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Daddy Issues

"That girl has daddy issues."

We've all heard it and we all know exactly what it means. The girl we imagine is usually in her late-teens to mid-twenties, but her appearance varies. Perhaps we picture a sorority girl in pigtails, booty shorts, and a half-shirt sucking on a lollypop at MTV's Spring Break. Maybe we imagine a goth girl with rainbow dreadlocks, facial piercings, and torn fishnets with self-inflicted cigarette burns up and down her arm. Maybe we picture a hippie chick in Birkenstocks and no bra holding a protest sign or a repressed Wellesley girl in pearls and a cardigan.

Regardless of what she looks like, one thing about her is certain: she's a raging slut with no self-esteem who will do anything in the sack.

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Get To Know Me!

Do you remember that old Jon Lovitz sketch on SNL: "Get to know me!"? It strikes me that some of the people reading this blog don't know me very well at all, so I think it's time we begin working on that. I've been inspired by Proust's Questionnaire as interpreted by Vanity Fair. I encourage you all to fill out your own questionnaire in the comments, so I can get to know you, too.

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Niqab, Ni Choix

So after much fuss and fretting, the infamous "Burqa Ban" has been passed in France's lower house of parliment  by a vote of 335 to 1. Overwhelmingly supported by French voters (an estimated 80%), this law is not explicitly stated as being against the burqa. The language, rather, reads

no one can, in the public space, wear clothing intended to hide the face.
 
Of course, this is pretty thinly veiled legislation (pun not intended, though certainly appreciated) against burqas and niqabs. President Nicolas Sarkozy has said, point blank, "The burqa is not welcome in France because it is contrary to our values and contrary to the ideals we have of a woman’s dignity."

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The Law of Firth

“Why don’t men get Colin Firth?”
 
This was the question posed to me by a co-worker about a week ago. Allow me to rewind and set the scene first. This particular co-worker (we’ll call her Patty) is my former supervisor’s mother. Monsieur also happens to be Patty’s supervisor.  (Monsieur and I work at the same institution but different departments.) So we all know each other twice over and, as such, are able to have lively conversations. This particular day, I stopped by her desk to say hello and shoot the breeze. She mentioned her husband was going to be out of town for a while—when he told her she had better behave herself, Patty apparently answered “If Colin Firth knocks on my door, I’m gone.” She then went on to say that her husband dismissed her choice of crush as ridiculous. “What’s so great about Colin Firth?”

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My New Favorite Person

So I have very little commentary to add with this next post. The other day I got an email from Monsieur entitled "Brides" that was simply this link:

http://www.kimiko.fr/art/index.php?cat=4



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Win!

Holy shit, I won something! Jezebel.com (my favorite site) ran a "Worst Pickup Lines" contest and my mine was one of the two winners. Sweet! The prize was two tickets to a fundraising event for Planned Parenthood at the Museum of Sex. It was fun!

Anyway, the top ten are all  pretty hilarious and play in nicely to my last post about cat-calls. I've included my (winning and no-longer traumatizing) story below.

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Meow?


Cat-calls are something that I am confronted with on a more or less daily basis. This is probably due to the fact that I am an attractive, 20-something, confident woman... no? Okay, ummm... because I am an attractive woman? Reasonably attractive woman? Woman living in a major city? Woman with a pulse willing to be seen in public?

Bingo.

The truth of the matter is, if you have the audacity to be not male, you're probably going to have your appearance/body parts/sexual habits commented upon by a bevvy of dudes of varying degrees of perviness who feel entitled to give such an opinion. Over the years, I have been treated to an incalculable number of these opinions; they have been received, in turn, with disgust, offense, fear, intimidation, annoyance and, occasionally, flattery.

So what makes the difference between ruining my morning or making my day? I've found 5 points that are pivotal in establishing the nature of a cat-call.

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Post

I would like to dedicate my first post to my first love: New York. I do not claim to be a native, but that's something I love about this city: you don't have to be in order to be considered a New Yorker.
 
Most New Yorkers, when it comes down to it, have the same religion: New York City. Religion is nothing if not a continuation of traditions within a community from one generation to another. On Broadway, your feet fall within the footprints of the yuppies, hippies, beatniks, businessmen, immigrants, revolutionaries, traders, farmers, and Indians that come before you. Reggaton blaring through your window in Washington Heights is just a continuation of the Cuban jazz from fifty years ago that replaced the klezmer that came before that. It’s never stopped, it’s only changed, one cuckoo bird after another.
 
And now, in 2010, how do you write about New York without writing about September 11, 2001? It’s not done anymore. No New York story can be complete without at least mentioning that day or specifically noting that empty space in the skyline down in Financial. And while I’ve been coming to New York my whole life, I can say honestly and perhaps blasphemously that while 9/11 us a defining moment of my generation, it is not a defining moment of my New York.

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Take Two

So I tried this about two years ago... I checked and my last post was January 2009. Clearly, that didn't work out so well.

So. A name change, a make-over, and here we go again. I'll be posting links here to my Blogger account.

Thanks for reading.

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