Nnekay.com

I really wanted to write a blog about Lady Gaga, and how annoying she’s become- but every time I start (which has been exactly four times over the past two days) I end up repeating the same formula: I write a witty title, stop, sigh, and realize that I’m just too bored to continue. You see- her antics don’t challenge or even upset me, because she has essentially become that crappy drama kid from high school. The one that is STARVED for attention… always performing, has to be the lead in every play, and would upstage anyone no matter the moment. Trying desperately to be so unique that it’s no longer cute, artsy, or intelligent- it’s obnoxious.  I understand, that Gaga is celebrating pop culture and the insanity that is FAME, but really- if she’s making a commentary on it- she needs to have a little fun or actually (shock) have a point… because being an artist doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole.

Hey Gaga-

I have an idea, how about dousing your body with petroleum oil in the middle of Times Square (since you love NY so damn much), then take a hair bath to wash it off. It’s edgy, weird, and demonstrates the need for hair donations for the Gulf Coast clean up. You’re in a position to really utilize your comet like rise to celebrity in quirky awesome ways that could potentially change the face of pop music and teenage culture.

Or you can continue to be a douche who plays crappy music…

 Let’s take a look at the classic Bossa Nova Love diddy, The Girl From Ipanema

Tall and tan and young and lovely,
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, each one she passes goes, “Aaah”

When she walks, she’s like a samba
That swings so cool and sways so gently
That when she passes, each one she passes goes, “Aaah”

Oh, but he watches so sadly -
How can he tell her he loves her?
Yes, he would give his heart gladly,
But each day when she walks to the sea,
She looks straight ahead, not at he

Ever thought that this girl might be trying to avoid eye contact with this weirdo beach bum who stares at her every day when she’s walking to her job selling crap at the beach?

Just Sayn’….

Recently, I was having a little chat-a-roo via instant message with my very awesome feminist partner in crime Stephanie. Usually we talk about normal water cooler fluff, but sometimes we dive a little bit deeper (mostly inspired by the various article links we send to each other) into the complex world of gender inequality, politics, and other wonderful topics which reminds me- that I do have a brain, and yes, I like to use it from time to time. She’s been around to listen to my various rants on dating, and the trial and tribulations that I, and many of the other women in our circle, have experienced with a particular dating site:

OkCupid.

A free dating site mainly devoted to people in the 20ish/30ish age bracket looking for some hipster love or whatever other kinky crap ya’ll are interested in. What I’ve always liked about the site were the statistics. Every once in a while they produce little blogs about how their members interact towards each other- giving an interesting little sociological break down of the dating world. This particular article about race really spiked my interest. Since I knew these blogs existed, I kinda figured that I was being tracked- who I looked at… how often I replied to dudes…who I found interesting, yet this didn’t bother me, because:

1. The notion of “big brother” doesn’t weird me out.

&

2. I felt like I was apart of something bigger by helping to contribute to little social experiments to better understand how we humans interact.

Cool, right? Well, maybe not… during the aforementioned chat sesh with Stephanie, she sent me this link. For those of you lazy non link readers here’s a breakdown:

Bitch Magazine is hella mad, because they’ve been tipped that OkCupid uses it’s stats to determine hotness, then grants these hot users special privileges like, the chance to meet other hot people. Basically, they section off all the sexy OkCupid folks in their own sexy section in the dating site.

I read the article and immediately thought, “oh shit,” not in a ‘oh shit, this is some biased jacked up shit from a dating site that claims to be equal.’

Nope.

It was an ‘oh shit… I got that e-mail.’

I only told two people- my roommate, Heather, and my friend Chris, who thinks dating is retarded and would be amused by how insane this e-mail was. After that, I sealed my lips… but why?

I was embarrassed.

The majority of my friends were or have been on OkCupid- so bringing it up would be a 50/50 gamble which scared the crap out of me. Yes, there is the chance that said friend would have received this nugget of information- resulting in a high-5 and talks about how silly the whole notion is or it could go like this:

“Heeeeeeeey, you get this e-mail about being hot? No? Oh. Okay.”

Like the dicks that they are, OkCupid, even insisted that you “go ask an ugly friend” to prove that they don’t send this out to everyone.

Really, guys?!

Now, I’m sure this whole sexy OkCupid underbelly- has a completely different effect on dudes. I could be wrong, but I imagine is goes a little something like this:

In the Male Head: “Awesome… now I get to bone hot chicks.”

When Telling Male Friend: “Dude… I get to bone hot chicks.”

In the Male Friend’s Head: “My friend gets to bone hot chicks… maybe she will have hot friends I can bone.”

