Friday, September 03, 2010

Shit my bag says

There’s a meme (I hate that word. Hate it like brussel sprouts!) going around at the moment in which you itemise the contents of your handbag. I love this, because I am supremely nosy and derive great joy from the minutiae of other people’s lives. Also, I bought a new handbag last night, so I figured that I may as well participate since I had to take everything out of mine anyway.



In my bag:
  • 1 notebook.
  • 1 tin of mints (clicky lid > eating of mints).
  • 1 pair sunglasses and 1 pair actual glasses.
  • 1 reusable bag.
  • World’s oldest cellphone -- it doesn’t even take pictures! What it does do, however, is make calls. And refuse to ever break. Sucks to be me.
  • 1 point-and-click camera, stored in old sock (see above re: crap phone).
  • World’s oldest iPod.
  • Black knit hat (useful for both rain and impromptu burglary).
  • Work ID and swipe card.
  • 2 Strepsils, 2 Nurofen, 3 Werthers.
  • 1 bunch keys with stuffed pukeko.
  • 4 assorted lip balm/gloss/sticks.
  • Hand cream and nail file.
  • 7 old receipts.
  • 1 wallet.
  • 2 sets of post-it flags.
  • 1 mechanical pencil (no lead).
  • 1 eraser for the mechanical pencil with no lead.
  • 4 highlighters.
  • 10 pens (assorted colours).

Obviously, all of these things are ENTIRELY NECESSARY. Especially the FIFTEEN different writing implements.



In my wallet:
  • Assorted bank, store and loyalty cards.
  • 3 out-of-date business cards (interestingly, zero current business cards).
  • A ticket to Wicked for January 2009 -- in London.
  • A ticket to Hanson for September 2008 -- in Seattle.
  • 70 cents and an American dime.
  • A bobby pin.
  • An underground ticket.
  • A subway ticket for an unknown city.
  • 11 different coffee cards.
  • A passport photo (just in case?).
  • A ticket to the Hospital ball (which was last Friday -- but I designed the tickets, which makes it okay).
Wednesday, September 01, 2010

Oh my God, it's September? UNCOOL, WORLD.

I’m having a spazzy day. I’m skipping over work like stones on a lake, bouncing off things and achieving nothing. My to-do list was abandoned mid-word; my last email mid-sentence. I keep leaving my lunch and coming back to it. Mouthful. Click on something. Wander off. Drink. Back to my lunch.

I need to run it out or write it out, but I don’t feel like doing either. Physically, I think I could fly apart at any minute, like my skin isn’t containing my insides anymore. I feel like I have a halo of wasted energy; a smudgy glow-in-the-dark outline. I’m pretty sure it would power your smaller appliances.

And... I just tipped my water all over the copy-edits of the document I’m laying out. Point made. Mess made. Where did my lunch get to?

-----

SEVERAL HOURS LATER:

Oh, right, this is what I was doing! Let’s talk about last weekend, also known as the Weekend of Stupid Rules. Because I said so, and today I don’t have to segue with any sense.

LIBRARY GUY: You can’t bring coffee into the library.
ME: But you have a café in the library.
LIBRARY GUY: I know. It’s just the rules.
ME: I’ve been taking coffee to other libraries without incident for several years now. I’m not even going to touch a book – I just need somewhere to write.
LG: Too bad. No coffee in the library.
ME: I assume there’s coffee IN THE CAFÉ?
LG: Yeah.
ME: Fine. I’m going to the café.
LG: You can’t...
Me: IF YOU TELL ME I CAN’T TAKE MY COFFEE TO THE CAFÉ, I WILL END YOU.
LG: Have a nice day.

PERSON ON DOORS AT CONCERT: There’s no pass outs.
US: We’re waiting on someone and all four of us are on this one ticket. Someone just needs to come downstairs and hand them the ticket when they arrive.
PODAC: No pass outs.
US: We don’t want to go OUT, just downstairs.
PODAC: No pass outs.
US: Will you hold the ticket for them, then?
PODAC: No. That will hold the line up.
US: You mean UNLIKE WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?
PODAC: One of you has to wait on this side of me until they arrive.
US: Yes. THAT makes way more sense.

WAITRESS: You can't move that chair.
US: We moved it less than a foot.
WAITRESS: It's a hazard.
US: There's no one else here.

SHOP EMPLOYEE: You can’t bring your drink into the store.
ME: But your store sells food.
SE: It’s the rules.
ME: Wanna see something cool?

