Naked Pictures, A Hack and Rape Culture

I saw something on Facebook yesterday. Actually, many somethings, but all shades of the same.

More than a few people I'm "friends" with over there, in reference to the now infamous weekend hacking of the iCloud accounts of, among (many) others, Jennifer Lawrence, posted something along the lines of "if celebrities don't want their nude pictures shared, they shouldn't take nude pictures."

In other words, if you don't want people to see you naked, you sure as hell better never be naked.

I sat with this for awhile, trying to figure out why it made me so uncomfortable. Because it did. Really uncomfortable.

And then I saw something else on Facebook. I saw that Emma Sulcowicz, a Columbia University student who filed a Title IX complaint alleging that the University mishandled her rape and the subsequent investigation, was carrying the mattress from her dorm room bed wherever she went on campus in protest of Columbia's failure to take action against her rapist, and would continue to do so until he was no longer on campus because, she says, "Every day, I am afraid to leave my room."

And maybe you want to stand up right now and tell me that these two incidents are completely different. Completely unconnected. Maybe you want to tell me that no one touched Jennifer Lawrence. Maybe you want to tell me that being raped is nothing like having nude pictures of yourself posted onto the internet. Maybe you want to tell me that posting naked pictures isn't the same thing as sexual assault.

But what I want to tell you is, you're wrong.

Sexual assault doesn't have to be physical to exist. Sexual assault deals with consent, and particularly the lack thereof, in a sexual act. In Emma's case, a man forced her to have sex without her consent. And in Jennifer Lawrence's case, hackers shared nude pictures of her with the entire world, and I'm relatively certain she didn't give her consent for that. Or to the millions of people who have looked at the pictures since Saturday. 

And instead of talking about how she was violated, how sharing these pictures was a crime and how everyone who looks at them is complicit in that crime, people decide it's better to lecture her about how if she would just never have taken these pictures in the first place, this never would have happened. As if she and the other women involved in the leak are somehow at fault for these private pictures finding their way to the internet.

Sorry, but fuck that.

The hackers didn't find these pictures and publish them on the internet because a bunch of famous women had nude pictures on their phones or stored in their iCloud accounts, because they had bad passwords, because they took the pictures in the first place, or because they just weren't careful enough. It happened because people committed a crime by hacking into iCloud, stealing personal property and publishing it on the internet. 

And the public came flocking because, naked women y'all. And what do naked female bodies exist for, if not to entertain the men of the internet, of the world, right?

Wrong. So very, very wrong. It doesn't matter that these women are hot or rich, or that people feel that they are somehow entitled to them because they are famous and put themselves into the public eye. None of these things give anyone the right to violate their privacy. These women are people. They are human beings with the right to a personal life and to pieces of themselves that are not available for public consumption.

The kind of victim blaming that has ensued in the wake of Saturday's hack isn't any different from the victim blaming that nearly always follows rape allegations made by women against men. It is just as horrifying as when we chastise a rape victim for what she was wearing, saying, drinking. Or for not saying no loud enough. Or for not going to the police fast enough.

This is rape culture.

And don't you dare tell me that men get raped and sexually assaulted too and use that as some kind of excuse to close your ears and cover your eyes and ignore what is really going on here. Because how many men are afraid to walk down a street alone at night because a woman might jump out and attack them? How many men do you think worry about getting raped by a woman during an early morning run? And do you honestly think that the hackers who published the nude pictures of Jennifer Lawrence didn't find any nude pictures of men? Of course they did, but they didn't publish those all over the internet because men don't do that to other men.

We live in a world where universities, my very own Brandeis University included, hand out rape whistles to girls during freshman orientation and give them the locations of the emergency phones on campus, instead of telling the boys that rape is wrong. We live in a world where girls are taught to protect themselves but boys are rarely taught not to do the things that the girls would need to protect themselves from. We live in a world where companies are spending money developing nail polish that will change colors if dipped in a drink that contains a date-rape drug because money is not being spent teaching boys not to rape. We live in a world where in a poll of high school students, a large percentage of both girls and boys really and truly believe that it's not rape if she's drunk, if her skirt is short, or if she paid for dinner. We live in a world where a brilliant and accomplished female Senator is called "porky" by her male colleagues. And we live in a world where too much unacceptable behavior is ignored or pushed aside or even laughed at because boys will be boys, amiright?

And it's sad and terrifying and not at all the kind of world that I would like my children to grow up in.

So what do we do? Where do we go from here? Do we stop taking any pictures of ourselves that we wouldn't want posted on the internet for the entire world to see? Do we all buy a bottle of the date-rape drug detecting nail polish? Do we buy pepper spray for our purses and hold our keys between our fingers if we should ever have the audacity to walk alone at night? Do we stop wearing short skirts and red dresses and high heels?

I just don't know. I'm not sure anyone does.

I don't know if it will get better, or if maybe it will just keep getting worse.

And that might be the scariest thing of all.

Sick of Hearing About the War on Women? Me Too.

So, you're sick of hearing about rape culture and the war on women? God, so am I.

