I've been aware of the term 'vajayjay' for 'vagina' for some time. Apparently it made its debut on an episode of Grey's Anatomy, and was then delightfully picked up by Oprah, and has become the beast that will not die.
It's a ridiculous, infantilized word - do you think for a moment pop culture would roam around calling a man's penis a penaynay? Of course not. But vajayjay has been picked up with enthusiasm for an area of the body which doesn't often get a very public outing. Had it just stopped at 'vajayjay' I probably wouldn't be so annoyed, but almost at the same time came 'vajazzle' - the act of enhancing the mons pubis with stick-on Swarovski crystals at upwards of $115 as introduced by Completely Bare, a New York salon, and made popular by Jennifer Love Hewitt who confessed to having had the procedure done on the George Lopez show. Why on earth was this considered news? Who would ask such a question, and who would go about proclaiming they had it done? Well, apparently Jennifer Love Hewitt and the ever expanding cast of Hollywood Stupid.
But wait, there's more! Along with calling a woman's south-of-the-border genitalia a 'vajayjay' and decorating it with crystals comes... vatooing. Temporary genital tattoos. These were also introduced by the same New York salon which brought us vajazzling.
Ladies of New York - you have too much time and too much money.
I thought the list of absurd vaginal infatuation had exceeded its boundaries at tattooing, but then I came across an article suggesting that women of a certain age who found their intercourse lacking or too infrequent might benefit from a procedure called 'vaginal rejuvenation.' What does that entail you ask? Well, major surgery and 6 weeks recovery. It promises to 'restore' your vagina to a tighter, younger condition - increasing sexual pleasure for your partner and you. Note how the partner comes first. I don't know about any other women out there, but if my partner is unhappy with the state of my less-than-tight vagina (particularly if same has pushed out one or more of his children) then he can go get himself enlarged.
Do women really need yet another thing to be self-conscious about? From our weight, height, size of breasts or ass - we must now add worries of an inadequately decorated vagina with less than optimum tightness?
Who thinks this stuff up? What does it say about a culture which shivers in near catatonic fear over gay marriage - yet has no compunction over using the term 'vajayjay' as though it's as cute as a two month old puppy, or decorating the vagina with crystals and paint?
Pardon me, but while I'm all in favor of relaxing the taboo of discussing the human body, I would like to retain some mystery, a little dignity even. I may be going to the circus, but it's not my vagina I'll be having painted or bejeweled, and if a man ever suggests I need 'rejeuvenation' I hope he's prepared to follow my recommendations for what he can do with his penis.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Storyteller's License
I claim Storyteller’s License. Sometimes the facts are re-arranged or altered to suit the spirit of the story. Core truth remains, but I embellish for effect. Next, I am often contradictory – particularly when it comes to politics, the United States, religion and, ok, most everything else. Why? Because black and white only exist in a box of crayons. The world is grey, folks, and anyone stubbornly insisting on one thing or the other - without exception – cannot be trusted. I love my family, and sometimes firmly believe they all need to be shot. I love my country, and at times think regime change is long overdue. I’m all for religion (including multiple flavors of same) but think many of the religious are tyrants in cheap disguise. Such is Life. So, having been warned, feel free to continue…
Chalk it Up to Pizza Before Bed...
Sometimes you wonder how the world sees you. You imagine yourself as projecting a certain image – professional banker, confident athlete, compassionate friend, perfect mother – and you build an identity around how you see yourself, and how you want to be seen.
The eternal argument about what shapes a person – nature or nurture – remains unanswered. Seems those asking the question want it one way or another, when the truth is it’s both, and in varying degree with us all. I have friends who were born into “good” families with “good” backgrounds who were raised by “good” parents in a “good” life, and for the most part they’ve turned out to be good people. Successful, upstanding, worthwhile people. One of them turned into a drug-dealing felon who was eventually shot and killed by police during a gang-related incident. No one knows why he got into all that. His family still sees him as a “good boy” and “smart boy” and says that it was the bad influence of the wrong friends that overcame the good influences of his breeding and rearing. I have friends who came from nothing, from parents with no education, in parts of the country presumed to doom you to failure, and they’ve turned out to be, for the most part, successful, upstanding, worthwhile people. One of them is a state District Attorney.
All of them saw themselves one way or another and built a life around it – and everyone around them saw them either through that view, or through their own perceptions of what that person is/was.
A muddled start to a difficult musing on identity…
Who are you, and who do you believe yourself to be?
How do you see yourself, and how are you seen?
There’s a complex web of interactions to go through to answer the question, the answer to which is always shifting. Who I was a week ago, is not precisely, identically, who I am today. Who am I. Hmm.
When I started this blog, I wanted to stick with it, weekly if not more frequently, but I knew I probably wouldn’t. I wanted it to be light-hearted, funny, serious, thoughtful. I wanted to write about whatever I wanted to write about – which I’ve largely done. As editor of my own words, my thoughts, you’d think that would mean I was free to write precisely what I want. Knowing the blog is read by friends put a surprising damper on that. How much of yourself do you want to reveal even to people you like or love? Who are you, how are you seen? And does it match who you think you are?