And then I killed her. True story.
Friday, August 27, 2010

Become an Italian food maestro #1: PIZZA!

As part of my To Do in 2010 list, I’m on a quest to become a master chef of Italian goodness. Earlier in the year I made the WORLD’S MOST AMAZING CIABATTA (as rated by independent sources that are totally not me), but didn’t get any photos. So, I set out to make proper-like, authentic-style pizza, and document the process for the betterment of the internet.

Things started well. I used this recipe here for the dough. Due to a fiasco we do not speak of, I don’t have access to a mixer right now, but working the dough with a metal spoon turned out just fine. Also, a superb workout!

Dough. Kinda sexy, right?

In a compromise between authenticity and my Kiwi consumers, I made two different pizzas:

Pepperoni

This tomato sauce recipe is AMAZING. And so freaking easy! A can of crushed tomatoes, olive oil, chilli flakes, garlic and lemon zest. Done.



(I baked the leftovers with pasta and a bunch of spinach and pine nuts the next day and, in all honesty, it rocked my world. This sauce is going in everything I eat until I die or am cryogenically frozen for transport to a space colony, should that happen first.)

Then I took a trip to the Mediterranean Food Warehouse (aka Playland for foodies) and bought a bunch of delicious fancy-pants pepperoni, and a big heap of Italian mozzarella.

Chicken, spinach and cherry tomato

I think this pizza had too many flavours going on to make pizza purists happy. However, it was OH MY LORD IN HEAVEN KILL ME NOW delicious, so fie to you, purists. Fie, I say. What would you know anyway, with your history and your culture and your superior lifestyles?

I used this alfredo sauce recipe for the base, but pumped up the cream cheese to thicken it up a bit. It was DELICIOUS, and totally passed under the radar as being (kinda sorta semi-)healthy. Sneaky AND tasty -- that’s good sauce!



Grilled chicken and fresh spinach and cherry tomatoes went on top of that, to construct what I like to refer to as an orgy of deliciousness.

(I almost said oral orgy there. Thank me for not doing so at your leisure.)

But then it all went slightly pear-shaped...

Ingredients and dough prepared, I moved the entire operation to Rach’s house. The dough needed to sit for two hours before baking, so we settled in with a cheeky beverage.

And then this happened:



Yep. That’s four empty bottles of wine.

FIVE hours later, I remembered to cook the pizza. I forgot to take photos, but the extra three hours of chillaxing and relaxing did the dough no favours anyway.



The only photo I got was of the last odds-and-ends pizza, which was constructed in a drunken fiesta of overkill, and involved ALL the ingredients discussed above. I would make a bad Italian -- but an excellent guest at parties.



Oh well. Jake-pants thought it was pretty cool.



The verdict

This needs to happen again, with approximately one-eighth the alcohol consumed in the middle. But, collapsed dough and impaired judgement aside, it really was a DAMN FINE PIZZA.
Thursday, August 26, 2010

In which I go to some very awkward yoga.

Last night, as I am prone to do on Wednesdays, I went to yoga. As I am also prone to do, I immediately dumped a pile of my stuff in my favourite place on the floor and went to ditch my shoes in a corner. When I returned, there was a woman in my spot. A woman wearing SLACKS and LOAFERS. AND A TURTLENECK UNDER A GAILY-STRIPED WOOLLEN SWEATER.

“Okay,” I thought, rather charitably. “Maybe she’s not staying. Can you audit yoga?”

No, my friends, you cannot audit yoga.

This lady, in her slacks and her pink-and-blue sweater (I’m sounding SO American right now. Kiwis, what are my culturally-preferred terms here? Her jersey and Nana-casual Kumfs? Her trousers and skivvy?), spent the whole class alternately clambering around on all fours and crouched at my ankle, talking to herself. “Oooh,” she’d mutter, as she staggered around behind me. “Hard! Now, where do I--?”

I’m in down dog, thinking BREATHE THROUGH THE RAGE. SWAN THE SHIT OUT OF THIS POSE AND MAYBE SHE’LL GO AWAY! PRETEND THIS IS NOT HAPPENING! And then I’d hear, from somewhere under my left knee, “OOF!” and my be-sweatered friend would hit the floor, roll onto her back, and wave her Nana-casual feet in the air.

In case I need to clarify, THIS IS SOMEWHAT OFF-PUTTING.