I was hoping we had left all those pesky conversations behind once the election was finally, mercifully, over. I thought that maybe, just maybe, all the anti-choice, anti-woman rhetoric was just an overblown conservative response to what looked like a near certain democratic victory. I was hoping that we, as a country, were better than that. That maybe we could start to focus on other things, like passing common-sense gun laws or making sure that the President has a cabinet so that he can, you know, run the country.

I was wrong.

I want to write something like, "here we go again," but the truth is, it never really stopped.

Because two weeks ago Arkansas legislators overrode a veto by a democratic governor to pass what was then the most restrictive abortion law in the country. The law bans abortions after twelve weeks and mandates an ultrasound for women seeking an abortion. Rejecting decades of Roe v. Wade precedent, the Arkansas law defines viability not as the ability of the fetus to live outside the womb, but rather at the arbitrary date of twelve weeks.

The Arkansas law held the illustrious title of "strictest abortion law in the country" for nine days before another state claimed the crown.

Last Friday, North Dakota passed a law outlawing all abortions where a fetal heartbeat can be detected which, for some pregnancies, can be as early as six weeks. Deciding that he knows more than actual doctors and the Supreme Court of the United States, a sponsor of the bill said in a discussion before the vote that "We all know the significance of a heartbeat. It is the universally accepted biological proof of life." The bill, along with another one outlawing abortions for genetic abnormalities and gender selection, overwhelmingly passed.

Not one single voice in the North Dakota legislature spoke out in opposition. The bills will now go to the Governor, who has not indicated whether or not he will sign them. But the truth is, I'm not sure it matters whether he signs them or not. Because if they don't get enacted this time, they will be proposed again next term, and in the one after that. Because the burning desire to limit the freedom of women to make choices about their own lives and their own bodies knows no bounds.

If that was all it would be more than enough. But that's not all.

Because on Sunday the sentence was handed down for the two teenage boys on trial in the Steubenville rape case. If you're not familiar with the case, allow me to summarize. Ma'lik Richmond and Trent Mays are football players in Steubenville, Ohio. In 2012, they were arrested and charged with raping an unconscious 16 year old girl at a series of parties in the summer of 2011 while their friends - male and female - stood by and watched. They took pictures and videos of the rape, and shared them through social media and a series of text messages. It took a full year from the rape for any charges to be filed because the incidents were covered-up by police and the local football coach in order to protect the football players.

On Sunday, both boys were found guilty of rape. And the punishment for their crimes? A maximum of three years in a juvenile correctional facility.

We could debate for hours whether the sentences are harsh enough. Whether doing time will rehabilitate these boys who so obviously have some serious emotional issues. Whether the boys should have been tried as adults. Whether our justice system is actually just. But, well, criminal law has never been my strong suit, and there are more important things to discuss, like the reactions of the media and the various parties involved in the case.

In their first coverage after the verdict, CNN lamented the death of the "promising futures" of these "star football players" and "very good students." They spoke to an legal expert who discussed the severe ramifications of the boys being labeled sex offenders for the rest of their lives.

When their fate was read, the boys broke down in court and tearfully apologized to the victim's family for taking pictures and sending them out.

Even the judge himself used the verdict as a cautionary tale about the dangers of overuse of social media.

Something seems to be missing here, no?

Why was CNN carrying on about the loss of the boys' bright futures, when what they should have been talking about is the absolute horror of sixteen year old boys raping sixteen year old girls? Why were the boys apologizing for taking and sending pictures when what they really should have been saying was "we are so terribly sorry we raped your daughter"? And why was the judge discussing social media when he really should have been talking about the travesty of sexual assault?

I think everyone is getting the story wrong.

This story is about two boys who raped an unconscious girl. Who violated her in the most heinous way one can be violated. This story is about rape. And I don't think there is any message to be taken away from the Steubenville rape trial other than the message that rape is wrong. Rape. Is. Wrong.

More and more it seems like we are living in two worlds. The first is a world where women run countries and Fortune 500 companies. Where women are earning more than half of all college and graduate degrees, and control nearly sixty percent of the wealth in the United States. Where women can choose when and whether to "lean in" and "lean out." Where girls dodge bullets and bombs to get an education, and where we teach our daughters that they can be whoever they want to be.

The second world is a far different place. The second is a world where women are told by the states when and whether to have children. Where women are forced to submit to an invasive procedure before obtaining a legal abortion. Where a sixteen year old rape victim is the one ostracized from her community, rather than the ones who raped her. Where we are more concerned about the future of the rapist than we are about the rape victim who will live with the memories of the attack for the rest of her life. Where a man is aggressive but a woman is a bitch. Where a candidate for the U.S. Senate thinks there is a difference between "legitimate rape" and other kinds of rape. Where women are paid less than men for equal work.

And until we figure out a way to live wholly in the first world, we, as a society, have failed.

I'm sick to death of talking about the war on women, and I'm sure that you are too. But I'll keep talking about it anyway, because that's the only way things will ever get better.

And they must get better, because I'm not so sure how much farther we have to fall.

A Recipe and a Heritage

I come from quite a long line of good cooks and bakers.

My great grandmothers, both of my grandmothers and my mom. And now my sisters, my cousins and me.