Now let’s check out what’s going on in LadyLand:

In the Female Head: “Yes! I’m hot… oh and the potential for hot guys, too! Nice! Hmm… should I tell Beth? She might think I’m a bitch for telling her, but she’s cute- I bet she got it too… I mean she gets letters on OkCupid a lot, and last night at the bar, that random guy was totally hitting on her… yea, I bet she got it too.”

When Telling Female Friend: “I got this really weird letter saying I’m hot on OkCupid, I bet you got one too, because you’re so cute- and your profile picture is super sexy.”

In Female Friend’s Head: “WHAT THE FUCK, I’m so much hotter than Jane… well, I mean she’s cute, but the lighting is super good in her profile picture… I should have put that picture up of me from Halloween- the sexy nurse costume is totally hot… whatever…”

Lame, right.

Since birth, images have been blasted in our face about how valuable female beauty is, sure appearance for guys can go a long way- but if you’re funny or have money, you can fill in the gaps of your attractive quotient. Look at all the sitcoms out there where the dad figure is a fat slobby gross man, while the wives are ever patient fashion plates with rockn’ bods:

Still Standing, King of Queens, According to Jim, The Honeymooners… etc.

Women on the other hand, are threatening when funny or rich:

Funny
Did you hear that?
Funny
Yeah, the guy said
“honey, you’re a funny girl.”
That’s me
I just keep them in stitches
Doubled in half,
And though I may be all wrong for a guy,
I’m good for a laugh,
I guess it’s not funny,
Life is far from sunny,
When the laugh is over
And the joke’s on you,
A girl oughta have a sense of humor
That’s one thing you really need for sure
When you’re a funny girl
The fella said “a funny girl”
Funny
How it ain’t so funny,
Funny girl
Fanny Brice in Funny Girl, got the fame, fortune, and laughs- but did she get the guy?

NO.

For women, our looks mean so much… because men, media, and other women give appearance so much weight- it’s gotten out of control. There have been different ad campaigns and TV Shows which have tried to call attention to the gross amount of energy spent on the perfect image of women.  A light flip through the rolodex of my head I can think up two examples: Jessica Simpson’s ridiculous romp through different cultures in The Price of Beauty and the Dove Real Beauty Campaign which pictured normal ladies in their chonies and slapped that image on billboards across America.

Nice try guys, but you still only focused on image.

The only way to stop this is, is to highlight aspects that have NOTHING to do with appearance. Say for instance calling attention to the fact that Michelle Obama is a Princeton and Harvard Law Alumna, instead of how awesome her arms looked in that Calvin Kline Metallic Strapless Dress.

The perception of the female body is embedded in to mainframe of most world cultures- changing it would probably need some apocalyptic event- but even then I have a sneaking suspicion we ladies would be jockeying over who was able to pull off the tattered coat look… all I ask is that we try to shift a tiny little percentage of value over to intellect or talent.

You listening OkCupid? If you can track how many times a person’s pictures are viewed, I’m sure it’s easy to see how often a profile essay is visited. Sure a pretty sea shell is fun for a quick glance, but it takes some content to make it interesting.

It was the second day… already completely pickled from two days worth of beverage consumption, I found myself standing in the direct center of one of the top talked about night clubs of Las Vegas. Heather, my roommate and pickled partner in crime, and I-  had just gotten in for free, purchased a ridiculously expensive drink, and now stood rather dumbstruck next to some vacant stripper poles. Trying to soak in the scene and avoid gyrating co-eds, I turned to Heather and slurred, “This… is intense.” Just as I spoke, a woman- who was severely inebriated dragged herself up onto the empty stripper pole platform and began to wobble around the pole a beat too slow. With the slack jawed look of drunken confidence she worked it… slowly, and I couldn’t stop staring like some incredibly sloppy-sex car crash. Then like moths swarming to a heated lamp, a gaggle of teetering women began to claw for attention at the poles. Hair, High Heels, and glitter rained down on me, as they slowly bumped around each other, one trying to out sexy the next. Reality crashed down as I nearly avoided getting my eye punctured by a rogue spike heel. Heather and I backed up to watch from a safer area, she turned to me and excitedly said,

“Pretty cool how we didn’t pay, right?”

“Yea…” I muttered as I watched a woman in a dark fedora hump the stripper pole stage.

“We’ve been getting perks, and free stuff this whole trip, I think Vegas really caters to women,” Heather continued. It was true, we had benefited from various Vegas perks in the containment of just under 24 hours- which was insane. I felt a little drunk with power and started to dance with mimicked sexy confidence. Then I noticed it: Men… looking… everywhere…and it all came flooding back to me: the leering looks, forced conversation, being hit on by old men… my drunken anger washed over my being, turning my happy buzz into rage.

