Thinking…

About writing again. It’s been a while – real life (and real employment, beyond cigarettes) got in the way. Yet I find myself with plenty of things to say.

There will be more to come.

A better use for breast milk

Rather than focusing on the more, erm, unusual uses for breast milk – ice cream, for example – Nick Kristof of The New York Times has a more direct approach. Breast milk can be used to prevent malnutrition in babies. Astounding.

According to Kristof, studies show that if a baby is fed breast milk exclusively for the first six months of life, the chances of that baby surviving – and thriving – skyrocket. But it’s not so easy convincing mothers in countries with malnutrition problems and high infant mortality rates to breastfeed. Everything from religious beliefs to supposed common sense to, perhaps, stigmas surrounding breast and breastfeeding seem to get in the way of what, on the surface, appears to be a simple and obvious solution. Because, unfortunately, nothing is ever as easy as it sounds. But, perhaps, it could be – if stigma and superstition are superseded by education.

Check it out here: The Breast Milk Cure

SlutWalks

Today, the Washington Post features a piece on a new, grassroots feminist movement,  SlutWalks. These walks have women taking to the streets, wearing as little or as much clothing as they choose to protest sexual assault. Their message: A woman’s clothing is her choice. It does not entice rapists, nor should it be blamed for such.

The movement so far has been successful in terms of garnering attention and gathering followers. In a world where the debate is on whether or not to make school uniforms baggier in order to deter pedophiles, rather than what measures to take to keep such predators away from schools, well, that’s indicative of a serious problem. And that is what SlutWalks is all about. “She’s asking for it” is antiquated and preposterous. Fashion should be fun, not frightening.

The other debate surrounding SlutWalks is the use of the term ‘slut’. Opponents of the movement – or at least how the movement is categorized – claim that by trying to reclaim the world slut, these women are injuring themselves and their cause. Slut does have a negative stigma, one that is culturally common. But I don’t think they’re actually trying to reclaim slut and turn it into something positive. Rather, I think by using the word slut, SlutWalks is cleverly turning the word on its head. First, it’s a great way to get attention – who would willingly call herself a slut? That incites curiosity. Second, it seems that SlutWalks is using the term as a sort of threat to anyone who would dare to call them such, or to go so far as to attempt some sort of assault. Singling out one woman as a slut is degrading, and renders her powerless. But it’s damn near impossible to call thousands of women sluts and expect the same effect. There is strength in numbers, and when women rally around each other, it is much harder for any of them to feel victimized.

Slut is not going to be the new ‘homegirl’ or ‘wifey’ or any other odd nickname. But used in the context SlutWalks, it shows that sexuality can also be strength. That a woman can wear whatever she wants, just because she wants to. And to those that oppose this – well, they’re just stupid. And they’ll have a hell of a time getting a date.

Blocks and cigarettes

NYC legos, from Abstract Sunday (NYTimes)

After not writing for so long, actively trying to think of something to write about is difficult. What can I say that hasn’t already been said? That’s original, witty or thoughtful? Really, the more I think – and over-think – the worse I get.

But I do have a reason for not writing and subsequently agonizing over not writing – I am officially employed! Not as a journalist, but as the C.O.O. of a new company. Meaning I take care of everything: insurance, permits, equipment, tobacco. That’s right, tobacco. I, the health nut, the girl who eats organic food and whose worst vices are chocolate and coffee, am in the tobacco distribution business. I find it oddly funny too.

So, instead of chronicling my unemployment woes and wishes for a career montage and more patience, I now have a wealth of new material – tobacco distribution related material – to pull from. There is a whole world of regulations and taxes to explore (oh boy!), a whole new vernacular to learn. I am poised to become a non-smoking cigarette expert. Though smoking will not be allowed inside my warehouse/office. What will be allowed (to stay) are the boxes and boxes of caramels and hot chocolate left by the warehouse’s former owner, an ice-cream company. I might be storing my inventory in ice-cream freezers, next to two large jelly bean containers, the kind that separate the jelly beans by flavor and feature stickers with jelly belly recipes on them, such as piña colada or strawberry shortcake. Though they are currently empty of jelly belly goodness. But I will do what I can to change that – candy and cigarettes, such a promising combination.

Blind date turtle

This should bring the ladies running.

No, this is not a meme or thing like the awkward moose. Though that is funny.

Today, I read a story about Lonesome George, the last known survivor of a giant tortoise species native to Pinta Island, near Ecuador. Though no one knows for sure if Lonesome George is, indeed, as lonely as his name suggests, a global search is underway to find him a mate – or even just a date. The problem lies in finding a female tortoise of the same species. The bigger problem is that Lonesome George seems exceedingly picky. So far, only one of the females (not the same species) picked to fraternize with him has elicited the desired response, but none of the eggs hatched.

So the search continues. Hopefully a female of the same species is found, and hopefully that female will arouse Lonesome George’s interest. And hopefully those eggs will hatch. Lonesome George can’t afford to be picky with his species on the line. Anyone know of a good turtle whisperer? This tortoise needs to understand what’s at stake here.

BREAKING

Osama bin Laden, Taliban leader and fixture of the FBI’s most wanted list since 1999, is dead. He was killed this weekend by US special forces – a mission that had been in the works since August, when US operatives discovered bin Laden hiding out at a mansion turned fortress in Pakistan.