And with so many cooks and bakers in one family, sharing recipes has become a bit of a pastime.

And of all the recipes that we share, it is our challah recipe that is our most important.

The recipe was passed down from one of my great-grandmothers on my dad's side, and she used to make it by hand. I spent quite a bit of time with her when I was little, and one of my very first memories is of standing on a chair in her kitchen on Thursday afternoons while she kneaded the dough that would become her challah.

When my parents got engaged, my great-grandmother bought my mom a Kitchen Aid mixer, and passed along that same recipe. It would be a few years before my mom started baking challah, but my great-grandmother gave her the tools, knowing that before long my mom would be measuring flour, yeast and water to follow the recipe that had become our heritage.

When my great grandmother passed away after a long and beautiful life, my dad's mom took up the challah-baking torch, using that recipe that tasted of my great-grandmother long after she took her leave of this world.

I was about ten when my mom made her first challah, and nearly every Friday afternoon since the smell of baking bread has filled her kitchen.

When my sisters and I got married, my grandmother's present to each of us was the Kitchen Aid mixer of our choice and the recipe so that we could start baking challah of our own.

I don't get a chance to bake every week, but last night I did. I measured and mixed and kneaded and braided, and used the recipe that is inscribed in my brain in indelible ink.

And as I followed the familiar steps I felt, as I always do, a link to the generations of women who came before me and the ones who are here with me now. To the women who have grown me, shaped me, and made me.

This is our recipe. This is our heritage. This is what we bake. This is who we are.

Smiles, Laughter and Sparkly Memories: Two Years

Grandma and her Grandchildren
October 10, 2010. My Wedding Day

Two years ago today, we lost the matriarch of our family, my Grandma Freda. And although under Jewish law we generally commemorate the anniversary of a death based on the Hebrew calendar, which is a lunar calendar, it is this particular date in January that sticks in my mind. It was a Sunday. I was mid-way through training for my first half-marathon, and I found out as just as I was leaving for a seven mile run. After I got off the phone with my mom, I took that run through a snow covered Central Park, comforted by my most favorite place during my most favorite time of year, and by the memories of a woman who walked through each and every day of her life with a smile.

Hours later, we were all gathered around my parents' dining room table in Pittsburgh thinking, laughing and talking about the woman who was our greatest role model for a life well lived. The woman who taught us everything we know about filling a family - and a life - with sweetness and joy. At the funeral, my sisters, cousins and I stood together and shared our memories with all the people who gathered with us to celebrate and remember. And this is what we said: 

When we were little, most of us spent a lot of our time at the farm, visiting Grandma Freda and Grandpa Leonard. While we all had a great time picking dandelions, swimming in the lake, going on treasure hunts, and playing in the tire sandbox, I think what we remember most were the pies. Mostly apple, sometimes cherry, occasionally blueberry, and always delicious; served through the little window in the kitchen. It was at the farm, at such young ages, that Grandma Freda taught us about the importance of dessert.

And the lesson didn't end with pies at the farm. Wherever Grandma Freda was, there was always something sweet. Cookies, her signature coffee cake, a chocolate bar broken up into little pieces, and homemade ice cream on the farm for breakfast (“it’s calcium after all”). After dinner, before dinner, in the middle of the day, the timing never seemed to matter. When we were younger we mostly cared about the cookies, but as we got older we all came to understand that they meant something more than just a fun treat. 

To Grandma Freda, dessert was her way of injecting a little extra something special into every day. It meant taking an ordinary dinner (or breakfast or lunch or snack), and making it just a little more fun. 

We would soon learn that dessert isn't the only way to make a day extra special. Grandma taught us that a pedicure just isn't a pedicure unless the polish is red, a bath just isn't a bath unless there are bubbles right up to the top, a little sparkle or some sequins, or even a dress full of pearls never hurt anyone, and eyeglasses just won’t do unless they have something red, pink, or green around the frames. We grew up hearing “honey don’t you just want to put on some color with that plain black top?” and because of Grandma Freda, an outfit, no matter how casual, is not complete without some jewelry to top it off.

Over the years, we also grew used to making sense out of Grandma’s frequent mispronunciations  The restaurant “Gilliftys,” she called “Gulfittys,” the actor “Walter Mathau” she called “Walter Mattau,” “Rick Santorum” was “Rick Santorium,” and her caregiver, “Mary Jo,” she called “Betty Jo,” until the day Mary Jo took a different job. Now, every time a Rosen inevitably mispronounces something we all just look, shake our heads, and say “Grandma?” 

Just last week, after living in Southwestern Pennsylvania for almost 70 years, Grandma’s true Steeler pride came out for the very first time. She was yelling and cursing at the TV, and could barely contain herself when they won. And the very next day, while watching the Patriots-Jets game Grandma said, “This is no Steeler game. These teams look like kids out there.”