“No, you know what?! Vegas doesn’t cater to women! WE ARE JUST OBJECTS! LOOK AROUND YOU! IT’S A MALE WONDERLAND!!!” I hiked up my pink strapless dress and wildly waved my arms around the club, while the look of concern increased in poor Heather’s eyes.”THEY pay the money- but we’ve been strategically placed here for their DELIGHT!!!” For emphasis, I pulled a long hard sip from my gin and tonic.

“Well… I guess you’re right,” Heather muttered, clearly she was not as appalled as I was, because clearly she was not as drunk.

“AND another thing! MY FEET HURT!” I huffed, and leaned against the wall angrily staring down the glaring patriarch of the club.

Then a popular song came on, and I was magically distracted for a few more hours…

Hobbling out the club… my temporary musical distraction had worn off, “These shoes BLOW!!” Heather nodded, a lot more on my level of intoxication… she seemed almost ready for my on-coming rant.We continued to a waiting cab- as I simmered with growing feminist anxiety. My strapless bra was digging into my right breast, my pink dress was too short, my bun pulled too tight, the make-up of the night was bleeding into my eyes causing a horrid sting on the outside corners.

And the dagger death traps that were strapped to my feet… they were the worst. Sitting in the cab- I looked deep at my purple toes throbbing in the reflective light of the passing casinos, only one word came to mind:

WHY?!?!

“These are hateful contraptions of evil…” I thought to myself as heather and I tumbled out of the taxi. Standing in the elevator, leaning against a wall it slipped out, “evil…”

“What…didyousay?” fell out of Heather’s mouth as she wafted back and forth on the ride to our room.

“These are evil constructs of Evil!” My anger picking up pace as Heather nodded. “Created for women to supposedly look good!! EVIL!!!”

“Youknow….. … you can… takethem off.” Heather continued, eyes shut. With that, I promptly took them off, and gripped each shoe with ferocious white knuckled passion. Shaking the shoes in Heather’s semi disinterested face I continued my rant.

“How DARE MEN encourage these HATEFUL SHOOOOEES!!!!! THESE EVIL MISOGYNIST SHOESSSS!” After three tries Heather opened the hotel room, I screamed, “EVIL!!!” and threw them on the ground, then fell face first into a pillow. Heather calmly sat down on the edge of her bed, removed each shoe, waited a beat and said, “so… I’m gonna put on my flats… wanna go see what’s going on at that other club we keep hearing about?”

I rolled over, blinked at the ceiling, and muttered, “okay.”

Welp…  like the various Americanos and Internationals before me, I will be making the holy journey to Vegas.

Ahhh, Vegas - so hip it’s dropped the “Las” from it’s moniker. An adult play ground, land of debauchery, and all around crazy glut of sin.

Honestly, this is all hearsay- because the last time I was in Vegas it was still “Las Vegas”, the MGM was the new hot shit, and I was 14. What I can piece together from my fractured memory and minimal pictorial documentation is:

1. It was hot.

2. I wore a lot of Sanrio.

3. Luxor was cool, because Ancient Egypt was the “it” country in the 90: “Do You Remember the Time” Michael Jackson Video, “The Mummy Franchise, StarGate Movie and TV weirdness, not to mention they were digging around in those tombs at that time.

4. Buffets were everywhere…

5. My parents didn’t seem to mind that I wore Tevas… sigh…

6. Cesar’s Palace had singing statues which not only freaked the shit out of me, but also entranced me.

Lastly… 7. The hotel we stayed at, The Fitzgerald, smelled like a butt hole puffing on a menthol cigarette.

And that’s about that… I thought the trip was pretty awesome- but then again- I was 14, so I’m expecting a drastically different time. Needless to say, What Happens in Vegas… will NOT stay in Vegas- because well… I’m a writer, sorta.

Sitting on the train, I watched a mother barely touch her utterly beautiful child. Unisex due to the long curls and rugged jeans, this two yearish child beamed at me from behind a pacifier. I couldn’t help but beam back at this tiny scramble of a being. A minute ago, dad had the beautiful child on his hip- as mom sadly looked on. Hands crossed at her waist, she was dejected. Her face hung lax, almost as if the weight of her burden pulled at her cheeks as literal pounds. Her hands held the stress, tightly wound together in a knuckled knot at the pit of her lap. As a couple, their moves were careful constructions of many years spent together… yet it was slow, tired, and sad. A melancholy water ballet as they passed the beautiful child or BC (for short) from dad’s hip to mom’s. The BC did not land on mom’s hip, but rather was placed on the neighboring seat. A dark feeling crept through me.