Yoga is for several things, but primarily the preservation of my mental health. As I am secretly morphing into a massive tree-hugging, meditating, cling film-washing, anti sodium lauryl sulphate-using earth mother-type, I’m all about the mood when it comes to my yoga. I’m all over connection and energy and feeling the room. Thinking about face-punching is therefore counter to the vibe I’m trying to cultivate.

I attempted to rise above, you guys. I tried with all of my shrivelled heart to let her go about her business (Oof! “Oh no, I don’t think... no, no, that will never work. Silly.” Unffffff, stomp. Sigh. “Now, up we get...”) while I went about mine. After all, yoga is supposed to be about intention and breathing as much as, like, actually doing things, right? Maybe her intention was to arbitrarily stand up and sit down again for an hour. Maybe she was breathing from her ribs and energising from her core as she stood, immobile, breathing heavily on my neck IN MOTHERFUCKING LOAFERS AND A TURTLENECK.

After the four-hundredth time she ended up hunched on all fours under my pose like I was about to give her a pony ride, I decided that she obviously wasn’t all there mentally, and I should just accept that her nose was poking me in the butt and move on. She was interpreting the spirit of the class in her own way, and I was being an asshole in judging her for it.

So I sucked it up as she crept ever closer to my prone form, amiably peppering me with staccato half-sentences. And I got progressively more and more annoyed, and more and more upset at my own annoyance. I couldn’t let this poor disabled lady do yoga in her own way? Was I that much of a bitch? By the time we got to the relaxation track, it was all I could think about. I lay there, vibrating like a high-tension wire with every cough or rustle of slacks, un-relaxed. Convinced of my own awfulness. Utterly and completely miserable.

Class finally finished, and I staggered off to lace up my sneakers and cry myself to sleep. My new friend, in her sensible leather shoes and her heavy winter jersey, headed across the room to the instructor... where she proceeded to hold a PERFECTLY NORMAL CONVERSATION WITH HIM, like spending an hour dressed for Sunday lunch while conversing with thin air is everyday exercise etiquette. Like she hadn’t, at various points, been trying to use my poses as a tent. Like her face and my butt weren’t now intimately acquainted and I wasn’t quivering, wrecked, in the corner, hating myself and jumping at shadows.

You guys, I have a Keep Cup and a monthly donation to WSPA. I cry during Disney movies and episodes of One Tree Hill. I try really hard to be open-minded and live positively. I like to think I’m a relatively good person.

But if I see that lady again, I’m going to PUNCH HER IN THE LIVER. Fair warning.
Friday, August 20, 2010

Afterverse!

So, Buffy and Supernatural are both shows in which good-looking people fight monsters. The same themes and scenarios (and actors) turn up in both of them, but the Winchesters’ universe is dark and damp and vaguely 70s; all blue-collar bars and classic rock. Sunnydale is bright and quirky and compact -- the people there go to the mall and watch TV and wear colours. Even though Supernatural is the newer show, an iPod feels out of place there in a way it wouldn’t on Buffy... and on Buffy, the Impala would be a joke.

As much as I need Faith and Dean to hook up (and, believe me, I do), they don’t inhabit the same world.

I have the outline for After, the this-then-that. The characters are up and moving. Coco has a delightfully foul mouth. Lucas always has his foot in his. I thought Jamie was going to be cool because Jamie thinks he’s cool, but it turns out no one else is buying what he’s selling.

I’m writing, but mostly in circles. I still don’t know how their world feels.

(Tense, POV and style are all facets of this, but I’m not talking about voice here. Voice -- although obviously influenced by what you like and steal and are motivated by -- isn’t something I think you can engineer. It develops as you do, but you can’t consciously affect it without sounding like a stunted douchebag. The tense I’m writing in changes the atmosphere of the story, but I can’t decide to write like Elmore Leonard or Meg Cabot any more than I can grow a tail.)

I know it’s hot there. Dry and barren and broken-down. There’s crows and sun-bleached bones and carcasses by the side of the road. People ride horses and carry guns on their hips. There are tattoos and long-fingered trees and rusted-out cars. I know those things, but I can’t feel them yet. I’ve built their world, but I don’t inhabit it.

I went back and read some of Sparks the other night, just to remind myself that although the story may not have worked, I can, historically, write coherent English. The setting -- the feeling -- of that book centres it. Grounds it. Whitaker is an island that only exists in my mind, but I know how it feels to walk around there.