If there’s one thing to be said about Grandma Freda, it’s that she was sharp as a tack.  Not only was she an accomplished world class bridge player, she was never without a Sudoku book, and NEVER missed an episode of Jeopardy. A lot of the time she was more aware of what was going on than her daughters, and sometimes her grandchildren, whether it came to politics- she read the Post Gazette and the New York Times, and listened to NPR faithfully - or directions - telling you where the turn is going to be miles before you reach it (except she never could seem to find a direct route from Candy Rama to Brewsters. She was convinced such a thing didn’t exist). 

As the head of a loud, crazy, and sometimes chaotic family, Grandma Freda always got right to the point.  She had her work cut out for her, but we couldn't have asked for a better role model. Smart, funny, independent, never judgmental, fiercely loyal, and always loving, Grandma Freda made us into the adults that we are. She taught the 8 of us the importance of family when she would casually say, “don’t you think we should call your cousin?” And she taught us the importance of acceptance when we would ask her how she felt about someone and she would respond with a simple, “what's not to like?”

With all the stories, fun and laughter comes an amazing woman who we are all lucky to have had as a part of our lives for so long. Her apartment was always open to us, and there was nothing quite as satisfying as walking through the doors. She kept us all together if we ever started to drift apart, and her contagious optimism and sense of humor created a family full of laughter and love. We are grateful for the gifts that she has given us, and are lucky to be able to pass along her shining legacy. Her tiny feet left us big footsteps to fill.

Extended Family

Combing through my archives of the past year, I realize that I have spent precious little time talking about my extended family. It seems strange to me now, because I do, indeed, have an extended family that is quite large, loud, a little crazy at times, extraordinarily close, and incredibly important to me.

We have mainly settled in the Northeast, although we do go as far south as South Carolina, and as far west as San Francisco. With a rash of weddings and babies over the past two years we have all gotten together quite a bit, and we are lucky that we are usually all able to be in the same place at the same time at least once a year.

And among this big extended family are three women - my aunts.

Warm, caring, generous, strong and fiercely loyal, these three women - and my mom of course - have taught me everything I need to know about life, love, loss, and all the shades in between. 

From them my cousins, sisters and I have learned how to manage the chaotic balancing act of family, home, and career; what jewelry goes best with anything from jeans to cocktail dresses; which espresso machine will brew the perfect cup of coffee; how to both listen and talk at the same time (a difficult skill, to be sure); how to drape a scarf to make it the perfect accessory; that cheese-balls (the orange, processed kind) are the only acceptable summertime poolside snack; the best way to study for a standardized test; how to pick the perfect dishes to ensure a coordinated kitchen; the virtue of eating dessert; and much, much more.

And my aunts are on my mind because as I finish unpacking my house, so many of the things that I am unpacking have come from them. Clothes, accessories, things for the kitchen - over the years they have all made sure that I, and my sisters and cousins, have everything we need to live our lives well, and stylishly.

There is one set of gifts that I am particularly fond of, and excited about, and it came from my mom's oldest sister, we'll call her Aunt I. When she heard back in June that we were buying a house, I think that she was more excited than we were, and we were pretty excited. We had long conversations about colors, design, kitchens, and in particular, serving pieces. Because she believes, and now I do as well, that the best way to decorate a house and set a good table is with colorful accessories. She is masterful at finding just the right accessories to make a house a home, and is, and always has been, unfailingly generous.

And so it was that at the end of the summer she drove to Pittsburgh with a car loaded with presents for the new house. After Thanksgiving we brought them back to New York, and they have been sitting in boxes since then, waiting for our construction to be finished. And yesterday, it was. So my first order of business when I got home from work was to unpack all of those boxes, and what a treat it was.

Because in those boxes, was all of this:

And these stunning and unique pieces are now scattered throughout our first floor, decorating our brand new space, and reminding us of how lucky we are to be a part of this loud, chaotic, sometimes crazy, but always loving family.

Thanks, Aunt I, for helping us make our house into a home. We can't wait for you to come and see it.

The Liebster

One of the most fun parts about starting this blog last February has been the other bloggers that I have had the opportunity to meet. There is an entire community of writers sharing bits and pieces of themselves online, and even though I have not met any of them in person, I feel like they are friends. They are smart, thoughtful and savvy women and men, and I love that they have let me be a part of their cyber universe.

Which is why I was thrilled and incredibly honored when Emma gave me the Liebster Award. And what, you might ask, is a Liebster Award? Kind of like a chain letter, it is an award given to a new-ish, up and coming blogger by another blogger, who in turn got in from someone else. Get it?  Just think of those chain letters you used to get as a kid. Although, I almost always broke the chain, and never did receive the promised 10 letters from around the world.

The origins of the award are a little murky, but it has been making its way around the blogosphere for some time now, and seems like fun.