For me – yes, and not really.
Truth is, I’ve got a pretty difficult past which has shaped every day since then in ways, if you knew the details, that are easy to predict, and in ways you might never guess. I am a fairly together person, from a fairly good family with some seriously fucked up problems. I was once a rather seriously fucked up person. I got into psychology in high school in an attempt to start figuring out just how messed up I was, and what to do about it, and after spending a few years near suicidal and depressed over my rather extensive set of baggage, I got some professional help. Mainly, it was an attitude adjustment. My choice. I could sit there chewing myself up over the problems of my past until there was nothing left, or I could take charge of what I could, identify the fetid piles of emotional/physical/mental damage and move on with making a life as best I could. Project that you are ok, together, fully in command of the inner you and you will be, yeah?
Sigh.
I have no idea.
I believe I am a confident person. Capable, able to deal with the vagaries of life appropriately. I have a wide circle of friends, and a smaller circle of deeply connected friends I’d instantly donate an organ for, or walk through fire for. Friends for which I constantly thank the Powers that Be, and more than occasionally question my inherent worthiness of. I believe I’m smart, I believe I have a sense of humor, I believe I am a success as I choose to measure it. All in all, I believe my life is a good one and that I have risen above my past. Murmurs of those around me from various sources would tend to verify that.
Yet I wake up most nights from yet another nightmare I can’t turn off. Another bad dream brought on by the past, magnified in Dreamland, which leaves me most days, wondering if I am all that together or not, and truth would also seem to indicate that I am not. I don’t trust people all that much, I certainly don’t let them past the barricades until the lions at the gate believe I won’t be torn open and scattered on the barren plains. I believe everything is my fault. I hide from everyone. If I call you “friend” believe me now – it’s not lightly. But you may not know me either. But I bet you think you do.
Ah well. No answers here. Just more late night thoughts that really ought to confine themselves to late night, and not keep poking their heads into my life in the sun. I’m fine. I’m a good person, and gosh darn it people like me. I am who I am, who I think I am, and that’s what people see.
Right?
The eternal argument about what shapes a person – nature or nurture – remains unanswered. Seems those asking the question want it one way or another, when the truth is it’s both, and in varying degree with us all. I have friends who were born into “good” families with “good” backgrounds who were raised by “good” parents in a “good” life, and for the most part they’ve turned out to be good people. Successful, upstanding, worthwhile people. One of them turned into a drug-dealing felon who was eventually shot and killed by police during a gang-related incident. No one knows why he got into all that. His family still sees him as a “good boy” and “smart boy” and says that it was the bad influence of the wrong friends that overcame the good influences of his breeding and rearing. I have friends who came from nothing, from parents with no education, in parts of the country presumed to doom you to failure, and they’ve turned out to be, for the most part, successful, upstanding, worthwhile people. One of them is a state District Attorney.
All of them saw themselves one way or another and built a life around it – and everyone around them saw them either through that view, or through their own perceptions of what that person is/was.
A muddled start to a difficult musing on identity…
Who are you, and who do you believe yourself to be?
How do you see yourself, and how are you seen?
There’s a complex web of interactions to go through to answer the question, the answer to which is always shifting. Who I was a week ago, is not precisely, identically, who I am today. Who am I. Hmm.
When I started this blog, I wanted to stick with it, weekly if not more frequently, but I knew I probably wouldn’t. I wanted it to be light-hearted, funny, serious, thoughtful. I wanted to write about whatever I wanted to write about – which I’ve largely done. As editor of my own words, my thoughts, you’d think that would mean I was free to write precisely what I want. Knowing the blog is read by friends put a surprising damper on that. How much of yourself do you want to reveal even to people you like or love? Who are you, how are you seen? And does it match who you think you are?
For me – yes, and not really.
Truth is, I’ve got a pretty difficult past which has shaped every day since then in ways, if you knew the details, that are easy to predict, and in ways you might never guess. I am a fairly together person, from a fairly good family with some seriously fucked up problems. I was once a rather seriously fucked up person. I got into psychology in high school in an attempt to start figuring out just how messed up I was, and what to do about it, and after spending a few years near suicidal and depressed over my rather extensive set of baggage, I got some professional help. Mainly, it was an attitude adjustment. My choice. I could sit there chewing myself up over the problems of my past until there was nothing left, or I could take charge of what I could, identify the fetid piles of emotional/physical/mental damage and move on with making a life as best I could. Project that you are ok, together, fully in command of the inner you and you will be, yeah?
Sigh.
I have no idea.
I believe I am a confident person. Capable, able to deal with the vagaries of life appropriately. I have a wide circle of friends, and a smaller circle of deeply connected friends I’d instantly donate an organ for, or walk through fire for. Friends for which I constantly thank the Powers that Be, and more than occasionally question my inherent worthiness of. I believe I’m smart, I believe I have a sense of humor, I believe I am a success as I choose to measure it. All in all, I believe my life is a good one and that I have risen above my past. Murmurs of those around me from various sources would tend to verify that.