It helps that I’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest. Whitaker is equal parts Deep Cove and Bowen Island, and it feels like the top of North Vancouver in October. It’s crows and firs and constant, half-hearted rain. The mist sits on the ground at night and gets tangled in the tops of the trees in the morning. Raspberry canes crowd out over the sidewalks and houses perch over streams or back into cliffs. In that world, everything is damp and heavy and lush. Everyone has an agenda. It’s seedy and unruly and slightly claustrophobic.

I wrote Sparks here, in New Zealand, mostly in summer. I don’t need to stand in a desert to write dry heat in cold rain, but I’m not comfortable in After’s world yet. I haven’t got the mood, the feel, the weight of it in my head. I wrote a whole sequence in a deserted suburban house before I realised that the house didn’t belong. I moved it outside and changed the tense and it started to click, but I’m still pushing the pieces around, looking for a way in.

It isn’t enough to build the architecture of a world -- to know the rules and logic and history. You have to build an atmosphere. The setting and the characters should build on and inform each other, creating something bigger than the sum of the story’s parts. Creating a universe.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Five things that make me happy.

Things I Like, a list by Katie A. Johnston, age 27 and three-quarters.

(Holy bearded carpenter, how did that ‘and three-quarters’ happen? Where have I BEEN? Did I miss Eat Pray Love? Who’s Prime Minister? Are we hover-skating yet?)

1. Alyson Hannigan’s family


Just looking at them makes my uterus hurt.

2. Stephanie Perkins’ blog

Related sub-likes: winning things; Paris; fictional kissing; author-crushes.

Stephanie Perkins is a YA author and hot dude connoisseur. She has pretty hair. I like reading her blog so much that thinking about reading her book makes me feel a little bit sick. What if it’s not as good as her blog? What if it is? I already have such a writer-crush on her that sometimes, when work is quiet and I can’t be bothered having a one-way conversation about my neuroses with you guys, I’ll go back and read her archives and think about how we should totally be friends.

(Wait, is that one of those things we don’t admit to? Like kissing your cats on the mouth or having a Google alert for your name? BECAUSE I DON’T DO THOSE THINGS EITHER.)

Except if we were friends, it would be kind of weird since I’d always be like HEY STEPHANIE PERKINS! REMEMBER THAT TIME YOUR CAT DID THAT THING? And she’d be like, dude. That’s not fifty feet. Back it up.

Speaking of cats, this is Willow.
She doesn’t live with me since that time I moved to Canada, but we still visit all the time.
Much to her disgust, since she’d also prefer I backed it up. Bless!

Steph’s book is called Anna and the French Kiss, and it’s about a bunch of stuff I like a lot (Paris; boarding schools; the kissing of hot boys). There are no vampires, but I trust her to deliver delicious mortal men. Her blog -- much like mine, only with considerably more panache and maturity -- is full of the dudes. I approve.

Anna doesn’t come out for ages:



but she’s giving a copy away. You can win it by doing stuff like tweeting about it or sending her pictures of hot British guys.

Oh hey, Charlie Hunnam! What are you doing here?

But -- and this will not surprise you, folks -- I can’t get my feelings about her book and her hair into 140 characters. (She has VERY pretty hair.)

So, there’s this. And I apologise for it. BUT I REALLY WANT TO READ THIS BOOK.

And I really like her blog.

3. You Are Not So Smart

This site is so great. JUST GO READ IT.

(But come back after.)

4. Discussing my personal business on the radio

Just kidding! But I do it anyway.

5. Oh yeah, and this guy:

Friday, August 13, 2010

In which I hump the universe's leg.

I am having one of those days. It’s Friday! I’m photoshopping pictures of bedridden elderly ladies for a scare-tactics hand hygiene campaign! I just ordered new jeans ON THE INTERNET, because that’s how I like to roll, folks. Rebelliously. A little bit dangerously. I probably cannot be trusted with your children or stemware. WATCH OUT.

-----

Dear running: let’s never break up again.

Last night, I got home from a quiz night with my mama around nine (NB: we won! Also, told you I was edgy!), clambered into bed to finish my bizarre bargain-bin book about magic pirates, and the next thing I knew it was 6am and I was cosily awaiting the arrival of my alarm feeling all well-rested and bushy-tailed. How often does that happen, you guys? Let me answer for you: THAT HAPPENS NEVER.