The rules of the game are simple:

1. The recipient of the award posts 11 facts about themselves
2. The recipient then answers 11 questions posed by the giver of the award
3. The recipient nominates other bloggers for the award, links to them, and posts 11 questions for those bloggers to answer

Ok, so maybe it's not quite so simple, but it is pretty fun, and I am psyched to do it. So, here we go:

11 Facts About Me

1. I was speaking in complete sentences when I was just over a year old. I was like some kind of mutant child. My mom says strangers used to come up to the stroller and speak to me in baby voices, and I used to answer them, talking like I was 12 years old. It totally freaked them out.
2. If I hear a song once, I can remember all of the words for the rest of my life.
3. I love romance novels more than anything in the world, and I own every single book that Nora Roberts has ever written.
4. I have a notebook filled with ideas about a series of romance novels that I plan to write, and I have already started on the first one.
5. My favorite food is french fries. I need to eat them at least once a week or I get cranky. I sometimes think that I could eat nothing but french fries for every meal until the day I die and I would be completely content.
6. I love country music.
7. I didn't understand a single part of any of the following movies: Inception, Minority Report, and The Matrix 
8. I use Google as a spell checker. I am the worst speller in the world. Ironic considering, you know, this blog.
9. I can recite all the dialogue from the movie Speed.
10. I watch, regularly (as in, don't miss a single episode of) twenty-one television shows a week. That doesn't include Football, Gilmore Girls re-runs, The Daily Show or The Colbert Report. I watch all of those too.
11. I won't read a book that doesn't have a happy ending.

Answers to Emma's Questions For Me

1. What is your favorite tree and why? - The huge oak tree that sat right outside our house in Pittsburgh where I grew up that was inhabited by a family of squirrels that fascinated my dad. I'm pretty sure that we have pictures somewhere of that squirrel family.
2. Are you still in touch with anyone from elementary school? How about high school? - Neither, actually. 
3. If you could live anywhere in the world with no financial or language concerns, where would it be? - I don't really have aspirations for world travel, I'm pretty much a homebody, so I would probably choose to live right where I am. Or in Pittsburgh so I could be closer to my parents. Speaking of which...
4. Do you like your parents? - I know that for a lot of people this is a complex question. Not so for me. Yes, I like my parents. I also admire them, and am incredibly grateful to them for giving me strength, character, resilience, and a sense of humor, for teaching me to live with purpose, and for encouraging my sisters and me to blaze our own trails. Basically, if we were any closer, we would be one person.
5. What is a favorite book and/or what are you reading now? - My favorite book is Birthright, by Nora Roberts (see: my aforementioned love of romance novels). I have read it at least 100 times. Right now I am reading The Panther, by Nelson DeMille. If you have never read any of his books featuring retired NYPD cop John Corey, you are seriously missing out.
6. Do you have any pets? - No, much to my husband's dismay.
7. Would you like to travel to other planets, if possible? - I don't think so. Space travel kind of freaks me out. But I really love the movie Apollo 13.
8. Do you think encouraging children to believe in Santa is "lying" to them? - No way. I think it's good for kids to have something magical to believe in. 
9. Do you have a secret that only one or two other people know about? - I think that anyone who answers no to this question is lying.
10. What is the one thing that you would like you spouse/partner to stop doing? - Leaving Coke Zero cans all over the house.
11. What question have I forgotten to ask that you would like to answer? - How about my favorite season? I prefer fall/winter to summer/spring, and actually love when the clocks change and the days get shorter 

11 Questions For My Nominees

1. If your life is being turned into a movie, who would play you?
2. What was your favorite childhood book?
3. What was the last thing that made you laugh until you cried and your sides hurt?
4. Coffee or tea?
5. If you weren't doing what you are doing now, what would you want to do instead?
6. What is your favorite color and why?
7. If you won the lottery, what is the first thing you would buy?
8. What is your go-to, never fail recipe for a weekday dinner?
9. What is the movie that, when you say you have never seen it, people look at you with that confused "I can't believe you never saw it" face?
10. If you could pick a character from a book or movie to be your best friend, who would it be?
11. What is your favorite season?

And My Nominees Are These Four Amazing Ladies

1. Bea, from Living off Script
2. Larks, from Maybe I Should Blog
3. Michelle, from The Journey
4. Ashley, from Ashley, Etc.

105

A few weeks ago I noticed that I was nearing a milestone on this blog. 100 posts since I started writing nine months ago. And I decided that for my 100th post, I would post something special. I wasn't sure at the time what it would be, but I decided to knock your socks off.

Well, imagine my surprise when my eyes happened to glance over at my post count this morning, and I saw 104. So much for my 100 post celebration.

But there is an interesting reason that this milestone escaped me. You might have noticed that I have been posting far more often than my normal three or four times a week. Well I have. And you may be wondering why. I would. 

A few months ago I discovered an incomparable blogging community on the internet called Yeah Write. Each week, four lovely ladies run a competition on this site, allowing bloggers like myself to link up, read a collection of the best blog posts around, and have our own posts judged. At first this was a little intimidating for me, but I soldiered on. Each and every Tuesday, I post my writing on their site, and get to interact with some truly talented writers while we share our words with each other, and with the mysterious cyber universe.

And through this community, I have met people I feel like I can call friends, and I have really been able to find my voice.

So when, during the last week in October, the curator of Yeah Write proposed a challenge to blog each and every day of November (weekends and holidays included), I decided to give it a try. And in my singular focus to get something on my blog every day of this month, I forgot to celebrate my 100th post.

Well, instead I will celebrate this post. My 105th post. 

