girlperson

The new niceness is definitely not a moral absolute

Fri, 12 Mar 2010 10:17:45 -0500

david said: @sadydoyle Let me direct you to Hanlon’s Razor. If clarification is the difference between suggesting someone is racist or empathizing with them, don’t open your mouth.

Let me direct you to the First Amendment. Further, asking if you are “allowed” to use a racist epithet while already using that racist epithet makes your concern seem, I don’t know, a tad disingenuous? And what if the person with whom we are supposed to empathize IS racist? What then? Or is that just another false binary, that you can’t be empathetic and say “hey, that thing you just said was totally fucking racist”?

You know what I love about the “new niceness”? It only applies to certain people, in certain contexts, namely those who cannot tolerate criticism of any kind. “Be nice to me or shut your fucking mouth” (or the unexpressed “Be nice to me — or my friends — or I’ll delete your blog”) is an absurd, morally bankrupt sentiment. David Karp should be glowing with pride that people have conversations about racism and sexism, and political discussions of every conceivable stripe on his blogging platform. Facilitating conversation means sometimes being the subject (or object) of unpleasant and uncomfortable conversation; nothing is sacrosanct and that is a very good thing. For fear of sounding like a broken record, I will not use the “e-word” (see, restraint), but there is only one reason the founder of a blogging site would be so upset by challenge that he feels the need to cut a user down to size by telling her not to open her mouth.

Nice.

Exactly.

HI MOM; or earlier phone conversations with my mother

Fri, 12 Mar 2010 01:54:00 -0500

Mom: So I googled you today.
Anaïs: Oh yeah?
Mom: The internet seems to like you a lot.

jackiejormpjomp: I couldn’t ever love you more

Fri, 12 Mar 2010 01:29:50 -0500

jackiejormpjomp:

I couldn’t ever love you more

"I let almost no one know me, and I lost the chance to know and learn from most of my peers. It took..."

Thu, 11 Mar 2010 19:52:33 -0500

“I let almost no one know me, and I lost the chance to know and learn from most of my peers. It took years after I’d graduated from Amherst to realize that people were actually far more complicated and interesting than books, that almost everyone else suffered the same secret fears and inadequacies as I, and that feeling alone and inferior was actually the great valent bond between us all. I wish I’d been smart enough to understand that when I was an adolescent.”

- David Foster Wallace, from a short interview (Brief Interview with a Five Draft Man) he did for Amherst Magazine in Spring 1999. (via sometimesagreatnotion)

Every time I see a commercial for Green Zone, I keep thinking...

Thu, 11 Mar 2010 13:51:06 -0500

Every time I see a commercial for Green Zone, I keep thinking they’re saying Greenzo and I wonder, “Who the fuck would give David Schwimmer his own movie?”

the 10 tumblrs you're an idiot not to follow: volume 2

Thu, 11 Mar 2010 13:26:15 -0500

So a few months ago, I let you guys know the 13 tumblrs to follow and while those still stand true, there are always new blogs and people to discover on here. There are more tumblrs that I like (GABE) but I’ve only listed ones that are active. Here are ten more tumblrs in no particular order that you should be following if you have half a brain.

1. giantsquidandlocomotives: Betsy is a fellow Floridian and often partner in crime of previously featured locomotivehootenanny. She is adorable, has fantastic taste, and most importantly, created this awesome series of presidential coiffures and facial hair:

2. newyorkdays: One of my favorite tumblr writers and a girl with excellent taste and insightful posts about everything from travel to art to everyday life.

3. alexisportnoyinla: You know those people who can take the most mundane thing and say something entirely spot on and wry about it? Yeah, they’re awesome and this is the girl to follow for that as well as wonderful music.

4. marywachsmann: I have been tumblr friends with Mary almost for the entire time I’ve used tumblr and although she posts far less frequently than I would like, everything she posts is beautiful. Images, links, and especially her own words are a pleasure to read, a quiet moment away from how loud the rest of the dashboard can be with reblogged conversations, etc.

5. penguinprostitution: So, you know how some people blog about their personal life and it’s boring as fuck? Not with Trish. Everything she posts about, whether her own daily experiences or bigger issues of love and philosophy, is interesting and best of all, hilarious. Also, Trish is my friend and I’m glad to say she has turned her wit on me and knocked me down a peg or two now and then.