Here is a short summary of my usual sleeping habits, 1982-present:

10pm: I’m tired. Maybe I will go to bed soon.
11pm: Okay! In bed! Sleepy! This shit is going OFF!
12am: SO TIRED. What should I do tomorrow? LET ME JUST WRITE A LIST.
12:30am: GOD I AM SO TIRED. I wonder what would happen if character A did X instead of Y? Better write it down! Oh wait, gotta pee. That dog has been barking for ages. Maybe there’s an intruder! Maybe its owners are dead and no one has found their bodies!!
12:45am: Or maybe there’s about to be an earthquake. What would I DO if there was an earthquake?
1:15am: Five year earthquake-recovery plan complete! Better decorate my post-tragedy mansion…
1:45am: Okay, TIME TO SLEEP! Wait, I need a beach house! OTHERWISE WHERE WILL WE HOLIDAY?
2am: I’m sailing a boat! On the lake outside my completed beach house (I guess technically it’s a LAKE house now. Does that change the décor?). Ian Somerhalder is also in the boat! Mmm, sailing.
2:15am: Wait, I hate sailing. All your clothes get all wet and chafe-y and the boom of your tiny boat hits you in the face when you lose concentra...
2:30am: WAIT, WHAT IF CHARACTER A DID Y INSTEAD OF X?! I HAVE TO WRITE THIS DOWN! Oops, I wrote this down yesterday. Also, it makes no sense. MAN I WISH I WAS ASLEEP. But I can’t sleep because Ian Somerhalder wants to picnic outside the beach house and I need an outfit to picnic in. WHAT IS APPROPRIATE ATTIRE FOR PICNICKING LAKESIDE WITH IAN SOMERHALDER?
[…]
6am: I HATE EVERYTHING.

Here is the same summary, with hard cardio applied to it:

10pm: I’m tired. Maybe I will... ZONK.
[…]
6am: YAY, A DAY! MY FAVOURITE! WHEN DOES MY ALARM GO OFF? WHEN DO I GET TO GO TO WORK? WHY DON’T IAN SOMERHALDER AND I TALK ANYMORE?

-----

Dear Stephen King: I can’t believe I’m about to declare my love for another one of your books before I get to the end. Or, as you usually like to call it, the ‘I’m bored now. Magic trick!’-bit.

I’m listening to the audio book of Under the Dome. This is kind of a foolish book to listen to, since it’s four hundred thousand pages long, but I’m enjoying it so very much I hope it never ends! Ever! And not just because Stephen King is bound to ruin it in the last ten pages like he always does.

(Hand of freaking God my ass.)

That aside, Stevie K is amazing. He is probably my hero. I still haven’t read a lot of his horror books but when that dude is on, he is pretty much the king of everything. The dude is a master class in storytelling AND in writing: the best writing gets the fuck out of its own way. He writes SUCH solid prose, and I don't think he gets nearly the credit he deserves for it.

I LOVE the way his worlds unfold on their own, tangling into these complicated, fantastic sprawls of ideas and images and characters that all feel like real people making bad decisions, even when there are aliens. That sense of discovery and exploration is also why he can’t end a book to save his life, but the ride is so goddamn good I can almost forgive him.

(Except for the Dark Tower books. We don’t mention the war.)

Under the Dome is Stevie K on top form -- sprawling cast, rich world, so freaking readable you could chew on the pages. I’m only halfway through it, but I’m going to go WAY out on a limb and declare it better than The Stand.



Wait, what just happened?

-----

Dear After: be mine. xo, Katie.

I don’t want to jinx it by putting it in print, but OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, AFTER IS GOING SO WELL! I AM SO EXCITED!

YESTERDAY ONE CHARACTER SAID SOMETHING TO ANOTHER AND THEN EVENTS TRANSPIRED AND OMG, OMG, OMG, IT IS ALL SO AWESOME. JUST YOU WAIT.

I am on a STREAK with this thing. It is bound to end with me face-planting in a mountain of French fries and taking to my bed for several days when I realise I’ve written myself into a corner and the only way out is to start over or have everyone discover it was all a dream, but until then I am SO VERY HAPPY.

Words! Nine months of constant work and I finally get to play with ACTUAL WORDS!

YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW EXCITING THIS IS TO ME. More exciting than sailing with pretend Ian Somerhalder. More exciting than internet-jeans. MORE EXCITING THAN YOUR MOM.

Basically, the most exciting thing ever. The peak oil of excitement.

(Except hopefully my future writing career holds more than rising sea levels and economic collapse. That would be depressing.)

And anyway, if I get really stuck, there’s always THE HAND OF GOD.
Friday, August 06, 2010

Adventures!