When I started this blog back in February with my very first post on a Friday afternoon, I just wanted to write. I wanted to write about the books I love, and the people that I love, and this life that I am living each and every day. And I thought that maybe I had some things worth saying, and worth sharing with the world. And it turns out that I did, and I do. And I love coming to this place to think, to feel, to process, and to learn.

So, here's to nine months of blogging. Not exactly the celebration that I anticipated, but a celebration nonetheless. Thanks for sticking it out with me over these past 105 posts. And here's to 105 more.

Congratulations Are In Order

I have a friend.

We met on the first day of college more than eleven years ago. We spent four years together on that campus in that tiny town outside of Boston. And then we moved to Manhattan together. And lots of things have changed since we first arrived in the big city seven years ago. There has been bad change, good change, and absolutely spectacular, miraculous change. And over all that time, and through all that change, we have become more than friends. We have become family.

A few weeks ago I wrote a happy birthday post for this friend. And she is having one amazing fall. Because not only did we honor her birthday in superior style at the beginning of October, today we have something even more special to celebrate.

Because yesterday. Yesterday afternoon, I spent a few hours with this friend, trying all the while to keep a very important secret. And after lunch and manicures at our regular place, I made an excuse to walk down a particular street. An Upper West Side block that means a great deal to her.

And there, in front of the first Manhattan apartment building that she called home, my dear friend's incomparable man stood. And asked her a question. That most important question.

And she said yes.

So today. Today all of my thoughts are with her and with him, and of the gorgeous life that they are building together. It has been an honor and a privilege to watch their love story these past four years. And I know that, for them, the best is yet to come.

Mazel tov M and G.

Wishing you happiness, always.

Beware of the Female Vote

In the current presidential election, much has been said about the female vote. What it means, who will get it, and how important it is. The candidates have spent millions of dollars courting women voters. At both the Republican and Democratic national conventions the candidates' wives stood before crowded convention floors and spoke about their most important roles: mothers. The candidates themselves spent much time in speeches discussing their own mothers, and praising their wives for the raising of the children. All of this, ostensibly, was to appeal to women across the country watching on TV. To me, it seemed a little like pandering, but political experts say that it works, so what do I know?

Well, according to a recent CNN editorial, it may all be for naught. 

Yesterday, CNN posted an editorial on its website discussing a "scientific" study that suggested that women's votes are influenced by their hormones, and they are more likely to vote for a certain candidate depending on what time of the month it is.

When I managed to get my raging hormones under control long enough to pull my face out of the Ben & Jerry's and read the study, here is what I learned:

Researchers discovered that during a woman's most fertile time of the month (i.e. when estrogen levels are at their highest), single women were more likely to vote for Obama, whereas committed women (i.e. women in relationships, not women who are actually committed, although with all of those hormones racing, who knows?) were more likely to vote for Romney.

The researcher behind this study, Kristina Durante from the University of Texas (a woman, God help us, so, depending on her time of the month when she wrote this study, maybe we can't really trust the information at all), explained that when single women are ovulating, they feel "sexier," and therefore lean more towards liberal views on issues such as abortion, contraception, and marriage equality. However, married women tend to take the opposite viewpoint because they are overcompensating for those pesky hormones that are telling them to have sex with other men. Basically, married, ovulating women will vote for Romney as a way of "convincing themselves that they're not the type to give in to such sexual urges." 

So Romney, you may want to start that matchmaking service right away to get women married before election day. But please, for the love of all that is holy, make sure those women are marrying men. Because if they marry other women, that household will have DOUBLE the hormones coursing about. The horror.

And Obama, turns out that you might want to dial it down on the "let everyone marry, marriage equality" shtick - because married ladies are so less likely to vote for you. 

I mean, I'm married, and I'm surprised that I can even find my WAY to the voting booth when it's that time of the month, much less make an educated decision about a candidate. Because really, all I want to be doing is sitting on the couch in sweatpants, up to my neck in french fries and chocolate, sobbing big fat tears as I watch The Notebook over and over again.

It's pure insanity that women are able to own property, walk the streets unaccompanied, and work for a living amid these raging hormones, much less pull a lever to choose the leader of the free world. 

Look, I get that the debates are over, and election day is just over the horizon, and the cable news networks are running out of things to talk about. But honestly, CNN, can't you do better than this? 

The backlash to this article was instantaneous, prompting CNN to remove the article from its website, stating that "some elements of the story did not meet the editorial standards of CNN." And the author of the story has taken to Twitter to defend herself, tweeting that she "was reporting on a study to be published in a peer-review journal and included skepticism in the story," and that she "did not conduct the study." Great. That's kind of like Todd Akin coming forward now to say he was just explaining the studies that have been conducted regarding pregnancy and rape, but doesn't really believe them.

Any multitude of things can influence the outcome of an election. The weather. Those pesky undecided voters. Spray tans. Debate performance. Hidden videos at $50,000 a plate fundraisers. College transcripts and passport records. Men.

And oh yeah, what about the men?

My biggest problem here, and the biggest problem of the many thousands of furious people who have commented on this CNN story, is the idea that women are emotional, fire-breathing lunatics whereas men are beacons of non-hormonal stability. I can't help but disagree. I mean, have you ever watched a presidential debate? Or been to a football game? Or seen a GoDaddy.com commercial? 