6. annotations: I’ve only been following this tumblr for a few weeks but after reading the whole thing (yeah, I do that in some cases), I’m in love with everything Mike posts. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s from Minneapolis, where apparently good blogging is in the water (caitlin? a billion others?) but every post is funny and smart and an absolute joy to read.

7. brvtalbrodeo: The thing with tumblrs that reblog a lot is that they usually don’t have a discerning eye with what they choose. This is a tumblr for those who love movies and humor and beautiful women. And when Joe is capping movies himself, it’s even better. Also check out his 100 Best Movies of the Decade list.

8. hiddenballroom: Bebe is one of the most gorgeous, funniest ladies I know. She takes notes on Lost, is a fun writer, and makes awesome mixes. She’s on a roadtrip in the South right now so you should follow so you can hear all about these and other adventures when she gets back.

9. mongermonger: Michelle is amazing. Not only is she one of the editors and writers for a bright wall in a dark room, she has an epic crush on Michael J. Fox, is beautiful, and is a writer whose work I’d like to read more of. She also likes leggings and tights as much as I do so obviously she’s swell.

10. monsterbeard: And saving the best for last, THIS ONE. Chris is another writer from a bright wall in a dark room, and he’s actually the person who encouraged me to write for the site. He is remarkably smart and funny, and not just internet funny where sarcasm runs the show but he is also simultaneously silly and witty. He writes screenplays in LA and creates one-act plays with Keebler Elf cookies. Auto-follow.

So go ahead and remember who sent you.

lyrac: Should You Have Kids? Check the chart. WORD. As in, I...

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 16:21:00 -0500

lyrac:

Should You Have Kids? Check the chart.

WORD. As in, I should not.

balltillifall: Finally, after many months of waiting, here is...

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 15:10:00 -0500

balltillifall:

Finally, after many months of waiting, here is the trailer for my film Incredibly Small.

I’d like to especially thank Ingrid Michaelson, Capybara and Bishop Allen for graciously allowing me to use their music.

I would also kindly ask everyone to help spread the word: reblog the trailer, Tweet a link to it, post it on your Facebook, text message your ex-girlfriend and tell her about it. Anything you can do. This movie has taken up the last year and a half of my life and I can’t wait to get it out to you guys!

Lots of tumblrs making cool stuff. Congrats.

crush city.

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 11:55:26 -0500

crush city.

1. wake up 2. brush teeth 3. wash face 4. put on lipstick and...

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 10:11:00 -0500

1. wake up
2. brush teeth
3. wash face
4. put on lipstick and mascara
5. begin again

gotta dance! or how you survive a childhood of ballet with the ultimate stage mom

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 23:41:08 -0500

When I was 2, I still wore diapers sometimes but my mom decided it was time for me to follow in her footsteps and go to ballet class. She justified this to my father by saying that it would be good for my tiny developing flat feet (I no longer have flat feet; thanks, ballet!). So I went to my first class which was mostly comprised of wobbly pliés and bouncing to the peanut, peanut butter and JELLY song. In the beginning, it was once a week, always on Thursdays, and I would get a Happy Meal directly after class. My mom never allowed Happy Meals but my dad would pick me up and break the rules. Always a cheeseburger meal with HI-C orange drink. He would help me remove all the pickles and watched as I ate the processed food my mom never let me have. He didn’t say I love you often but this time together said it all. This set the standard for the way my dad and I enjoy eating together to this day.

One Thursday when I was perhaps 3, my dad picked me up from preschool, my ballet clothes and bag in his car all ready for class. I took one look at him with a trembling bottom lip.

“I don’t want to go today,” I said with a shaky voice. Done.

He didn’t mind in the least and we went home. We sat on the couch together and watched tv for about 30 minutes when my mom walked in. She had a bag of groceries in her arms and she looked at the two of us, shocked.

“Why isn’t she at ballet class?” Her eyes were huge and terrifying.

“She didn’t feel like going so we stayed home today,” my dad replied, his arm around me. “I called and let them know she wouldn’t be there today.”

“Oh no, she’s going,” she said, picking up my ballet bag from the spot my dad had placed it when we walked in and holding it out to me. “She’s just trying to test her limits with you. Come on, Anaïs.”