Kelly and Daniel and I spent last weekend with my brother and his girlfriend up in Northland. It looked like this outside:


But we had their bunny Murray to keep us entertained.


He is extra adorable. He likes to eat his poo and then lick your face.

I like to let him. It's SO CUTE, you guys!

My brother celebrated his 27th birthday while we were up there. What's cooler to a 27-year-old than Batman?


Batman in night vision.


 Um, Hayley. Don't look now, but...

We went to the local lion park, known throughout New Zealand for sex scandals, financial crisis, and that time a tiger ate his trainer.

This is Zion. You may know him as the face of Aslan.


But then this happened:

I love the tongue action.

Little girl: Daddy, what are the lions doing?
Daddy: They're wrestling, honey. Gentle wrestling.



Daniel grew rakish facial hair, which made him look at least old enough to drive.


And Kelly was like, "I'd hit that."

"Oh wait, I AM hitting that. BOOM!"

Outside still looked like this:


So we bused it down to Auckland to meet up with my friend Alison and pay Jared Leto a visit. And drink way, WAY too much wine.

I forgot to take photos (Kelly and I were occupied being the weird old people who still throw horns and ask kids to sit down), but here is the progression of texts I sent Alison during the show:

-- Never been to something so much like a Hanson concert that isn't one. The kids are losing their minds up here.
-- Dude, I already threw my bra. It's on.
-- [On the band calling for requests] Sweet! Tell him I want to hear him finish a sentence.

Because there's crowd participation, and then there's enforced karaoke.

Also, kids better stay off my lawn.

-----

And, for good measure, here's a few pics from the weekend I spent in Akaroa last month.






THE END.

-----

Photos of me, white tigers and rakish facial hair were taken by Kelly.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Girl power!

I have all these thoughts on feminism and what it means to be a feminist that I can’t make coalesce into anything. I even tried to draw a bunch of comparisons between my love for Britta from Community and the popular reaction to her character (but she’s inconsistent! And contradictory! And says feminist stuff while wearing spike heels and being blonde!! THAT IS NOT ALLOWED! The romantic interest should be kind and wait faithfully for the protagonist to notice her while he sleeps his way through the guest cast!!!!! Besides, she is a vegetarian who wears leather jackets! And she’s mean to Jeff when he objectifies her! What a bitch!) … but that reaction kinda says it for me. Wait, her ideals don’t always match her actions? She’s self-defeatingly insecure and struggles with balancing her principles and her popularity? She fears being seen as a “blow-up doll” but still wants boys to think she’s pretty? This isn’t ringing a single bell for you, ladies? For real?



I love her, y’all. It took me a while, too, and I’m embarrassed by that. Lately I’m a bit too prone to filtering things with my feminist goggles on, and I end up working up a head of steam about the way we stereotype and the things we do and don’t find acceptable in popular culture when it comes to women and female characters that I then can’t seem to convey to anyone coherently, since the things I want to comment on are so mainstream as to be basically unnoticeable. (I guess much the same way that, as a middle-class white person, I got to grow up believing racism got solved AGES AGO, and isn’t my problem.) So I’m watching this show with an ostensibly badass feminist take-no-prisoners chick, who’s kind of abrasive and weird and the sort of pretty that other girls are threatened by, and I’m judging her for her contradictions and for her self-sabotage, and for doing Girly Girl stuff while also dressing her cat in tiny sweaters. It took me a while to realise that the fact that she’s a massive hypocrite is what makes her great. Makes her REAL. I’ve seen so many one-dimensional female characters I’ve started to think depth is a character flaw. I adore Jeff despite (or even because of) his caustic nature, but make a pretty girl prickly and watch the hammer of judgement FALL.

I was reading a review blog earlier that spent PARAGRAPHS explaining why Britta is a shitty character for not falling immediately into Jeff’s arms, because HE IS HOT AND SHE IS PRETTY, AND WHY DOES SHE ALSO HAVE TO BE ALL MOUTHY AND OPINIONATED? Written by a woman, natch. Britta calls out the misogynistic stereotypes someone in her position is supposed to embody -- and some of the audience still gets mad at her for not embodying them. This is how we roll.

I consider myself a feminist. I find those hard words to type, and because I do, it needs to be said. In the world I live in -- and you probably do too -- it’s cool to be into equality, in an abstract sort of way. Girls are cool. Boys are cool. We’re all cool to do whatever. But feminists are, like, weird, right? To be one, to identify as one, I may as well claim to hate men or stop shaving my legs. Feminism, within my frame of reference, has been a pejorative term, a label claimed by bitter or entitled or unlovable women who make a big deal about something no one’s cared about in decades. Women who are probably fat or loud or ugly.