No, men certainly have never let hormonal surges influence their decision-making. It is just us estrogen-laden women whose lady-parts run on overdrive when faced with such disparate choices during our time of the month that can't seem to make up our minds in an educated fashion.

It must be true. The science says so.

Words From a Stranger

I heard the words at the end of mile twelve as I struggled to keep on running.

"I'm proud of you, you're almost there."

I had never seen the woman before in my life, but she spoke those words directly to me as if we had been friends forever. The last four miles had been a slow plodding mess and I was giving serious thought to pulling over to the curb and quitting right then and there, but when I heard those words, I kicked up the pace.

It was just after mile eight of my first half-marathon that I decided I would rather be in hell than run five more miles, which was incredibly unfortunate for me, because I really wanted a medal. Which they were giving out at the finish line. Exactly five miles away.

Bands were stationed every half a mile, playing music. Spectators covered every available inch of sidewalk. For eight miles I relished the encouragement. I smiled, waved, and high-fived my way along that glorious distance. After mile eight I hated every last person lining the streets and the chairs they were relaxing in as they shouted at me to "go girl" and "keep running."

"YOU keep running," sneered the petulant toddler who had suddenly taken up residence inside my head.

With no choice but to keep moving, I slogged my way down streets softening in the blazing heat that was so unseasonable for Pittsburgh in May.

Four miles to go.

My running shorts, so perfectly arranged during the first half of the race, had started to bunch up between my legs, causing an excruciating heat rash that no amount of Vaseline from the medical tent would fix. My beloved running hat felt like a sponge that had reached its capacity. The faithful running shoes that had carried me though endless training miles were giving me a blister on my toe. The cups at the water stations were filled with boiling hot liquid from hours in the sun.

My internal dialogue was an endless string of jerky thoughts.

I really hate this song. I definitely have heat stroke. Why would this band play such a stupid song? I hate running. I think I have a cramp. And shin splints. And probably a stress fracture. I. Hate. Running.

Three miles to go.

I very nearly laid right down on the street and forgot about the rest of the race, but I figured that if I did I would probably just end up trampled by the rest of the runners and with a third degree burn from the heat radiating up from the pavement. Not exactly an improvement to my current situation.

Two miles to go. Might as well be two hundred.

Other runners were passing me by the dozens, and I was moving so slowly it was a wonder I was making any forward progress at all. I was mentally cursing myself, and ruing the day I pressed "submit" on the registration form for this god-forsaken race.

Never again. No way in hell.

I saw the woman as I made the turn onto the bridge that signaled the start of the final mile. She was sitting in a lounge chair right on the corner. Her white hair was ablaze in the sunlight; rivulets of sweat trickled down the maze of wrinkles lining her face. Her gnarled hands gripped the arms of her chair, and her bottomless blue eyes looked straight into mine.

"I'm proud of you, you're almost there."

A wave of affection swept through me for this elderly stranger who sat all morning in the sun, cheering so fervently for runners she didn't even know, and I stood up a little straighter. I could do this. I could finish.

Gritting my teeth, I started to fly. Over the bridge. Up the final hill to the top, where I could see the finish in the distance. The crowds were roaring, and my brain played the woman's words over and over, pushing me down the final stretch.

Finished.

I don't know who she was, and I don't know her story, which seems strange considering how big a role she played in mine. I hope I see her next year at the start of the final mile, but if I don't, I'll certainly hear her words in my head as I make the final turn towards home.

I'm proud of you, you're almost there.
 

 

Joining some amazing writers who blog and bloggers who write over at Yeah Write.

Bear It With a Smile, and Learn From Your Mistakes: Happy 100th Birthday Julia Child

In honor of what would have been the late, great Julia Child's 100th birthday...

Things I learned from her: be fearless, love deeply, and always, always cook with butter.

"We ate lunch with painful politeness and avoided discussing its taste. I made sure not to apologize for it. This was a rule of mine. I don't believe in twisting yourself into knots of excuses and explanations over the food you make. Maybe the cat has fallen into the stew, or the lettuce has frozen, or the cake has collapsed. Eh bien, tant pis. Usually one's cooking is better than one thinks it is. And if the food is truly vile, then the cook must simply grit her teeth and bear it with a smile, and learn from her mistakes."

                                            Julia Child
                                            My Life in France

Quotable Wednesdays 2: Paying Tribute

I'm starting a new tradition on this blog of mine...I have been reading lots of books lately, even more than usual. And in my literary (and pop culture) travels, I have stumbled across many, many fun bits of humor, brilliance, encouragement, and inspiration. Every week, pop by here on Wednesday for Quotable Wednesdays, where I share some of these delightful musings. 

Today, I pay tribute to the incomparable Nora Ephron, who passed away yesterday at the age of 71. Nora Ephron was an author, director and screen-writer, and was the creative genius behind such movies as When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, and my all-time favorite You've Got Mail. She dedicated her life to telling stories - both fictional and deeply personal - and was masterful at creating strong female characters who were at times both normal and extraordinary. She was a beautiful and remarkable voice; one certainly silenced far too soon.

