfish and to quit wishing away my problems.

Rich vamp Edward Cullen laughs at cancer. And humanity in general.

But at night, I read that damned addictive crack-literature known as the Twilight Saga, and a part of me dreamed of handsome, stock-market-predicting vampires who scoffed at monetary concerns and other petty, human things . . . like the cancer that was killing my father.

I got past it, though, when my escapist mood and the pages of Stephenie Meyer’s epic had run their course.  Now I’m back to footing the approved feminist path of careerism. I’m browsing job search sites and filling out applications like a good modern-day girl.  Truly, I am.  I haven’t had a date in weeks, either.  Pretty soon I’ll give up makeup and wear a lot of pants and low-heeled loafers so that I don’t cave in to The Beauty Myth (well, maybe not–I think I’ll die before I hand over my eyeliner). 

Aren’t you proud of me for being a good girl?

Don’t be.  I’ll fess up to this right now, just to clear the air:  Just now, when I was in my closet, I gave my Marilyn Monroe costume a wistful glance.

 

Sources:

1. de Beauvoir, Simone. The Second Sex. 1949.  Trans. H.M. Parshley.  Penguin, 1972.
2. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Dir. Howard Hawks. Perfs. Marilyn Monroe, Jane Russell.  Twentieth Century Fox , 1953.  (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q9glKchxU3I:  Start watching from 4:50 through 6:00 for the quote in context)
3.  Meyer, Stephenie.  Twilight. New Moon. Eclipse. Breaking Dawn.  New York:  Little, Brown and Co.,  2004-2008.  (I’m too lazy to MLA every one of the novels, so just deal). 

Other random resources/allusions:

Wolf, Naomi. The Beauty Myth.  New York: Morrow, 1991.  (Also known as the textual argument that spawned the many jokes about ugly women using feminism to get the same power in society that pretty women have had for years.)

My Chinese class notes from winter term, 2008-9, Hanover College. Prof. A. Shen.  (See, Mom?  I told you I’d learn something useful in that class.)

Picture credits belong to the BBC/A&E (for the Firthness) and Summit Entertainment (for the Twilight screencap).

 

* Nota Bene:  Not all RMRs are loaded, per se. Some are just really hard working and like to keep their ladies happy, which is sexy, too.