I didn’t move. I really didn’t want to go. I was terrified of my mom at that moment but I didn’t budge. She finally came over and pulled me off the couch and got me dressed right there. I cried the entire time as she rolled tights over my chubby babyish legs and pulled my hair into a tight ponytail. She grabbed my hand and made her way out the door, dragging me the entire way.

“Why are you doing this?” My dad followed us out to the car. “The class is almost over.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, she can’t have her way whenever she wants it.” She put me in my car seat, put the car in drive, and reversed out of the driveway, my dad watching in horror.

She drove me to the dance studio and pushed me into the last 20 minutes of the class. I stood in my tiny ballet shoes and cried and cried. The other girls looked confused. I didn’t dance until I saw my mom standing at the window giving me a look that said so much. I joined the rest of the class and looked straight ahead at the mirror as I copied the teacher’s movements, aware of my mom’s eyes locked on me. This would be my daily life for the next thirteen years of my life.

We got into the car after class and she drove to McDonald’s. She got me a Happy Meal and we sat inside as I ate it in between sniffles. She looked at me thoughtfully.

“Don’t tell your dad I got you this,” she said to which I nodded. “I only do the things I do because I love you, you know.”

I dipped a fry in sweet and sour sauce and wondered what love even meant and how to feel it when the people who said it treated me so differently. Every Thursday though, there was a Happy Meal.

Pretty soon, there were no Happy Meals. One toddler ballet class became three and then five classes, ballet, jazz, tap. Then lyrical, sometimes modern dance. A conditioning class, then the early days of pointe classes. By ten, I danced every day unless I was dying of some illness and my mom never thought I was sick enough to not go to class. She picked me up from school every day and I changed in the backseat, out of my plaid Catholic school jumper into pink tights, black leotard, and a wrap skirt. I learned by age 7 to pull my thick hair into a bun, coiling it into place with bobby pins, securing it with a hairnet, finishing it with flowers and a shiny layer of hair spray. My mom and I ate out every day before class, different restaurants, and I always ate a salad. Class started at 4:30 and blended into rehearsals afterward. I did my homework in between routines, figuring out math problems or answering history questions while watching the pas de deux from Swan Lake or perhaps, the battle scene from the Nutcracker. I danced until 10pm usually and then went home to stand in a hot shower for 30 minutes, my toes bleeding, my muscles sore. I went to bed and I fell asleep quickly. It all began again at 6:30 the next morning.

I want to say it was terrible and in some respects, it was, but it was also fun. I have two words for you: dance competition.

Anyone who has ever been in a dance competition knows those names. Headliners, Showstopper, Starpower, Tremaine. If you were a competitive dancer, you knew these names. You knew exactly when they’d be happening that year and you knew that if someone in your family was getting married on one of those fateful weekends, you would not be their flower girl. I trained all year, beginning in June. Two solos, sometimes three, depending on the category, but I always did song & dance and lyrical, with ballet thrown in some years. The solos would be choreographed by one of your instructors and you would have private lessons where you would learn the routine and practice several times a week. They would tell you where you were weak. I had to learn to jump higher, to not be afraid to throw my entire body into it, to jump the same way I turned, excellently, fouette after fouette. In the middle of July, my mom would rehearse with me in the backyard, yelling at me to leap and practice jumping into the pool so as not to be afraid of the landing. I splashed again and again into the pool, chlorinated water dripping off my tiny shoulders as my mom watched intensely. In case it wasn’t obvious by now, she’s a former dancer.

Not only did you have to perfect your solos and worry about yourself but in a dance company, you had group numbers. Duets, trios, small groups, line, and production numbers, usually about 7 other routines that you had to keep in your head and learn marks for. We rehearsed all the time. We were all friends with each other because we spent all of our time together. It was gossipy and catty but it was better to suck it up and be best friends 4 lyfe (LYLAS!) than to have no one; otherwise, it was just you and your mom. You don’t think about it until later but you’re a kid and you’re rehearsing late into the night, the whole weekend, one day off per week, maybe. I rarely saw my dad as a kid, not because I didn’t want to but because I was so damn busy, busier than him who had his own business.

“You can stop whenever you like, Anaïs,” my mom would say when I’d complain about the hours. “I’m not forcing you to do this.”