I shave my legs, internet. I love shoes and makeup. I like boys. I care what other people think of me. Sometimes, and I’m not proud of this, I assume pretty girls are stupid. I’ve called women sluts without passing any judgement on the men they sleep with. Older men have assumed they can tell me how to do my job because I’m young and my skirt is short. Recently, I’ve been told over and over again that if I get published my name may alienate male readers.

I am a feminist, and you should be too.

It’s 2010 and in parts of the world women still have the same rights as goats. Here in the enlightened West the Catholic Church still considers the ordination of women a “grave sin”, and no means no unless you’re wearing skinny jeans. Women still write very little of our entertainment, get paid less money, hold fewer positions of power.

I once went for the same job as a colleague. At the time, we worked in the same team and had the same job title and the same responsibilities, although I was better qualified and worked harder. He got the new job -- not because he knew more, but because when they asked 'can you do X?' he said "Sure!", meaning "I can learn", and I said "I can learn" meaning "I think so, yes". I don't know whether it's nature, culture, or both, but in general men seem to aim up, and women play down.

None of this means I hate dudes. I love the menfolk. But I think it’s important, as a female, to think about what it means to be female. What society says we should be as females. How we’re portrayed in media and fiction. How we judge each other.

And then, motherfuckers, I think it’s important to be NICE to each other.

Because, let’s face it, we’re hard on ourselves. The people hating on Britta for being imperfect and prickly seem to be largely women. The people leaving cruel and judgemental comments on parenting blogs are mostly women (yes, snap, I read parenting blogs. BUSTED!). My best friend has had her parenting chastised by strangers in malls, and I know how much that hurt her as a loving (and freaking amazing) mother. Meanwhile, at 27 and single, I’m embarrassed to admit how much I want a baby, like it’s in poor taste to cave to freaking biological imperative. Having kids, of course, means you don’t want a career. But not having kids still makes you faulty as a woman. Working as a parent makes you a bad mother, but not working means you’re lazy and oppressed. We’re forever trying to box each other up and pull each other down.

To me, feminism doesn’t mean picketing modelling agencies or wearing sensible flats. It means being informed. Being aware. Taking the time to think about my preconceptions and my snap judgements and my double-standards. To think about how I treat other women, and what I expect of them. Does it mean I’ll stop using “crying like a girl” as an insult? Maybe. But I’m not going to get all up in your grill about it. I’m sick of watching movies where the female lead is only there to provide eye-candy. I’m sick of reading that women can’t open movies and boys don’t read books. I’m tired of the fact that no one will help me in electronics stores. It bums me out that guys still get to be grossed out by periods and childbirth, and that part of me feels unladylike for swearing on the internet. But mostly, it makes me sad that most of the women I know don’t think any of this is their problem, or has any relationship to the way we’re all drowning under the weight of our own expectations.

I sent a draft of this to a friend, and in her reply she said:

I don't know if I'm a feminist? … I mean, obviously I think we should have equal rights/opportunities/pay etc, but I don't DO anything about it. And I'm loathe to use the term cos it brings to mind crazy hairy lesbians shrieking rape and hating on men (which I'm also embarrassed to admit).

That’s pretty much what I’m trying to say. We're all feminists. We're all people. You can love makeup and boys and still be a feminist. You can even contradict yourself, or be blonde, or bone Jeff Winger. Feminism isn't reserved for the fighting few, and using it like it is, like it's a put down or something embarrassing or unnecessary, is part of why it’s still an issue. All women should identify as feminists. Hell, all men, too. We all love each other. We all want what's best for each other. You don't need to rage against sexism or even have experience of it. Just think a bit harder about the labels you put on people, and the expectations you have of them. It’s tough to be a chick sometimes.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010

These are a few of my favourite things...

I am SO ITCHY lately. All I want to do is travel. All anyone else seems to be doing is travelling (and the bitter, twisty black bits of my uncharitable soul get blacker and more twisted with each suntanned, bikinified European snapshot you send me, you bastards). (But yay! So glad you're having fun! Write soon, xoxo! Etc!) But I cannot afford to travel. NOT YET. So indulge me, internet friends, on a trip back through times past and adventures had, as we revisit some of my favourite places...