Is this married life?

God, I hope not- I thought turning away from the squirming BC, who seemed continuously joyful as it clutched the thigh of the woeful mother. Neither parent looked at each other as we sailed through stop after stop.

I don’t know this family’s particular story. They could be blissfully tired from a rough day of sight-seeing or on the verge of a nuclear family meltdown. I don’t know, none of my business- but being a child of divorce- I’m not one to assume longevity. I recognize that marriage doesn’t necessarily translate into forever, yet it’s still a minor defeat when you realize happily ever after isn’t a simple procedure.

Today I would like to analyze a segment from this film review. Just to give a little bit of history:

1. I haven’t seen the movie nor do I really want to see it.

2. Yes, Just Wright looks like smucky hollywood crapola, but Queen Latifah is a refreshing lead mostly because she’s black, not praying mantis thin, and tends to be suspected as a lesbian in her private none of our business life.

3. Obviously, I know she’s “unconventional” in Hollywood LaLa Puffland- but isn’t it kinda awesome to break tradition some times?

Mick LaSalle doesn’t think so…

“Actually, ‘Just Wright’ misses an interesting opportunity. Let’s just say it: Latifah is heavier than just about any other woman who has ever appeared as the lead in a conventional romantic comedy. The movie could have addressed that and made that into a virtue. There are men who especially appreciate overweight ladies, and probably some of those men are professional athletes. Instead, the movie ignores the issue to the point of discomfort. For example, twice Latifah appears in unbecoming, form-fitting gowns, and everyone reacts as if spellbound by her attractiveness.

A movie about a heavy lady who hits the romantic jackpot would have been a welcome statement. But “Just Wright” occupies a weird zone, in which it seems to be embracing Latifah’s weight and denying it, asking for credit while turning a blind eye. Too bad. With a little more courage and little more honesty throughout, this could have been a memorable romantic comedy.”

You mad yet?

For your entertainment, I will now translate:

“Dear readers Queen Latifah is fat. OMG in a Rom-Com, that’s gross and weird. I don’t think fat ladies are hot, but some dudes do, like black guys– er athletes… I got super awkward when she wore those dresses that showed off her big boobs. Uck put them away! Since being fat is like totally gross and stuff… almost like a handicap- why didn’t they call attention to it?!?!?!? I mean a hot guy going after a fat girl- WTF?!”

The thing that gets me so heated is his language. He acts as if he’s spewing the gospel of truth- when really it is thinly veiled insults flying from his judgmental mouth:

He states that “some men” do find curvier women attractive, then in the next sentence talks about how “unbecoming” she is in tight dresses- this speaks as a direct contradiction…. almost like there is something wrong with men who think curves are attractive… and that a womanly shape should be shielded from the public in loose fitting muu-muu type frocks.

“A heavy lady who hits the romantic jackpot” Holy crap are you fucking kidding me?!?! Basically implying that a chance at an attractive man for a shapely woman is like winning the lotto… Mick— really?! You look like this:

Stones and glass houses come to mind…

Mick. La. Salle. You act as if the whole curvy girl gets the guy hasn’t been done before. Aren’t you an “expert” regarding movies?! Or do you avoid movies unless they feature women who are only between the baby sizes of 0-2.

My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Real Women Have Curves, Hairspray… are just a few of these movies which makes a point of saying “Hey look at this homely ass girl… but guess what she’s not really… she’s actually pretty awesome, and she’s going to get the guy. Hooray!”

Yet, there is a problem with that tactic- being slightly more curvaceous than the average movie wench- makes you … huh? what? Yea… it makes you NORMAL. By adding the issue of weight to the plot- it seems as if being overweight is a freakish attribute, almost as if Queen Latifah was sporting a pig nose deformity a la the Christina Ricci fantasy movie Penelope. You don’t see a bunch of pig nose ladies walking around, but shapely curvy bodies? All. The. Time.

So let’s stop making a big deal out of weight. True, I’m all about getting healthy- but can we please stop these misogynist views of the female form from being published on a national platform?!

Carefully, you’ve ironed and organized your best clothes. You know, the ones that make you feel confident and attractive. You’ve allow plenty of time to slowly get ready, dancing shamelessly in your room to your favorite music. Before starting the ignition to your car, you check one last time in the rear view mirror, haplessly sighing… “well… this is as good as it’s going to get.” Your hands slips on the steering wheel from excessive sweat, you grip harder, and this for some reason, this heightens the twittery bubbles inside your chest. Parking the car, you burst out to the street with nervous energy… walking headstrong to your engagement.