It’s surreal, in a way, to hear this. Bin Laden has been the world’s super villain for almost 10 years. Many people, including myself, have grown up in fear of the Taliban and what they are capable of post-9/11. To have it end so abruptly is both galvanizing and almost hard to believe, since the search has been ceaseless for so long. Hopefully, bin Laden’s death is as much of a downer for the Taliban as it has been a morale boost for the U.S. Thousands of people flooded Ground Zero last night to celebrate, a show of unity and strength that will, hopefully, be echoed around the country.

Hear Obama’s announcement here.

The 4+ questions

Passover starts tomorrow night, which means that Jews all over (including myself) are buying matzoh, cooking brisket and sneaking bites of charoset out of the bowl. (Charoset is a mixture of fruit, nuts and wine. It looks weird, but tastes amazing.)

One of the seder traditions involves the youngest person present asking the four questions, which explain the main traditions of Passover: reclining, eating matzoh and bitter herbs. Always the same four questions. To add variety and humor to the routine, the New Yorker has come up with the extended version of the four questions, meant to explain parts of Jewish life today. My favorite:

FATHER: Has everyone here seen “Blazing Saddles”?
ALL: Yes, we have seen it.

FATHER: Do you remember the beans scene? That is the greatest scene.
ALL: Yes, we remember it.

Working what your momma gave you

Vogue, April 2011

Vogue’s April issue, their annual shape issue, features a piece about dressing to emphasize your height – with a short girl talking about her love of flats and oversize clothing, and a tall girl rhapsodizing about how powerful giant heels make her feel. My first reaction was to scoff. This is revolutionary? I’ve been doing just this for years! (I’m short, and I love oversize sweaters, ballet flats and a certain pair of flat motorcycle boots that I would wear every day if I could.) What a way to state the obvious.

Then I thought about it a little more. On the surface, this seems obvious. Wear what you like, screw common convention about ‘figure flattery’. But, then again, maybe not. Most ladymags stress ways to flatter your figure – but not by making the most of what you have. By telling you the best ways to minimize those hips, create a waist, seem taller or smaller or curvier or straighter. Clothes shopping is tough enough without worrying about how to create a body you don’t actually have.

So the obvious isn’t quite so obvious. And occasionally a bit counter intuitive. See, not only am I short, but I’m hipless. Shaped like a 12-year-old boy is perhaps more apt. So when I try on dresses and skirts with shape, I end up with folds of fabric sticking out awkwardly rather than being gorgeously filled in. And that’s frustrating – there’s a lot of things I can’t wear because of my lack of hips. And I sometimes would love to look a different way. But rather than lament my shape, I’ve learned to live with it. And lately, I’ve been gravitating to fuller, higher-waisted skirts. I still get some shape and get to play with volume, but I’m not imagining body parts that I simply don’t have.

Besides, body ideals have swung from one extreme to the next. In the 1500s, being plump was desirable because it meant you were wealthy enough to eat well. The Victorian Age saw waists whittled by corsets and bottoms emphasized by bustles. In the 1920s, the flapper look called for a small bust and narrow hips. In the ’50s, it was Marilyn Monroe. The ’60s revolved around the gamine – Twiggy, Audrey. The ’90s brought Kate Moss and waif-chic. And now, well, the ideal seems to range from model tall and skinny to athletic to curvy. (Though that whole “real women have curves” thing annoys me – since I’m not curvy, where does that leave me? I do not want to add gender anxiety to my daily routine.) So who’s to say what’s ideal?

Though Vogue champions the same handful of models and a lifestyle comprising designer clothes, perfectly-behaved children and access to personal trainers and facialists, this message of embracing the shape and height you were given is definitely enlightened. And definitely something we can all get behind.

Libya’s journalist bubble

According to an article in today’s Washington Post, journalists invited to Libya (in a show of feigned openness by the Gaddafi regime) are trapped within a luxury hotel – whirlpool baths inside, guards with guns outside – supposedly for their safety. Their trips are planned ahead of time, and Gaddafi supporters always seem to show up en masse right when the journalists’ bus makes an appearance.

But if Gaddafi locked these foreign journalists in their luxury hotel cage in order to give them a government-mandated view of life in Libya, then his plan seems to be backfiring. His regime might claim it’s for the journalists’ protection from rebels and civilians, but the strict rules in the hotel (journalists can’t even cross the street without a government official) suggest otherwise – that the goal is protecting the government from exposure in foreign media. The most telling example: Journalists who anger the government are shipped out of the country in the middle of the night.

To be honest, the worst thing Gaddafi could do for his regime’s reputation (at least in the media) is lock up the journalists. Nothing screams “violent, controlling dictatorship” like carefully-orchestrated trips to pro-Gaddafi demonstrations and armed guards wrestling civilians out of the hotel. Civilians such as Iman al-Obaidi, who was dragged out while screaming about her rape at the hands of Gaddafi soldiers. Such actions cast the government in a suspicious light (to put it mildly), which diminishes any effect the (possibly staged) demonstrations might have. The best course of action for Gaddafi would have been to let the journalists go where they pleased – then they would have a chance to actually talk to pro-Gaddafi civilians. Instead, this cushy cage reveals more ugly truths about Gaddafi’s regime than simply wandering the streets could. Something is indeed rotten in Libya, and these imprisoned journalists are learning all about it.

Check out the article here: Reporters in Tripoli find it’s a Big Brother world

Quite possibly the cutest thing ever

Two baby elephants and an elephant-sized kiddie pool. So cute, I might die.