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PARIS!


Oh, Paris! The food! The buildings! The snow! Dirty streets and elaborate grey buildings. The never-ending grey smear of the city winding out from the top of Montmarte. Orange paper flowers roping the ceiling of a tiny, perfect little cheese shop. The dirty, tired looking stretch of street where the Moulin Rouge hunkers among sordid shop windows and dubious-looking crowds. Department stores that are astronomical feats of coloured glass and gilt, and outside there’s children begging in the snow.

This is a department store.

No, really. It may also be my favourite thing ever.

The streets are so narrow and the buildings so old they seem to slump, bowing into the street like they’re trying to prop each other up. Huge, ornate doors that seem to lead to nowhere! Underground public bathrooms tiled like palaces! Rioting, crazy lines of traffic. Dirty pigeons and neon lights. And of course the FOOD. OH, THE FOOD.

Lunch in a restaurant where the waiter scrawls your order on your paper tablecloth, and strangers take the seats around you. Authors are working in the corners and the walls are papered up and down in tiny metal drawers, relics from the workmen who once stored their cutlery in them when they came daily for lunch. Mango-jasmine macaroons. THE YOGHURT. Tiny little bakeries packed with people and pastels and smelling like butter and sugar. Sprawling cemeteries with cramped, jutting tombs. And standing over it all the Eiffel Tower, a ridiculous Christmas-light fiesta of spinning lights and lasers. I’d go back tomorrow. CAN I go back tomorrow?

Cheese shop! A SHOP FOR CHEESE.

Being part magpie, this does stuff for me.

People even die in style in Paris.

This is totally haunted, am I right?

The buildings all seem to hold each other up.

Mandatory tourist shot!

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NEW YORK!


I LOVE New York. I’ve been there twice: once overnight when I was visiting a friend in Philly, and the second time for 10 full days; four of them alone. If I was better at crowds and less fond of grass and space, I could spend a year there without once getting bored. I love the touristy stuff and the New Year’s Eve stuff and the walking through Central Park stuff, but my FAVOURITE thing to do in New York is just wander about. I spent a whole day wandering around SoHo, ducking in and out of shops and watching people going places, wrapped up against the cold. I love catching the subway anywhere, because I’m a huge nerd and get sincere enjoyment out of successful transit. Also, I like sticking tickets in the turnstile thingies -- here in NZ we still have a dude who comes around and clips a notch out of a paper ticket. That dude is lame.


Favourite things: Getting bagels in Williamsburg and pretending to be a local, spending the day writing in organic cafes that have no idea how to make decent espresso. Eavesdropping on conversations, especially conversations between the obviously rich, and guys who speak like a Soprano and strut like Danny Zuko. Accidentally getting the very scary-looking not-for-white-people bus through Brooklyn to JFK, and discovering everyone on it is super, super nice, and told me how to get places and offered me snacks and helped me with my bags. I was helped out so many times while struggling around with my stuff on the subway, and it was never by white guys in suits, let me tell you! New Yorkers hold the nicest populace crown by a mile, in my experience. Maybe it’s because I spent so much time there alone, I don’t know. But I heart you, NY.


I also love Macy’s the way I’m pretty sure only people from places like New Zealand can love Macy’s: hard and often.

Be mine, Macy's.



New Year's Eve party. Gaga played. I couldn't stop dancing. 
Maybe this should worry me.

The aftermath wasn't pretty.

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MIAMI! 

Honestly, I wasn’t expecting that much out of Miami before I went; I’ve never been a beach-bum type and everything else I know about Miami comes from Dexter, but I LOVED it. It FEELS like Miami, the way NY feels like NY and London feels like London. The pastel colours and the cocktails and the heavy heat. Parrots perched on street hawkers and luxury liners and resort islands framed by seedy neighbourhoods where no one speaks English.

I loved drinking mojitos in South Beach and watching the ladies dance, completely unselfconscious in their size and bodies and beauty. Watching a storm roll in along the dead-flat Florida highway. Taking a boat ride through the everglades with a dude named Scooter, all in khaki and with a half-burned cigarette permanently hanging from his lip. MY BABY ALLIGATOR FRIEND, FELIX GATOR.

(YES, I am THAT big a nerd! But so are you, for getting it.)

This is Scooter. We're buds.

Felix was so soft! I wanted to pet him like a cat, but Scooter disapproved.

My cousin Allie, because she's the cutest thing ON THE PLANET. 

Minutes before the storm.