It happens in a flash, and now you are alone again.

In your car, you are exhausted, drained, a deflated being- but is that a glimmer of excitement…? Does it boil over into shear giddiness? When you get home, kick off your shoes, and collapse on the bed are you a heaping mess of emotions?

The high propels you through a few days, jutting you forward though daily mundane activities. Unconsciously, you begin to check your phone more frequently.

Was that a missed call? No.

With each moment, your pulse slows… your bubbles pop… a dark sense of dread creeps through your conscious, and hovers lightly on the nape of your neck until… the phone rings.

Tell me… did you get the second date or did you get the job?

During a 15 minute break, I sat, ate some cookies, and watched a mallard duck slowly waddle in my direction. Sometimes he would stare off across the sunny field of grass, looking completely stoic and alone. Other times he would fluff up, shiver, and waggle his dignified tail feathers, as if frustrated with the current state of avian creatures. Often I would find him sneaking glances in my direction, to which I couldn’t help but wonder what he thought of me.

Then it dawned on me… He’s a duck.

His brain is probably the size of a peanut butter cracker, so not much is going on in there.

I’m deeply glad that I have my human brain capacity- but every once in a while, a little peaceful empty headed-ness sounds like a wonderful thing.

Two days ago I experimented with Caffeine.

In the morning I grabbed a Redbull… why? Because I’m one of those freaky time weirdos out there that actually enjoy the flavor of the toxic internal organ staining stuff. During the 40 minute car ride to work, I downed the elixir and ate some left over Chex mix found in my garbage pail of a car.

Sexy.

By the time I got to work, I decided the choices I made in the morning were smart. I was buzzing… whirling like a newly oiled tin man. E-mails- check! Assignments- check! You got a question, dear student?-check! Clean desk- check! Check! Check! Check! I could almost hear the ding of a bell in my head every time I successfully accomplished a task at hand.

It was magic, until I realized that this energy- though it felt natural and easy- was completely fabricated by the consumption of massive amounts of sugar and whatever other voodoo spells they put in that tiny blue and silver can. Not wanting to loose my high- I zipped to the coffee kiosk to get my daily cup of coffee and Latina attitude from the Barista. I normally get a medium- but since I was already jacked up on caffeine, “A large, please…” blurted from my lips. What? Why? How?

Sitting at the reference desk, I felt a nervous energy start to vibrate through out my limbs. The coffee put me over the edge… but I continued to answer questions and work though the daily tasks at a heightened speed. Which continued to increase… and increase… and increase… until, I could literally feel my heart pulsating though my left bosom. When there was wasn’t anything to type, I watched, helplessly as my fingers ghost typed on the keyboard. A student would arrive at the desk, lazily garbling a question out for me to answer, which I would reply with a rapid,

“Yes! Okay! Let’s do it! Come on! Follow me, the book is this way!” Charging onward into the stacks while they followed me with wide eyed mystery.

When lunch rolled around, I had already planned out the specific CDs I would lend to my dad, figured out an efficient path to his house so I could get gas on the way- and constructed what I would steal from his fridge using a visual picture of what was available from my last visit . When I arrived, I made my sandwich, and tried to hide the fevered pitch of my caffeine high from his mellow demeanor. My father must have not picked up on this, because he automatically offered me a Coca-Cola.

I was at a crossroads… I didn’t know if my body could handle the extra dosage of this wonder drug… but then again, I knew I was heading for a head on collision with the post 4pm work malaise.

“Alright… Let’s do this.” I muttered taking the gleaming red can from my dad’s finger tips. My hands quivered as they carefully popped the tab.

Sitting back at work, this time in my office, I was alone with my high. I swerved back and forth in my chair- occasionally leaning back in the seat to test the limits to how far the chair could stretch. Suddenly I felt it in my stomach… it was almost as if the organ was groaning,

“ohhhhh what did you DO TO ME?!?!”

“I dunno…” I groaned back, and slumped low in my seat. In a matter of hours, I had gone from a wunderkind to a lump of turd-crap wasting away in the corner, barely enough energy to knock off the flies. No longer ghost typing, I looked at my withered phalanges as they lay dormant at the edge of my keyboard, and wondered aloud, “What happened to me.”

My boss peaked into my office, took one look at me, and said, “Nnekay, is it time to go home?”

“yes…” poured like thick liquid out of my mouth, “it’s time to go home.”