That, of course, was untrue, and even if it wasn’t, how could you disappoint your parent when he or she wants something so much? Even as a kid, you know that you shouldn’t be doing this but no one sincerely tells you it’s okay to stop, that it’s okay to just be. And so you dance.

Actual dance competitions are pretty much like the beauty pageants you see on tv. My mom and I would get up at 5 am usually because dance competitions began early on a Friday or Saturday morning. I hate waking up early now just as I did then. I’d put on my tights and leotard and warm up clothes and sit on the couch while my mom put my makeup on me. This was not normal people makeup, this was stage makeup. Imagine a 7 year old with an entire layer of pancake foundation, powder on top of it, blush, three eyeshadow colors blended to perfection, brow highlighter, thick black eyeliner, fake eyelashes plus mascara, lipliner, and then the lipstick. By the time I was in the third grade, I could have gotten RuPaul ready for a night out. It was never fun but it got easier over time. There was only that one time that my mom had to literally sit on me to put eyeliner on me.

“I swear to God if you don’t stop moving, you’re going to be the only 6-year-old girl with an eyepatch, Anaïs Marie, I swear it,” she warned. The thought kept me still as my big eyes became rimmed with kohl.

Costumes and their matching shoes went into individual garment bags and Ziploc baggies. Every accessory was labeled and ready. We set up camp in the dressing room backstage with the rest of the girls from my dance studio and got dressed finally before warming up. Lipstick was the last thing to go on because even the most dainty little girl will fuck this up without a doubt. Our studio had a color to go with different costumes/styles of dance.

The one used most often was True Mauve by Revlon. All the lipsticks were Revlon actually so that every mom could buy the same color because God forbid some 9-year-old’s lipstick not match the other 25 girls on stage. Most often seen in lyrical or ballet routines.

True Red, which made me look like a child prostitute, was for the sassier routines. Often seen in tap numbers.

And of course, Wild Orchid. This was wild indeed and my favorite of the bunch. It made me look like I’d been making out with the actual Barbie Dream House. This was for jazz and the occasional hip hop routines that tiny suburban girls were apt to do (we were all over Big Willie Style for the record).

My mom shellacked my lips in waxy color and I was ready to go. She called me Fishlips my entire childhood but I got my revenge when I grew into much fuller lips than she ever had; she’s still bitter and calls me Fishlips.

Then it was time for warm up. I went backstage and got ready for whichever solo was first, usually song and dance. I also took singing lessons my entire childhood but those were enjoyable and a sanctuary from the hours of dance. I had my own mic system and my mom had already dropped off the receiver and so I stretched backstage with a headset on. I had already memorized my number and when it came to call my name, the announcer usually pronounced it wrong, no matter how stern my mom had been in explaining it earlier. I smoothed my hair and walked onto stage.

It was three minutes of being on. No mistakes now. I sang and danced and I sold it because that’s what you do when you get on stage, you sell yourself and I was an excellent showman. I hit every mark, made every turn, and performed as if I were the most irresistible creature known to man. I never believed but on stage was the closest I felt to that for a long time. It wasn’t until I was 21, 22 that I felt this way in my normal life and now I walk down the street with the same spring in my step that I used to reserve for grapevines and time steps.

The air was always so cold on stage, the air conditioning blasting you, and in hindsight, it makes sense. Putting yourself on stage to be literally judged by the three people sitting at the table right in front of you is terrifying and cold, at any age, but as a kid? I look back and wonder how the hell I was brave enough to basically throw myself to the wolves. Maybe I didn’t think about it then the way I do now but damn. Balls, kid.

The music faded out and I was done. I took a bow and stage walked (yes, stage walked) with that fake smile that had begun to look real until I hit the wings. It’s over. Now I just had to repeat this about nine more times that weekend and it’d be over.

My mom always watched from the wings. She was forever my toughest critic but whenever I got off stage, she always hugged me fiercely and told me how proud she was. I tried not to tear up against her chest, knowing my eyeliner would be ruined, but that was the small moment that made me believe that all of this made sense, that all of the long hours and bleeding toes and strained Achilles’ tendons were worth it, for this moment. For a while, it was.

I was a good dancer and I won, a lot, actually. This was my life until I was 15, when my parents were divorcing and suddenly, dancing or anything else I did, straight A’s, student government, it wasn’t enough to keep my mom happy or to keep anything together. She turned to me one day in the shoe department at Nordstrom.