"To state the obvious, romantic comedies have to be funny and they have to be romantic. But one of the most important things, for me anyway, is that they be about two strong people finding their way to love."
                    -Nora Ephron

"Here are some questions I am constantly noodling over: Do you splurge or do you hoard? Do you live every day as if it's your last, or do you save your money on the chance you'll live 20 more years? Is life too short, or is it going to be too long? Do you work as hard as you can, or do you slow down to smell the roses? And where do carbohydrates fit into all this? Are we really all going to spend our last years avoiding bread, especially now that bread in America is so unbelievably delicious? And what about chocolate?" 
                    -Nora Ephron

"Reading is everything. Reading makes me feel like I've accomplished something, learned something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter. Reading gives me something to talk about later on. Reading is the unbelievably healthy way my attention deficit disorder medicates itself. Reading is escape, and the opposite of escape; it's a way to make contact with reality after a day of making things up, and it's a way of making contact with someone else's imagination after a day that's all too real. Reading is grist. Reading is bliss." 
                    -Nora Ephron

The Most Talked About Book in America

I finally did it. I read Fifty Shades of Grey. For the past few months, all I have been hearing about, and reading about, in the world of romance is this book. It has been written about, and dissected, in the New York Times, The Huffington Post, and other such mainstream publications that generally ignore the entire romance genre. So I was curious.

"Everyone is reading it," they say. "It is good for women," shouted some publications. "It is bad for women," shouted others. But regardless of which is true, this is one popular book. Perhaps the most popular book out there. And when the most popular book in America is a romance, I feel it is my duty to read it. So I got the book and prepared to love it over Memorial Day weekend.

But I didn't love it. Not even close. But I really wanted to write about it; to explore what, exactly it is about this book that has some women speaking in hushed, reverent tones, and others yelling "danger...porn" from the rooftops. So I soldiered on. I almost put the book down a dozen times, but always picked it back up again due to the aforementioned hushed and reverent tones. I thought maybe it would get better in the end. It didn't. Or I thought maybe I would come to like it after I finished it and thought about it for awhile. I wouldn't.

A brief word about plot. Ana Steele is a college senior who, at the last minute, due to a sick roommate, lands an interview with Christian Grey, a gorgeous, wealthy CEO and major donor to the university. Christian does not generally grant interviews, and certainly not to college students. You can probably see where this is all headed. Christian is instantly taken with Ana, and she with him. He warns her away from him, but she fails to heed his advice. They begin a relationship marked by his control issues both inside and outside the bedroom, and her incessantly irritating inner monologues.

Toss in bad writing, dialogue that is hardly believable, and a first person narrative that sounds like a teenage girl's diary, and you end up with what was, in my mind, a colossal mess. Not exactly the stuff of my romance novel loving dreams.

My biggest problem with this book, I think, was Ana. I found her timid, frustrating, and self-centered. I thought I might scream if she chewed her lip or mentioned her "inner goddess" one more time, and she drove me endlessly crazy with her "I want you...you're crazy...stay away from me...no, I need you" diatribes. I kept waiting for her to wise up and walk away. Her monologues contained a lot of "oh my," and "he is so masculine." Ugh.

In the romance novels I love, the women are strong. They say what they mean, mean what they say, and take charge of their own happiness. So I had trouble conjuring up the requisite sympathy for this young girl who willingly submitted to the twisted fantasies of an overbearing man, and put her own sense of self aside to cater to his domineering whims. Anna Spinnelli and Phoebe Sommerville would eat this girl for lunch. Just saying.

And what of the leading man? I'm sure some readers truly felt for this broken soul; the man who suffered so as a child. Not this reader. Mostly, he just annoyed me. As he is written, Christian Grey is perfect in every way. CEO, gifted pianist, pilot, gorgeous, wealthy. Perfect, except for those tiny issues. The ones where he requires women to submit to him completely. The ones that lead him to offer those women a contract dictating what she can eat, say and wear; how much she is required to sleep and exercise; and, oh yeah, the S&M she will be engaging in. With him. Whenever he wants. Maybe I'm alone here, but to me, control issues are decidedly not sexy.

I just didn't like it. Fine.

But you might like it. And that's ok.

What is confusing for me about Fifty Shades of Grey, is how everyone seems to have an opinion. The mommy blogs are waxing philosophic about this book, as if it is a magic pill to save women, restore good sex, and resuscitate marriage. The right wing is screaming about it, and banning it from libraries as if the cover itself has the power to destroy family values and traditional marriage.

I don't think it's either of those things. I think it just is. It's ok for some women to like it. It's ok for others not to. I think, when we start having conversations about things that are "good" or "bad" for women, or books that "everyone should read" or "no one should read" we are treading into dangerous territory. We're women. There are some things we like. There are other things we don't. There's no rhyme or reason to it. And there shouldn't be.

So, if Fifty Shades is your speed, I say curl up and read on. It wasn't mine. Reasonable minds may differ. When it comes to romance novels, there really is something for everyone, and that, to me, is simply amazing.