“Do you want to dance anymore?” She handed me a yellow kitten heel as she spoke. It was the first time in my life she had asked me what I wanted to do.

“No, not really,” I said, shocked.

“Okay.” She asked for the kitten heel in her size and in mine.

I was free. I felt a relief, knowing I would no longer have to miss time with my friends or skip tv shows or feel like throwing up my dinner when my Russian ballet instructor told me my newly burgeoning hips were too wide, but I knew that she didn’t actually care if I was happy or not, she was just finding new things to focus on post-divorce. She bought me those shoes and I never wore them.

I spent years thinking about my childhood, wondering if I would have been happier playing softball or just being lazy at home after school. I wondered what it would have been like to have more time with my dad (something I’m making up for now) or to have a mom who demanded nothing more than my existence on this earth to make her happy. I wondered what would have happened if I kept dancing into adulthood, pursued it as a career. I wondered how you ever knew what the right decision was and I realized that my mom hadn’t known either. I am the sum of that childhood, I am secret Happy Meals and pink tights with the seam in the back and bleeding, blistered toes and the awkward teenage body forced to be graceful and my mother’s eyes on my back as I pointed my toes as hard as I could, manipulating my body into the perfect vessel for my mom’s love and acceptance. In the end, I’m all that and none of that. I am all the things I have left behind as well as the new things I absorb every day. I stopped looking for anyone’s acceptance but my own and realized I never even had to look so far for that and so much more.

Two years ago, I danced for the first time since I was 15. I took a ballet class at the gym and I stood nervously at the barre, my body no longer as taut as it once was. The music began and I went through the motions, remembering each one perfectly. I was rusty. I felt the muscles pull in my back as I held an arabesque and I looked in the mirror, shoulders back, collarbones showing, legs now wobbly, and I felt whole. By the end of class, I lined up with the other girls for a leap combination, and despite the years that had passed and the wear on my body, I have never jumped as high or as joyfully as I did that day.

Baggage isn’t bad as long as you can carry it, sometimes you even get someone else to help you...

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 22:41:10 -0500

Baggage isn’t bad as long as you can carry it, sometimes you even get someone else to help you with it and then nothing seems as heavy.

synecdoche: hey today might be the first time i agree with the...

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 18:39:20 -0500

synecdoche:

hey today might be the first time i agree with the creative writing directory!

this is too nice. also fresherhells is right below me in this directory which is like hellooooo awesome.

miss you.

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 18:19:28 -0500

miss you.

section9: Oh, you don’t say tumblr? that taco WOULD look...

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 16:06:50 -0500

section9:

Oh, you don’t say tumblr?

that taco WOULD look better with a mustache. aren’t i ethnic enough without one? come on.

taco tuesday taco tuesday taco tuesday taco tuesday taco tuesday

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 15:24:59 -0500

taco tuesday taco tuesday taco tuesday taco tuesday taco tuesday

"For every saint a sinner, for every Blanchett a Paltrow."

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 12:18:30 -0500

“For every saint a sinner, for every Blanchett a Paltrow.”

- a bright wall in a dark room.: All About Steve (2009)
This line (and a billion others) is reason enough to go read this review. Bravo, Sam.

(via nerdboyfriend)

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 11:59:05 -0500

(via nerdboyfriend)

rewatching, taking notes on: confessions of a superhero

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 10:05:53 -0500

rewatching, taking notes on: confessions of a superhero

bob dylan/the times they are a-changin’ i feel myself...

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 09:55:49 -0500

bob dylan/the times they are a-changin’

i feel myself growing up all the time lately, all of the intangible parts just now matching up with the bones and hips and cheekbones that have been in place since 18 or 19. my friends just graduating from college are floating regardless of whether they have jobs or are in grad school or are traveling or are unemployed. times are weird and times are tough, and we’re all learning to be adults and how to do the things our parents have done for us for our entire lives, only we’re learning how in uncertain times. i asked my dad how he felt at barely 23, learning how to do be an adult, and he replied, “scared and curious about how things would turn out”. i was shocked that even he, steadfast, constant, was ever unsure or worried. maybe technology has opened doors and we are in a different boat than our parents were at our age but the fears, the hopes, the yearning of being newly adult is the same for every generation. we deal with different things but have the same questions that have yet to be answered.