Yet I wake up most nights from yet another nightmare I can’t turn off. Another bad dream brought on by the past, magnified in Dreamland, which leaves me most days, wondering if I am all that together or not, and truth would also seem to indicate that I am not. I don’t trust people all that much, I certainly don’t let them past the barricades until the lions at the gate believe I won’t be torn open and scattered on the barren plains. I believe everything is my fault. I hide from everyone. If I call you “friend” believe me now – it’s not lightly. But you may not know me either. But I bet you think you do.
Ah well. No answers here. Just more late night thoughts that really ought to confine themselves to late night, and not keep poking their heads into my life in the sun. I’m fine. I’m a good person, and gosh darn it people like me. I am who I am, who I think I am, and that’s what people see.
Right?
Holiday Sentimentality
If the holidays aren’t an occasion for a blog, I’m not sure what is. I’m torn as to what sort of message to write, however. Go with the traditional holiday pap about the time honored ritual of family, or go with something a little more acerbic detailing the pitfalls of all that time honored family tradition. I admit the sarcastic smart-ass in me wants to tear at the veneer of civility, but, alas… I think I really do feel the urge to be sentimental.
The thing is – my family doesn’t have many traditions. We are not the Cleavers. We are not the Smiths and Jones of 1950s America who gather together each summer in a display of togetherness – we don’t even gather at “the holidays” with extended family since most of the extended family were identified as weasels long before my parents ever met, let alone conceived. So that leaves the establishment of tradition as something barely longer than my own lifetime, and it won’t survive past us since neither my brother nor myself have kids. Well, so be it. The Wilson family tree needed some pruning anyway. In any event, of short duration they may be, but there are certain things come Thanksgiving and Christmas that our family could not conceive of forgoing.
For one thing – turkey. We have turkey for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We even had it when we lived in Australia, and it wasn’t so easy to find one of the darn birds down there, let alone cook one, because in Australia, November and December come in the summer. The entire nation camps out on the beach, or spends its time by the pool or the barbeque. Doing the extensive cooking we do is unheard of – but mom did it. Wouldn’t have been Thanksgiving and Christmas otherwise, and further, all our friends loved it – even if we did wind up eating it outside around the pool instead of huddled indoors watching football. So the night before, a lot of the preparations are done – chopping onion and celery, chopping up pecans, cooking a double batch of cornbread for the dressing, boiling sweet potatoes. Very early on the big day mom gets up and puts the turkey in to cook, and then goes back to bed for a couple hours. Later in the morning, the intensive cooking starts – pies, cookies, candy, boiling potatoes for mashing, sautéing the onions and celery for the dressing, pouring off the rich, brown broth from the turkey, and the house begins to smell the best it smells all year – an aroma that instantly says “home.”
The big event of the day is the making of dressing. The recipe is from my mom’s side of the family, but is a traditional Southern dish. Some may stuff it into the bird, but mom has always put it into a separate roasting dish. Even more than the turkey, the dressing is the star of the Thanksgiving and Christmas meals in our family. Something magical happens when you add onions, celery, poultry seasoning, sage and turkey broth to cornbread, and darned if I can explain what it is – but we gather around mom like chicks around mama bird when the mixing is complete and the Ritual of the Tasting begins. We simply can’t keep our forks out of the stuff, and it hasn’t even been cooked yet. Dad is always concerned there not be too much sage, I always want more seasoning, mom always thinks it’s too dry, Kevin just wants another forkful. Eventually consensus is reached that perfection has been achieved and into the pan it goes, to cook for the next hour and a half or so. The turkey may be the most golden, perfect specimen ever encountered in the world of American Thanksgiving, but at our house, the dressing goes in the center of the table, because that’s the largest space and the most accessible to all. It’s the first thing everyone reaches for, and the last forkful anyone can put in their mouths.
The first year I made dressing myself, it was for Stephane, and it was a complete disaster. Far too much sage. I put in so much sage the dressing came out green, and it was so dry we couldn’t eat it. We couldn’t eat it for all the sage anyway, and Stephane looked at me with what could only be translated as “and your family likes this?” Well, couldn’t blame him. It would have been insane to eat that stuff, and I was so depressed over it the entire day was ruined. Family tradition had been let down. The only thing our family was really known for, and I’d spectacularly blown it. The following year we went to my parent’s place and mom showed him how it was done. He’s been a devoted acolyte ever since - brought firmly into the Wilson fold by the savory lure of properly made dressing – and in subsequent years I got the knack of it myself, and now friends eagerly await Dressing Day.
This year, Thanksgiving has crept up on me. I only realized last night that it was this week – and I haven’t done a thing to prepare. I’ve been absorbed with work and hobbies, and since family isn’t coming over this year, the whole thing went un-noticed. This year I find myself wondering if I should bother. If I should just make something sensible, because the Traditional Wilson Feast as we call it, has every dish you should never eat represented in a single meal. Mountains of mashed potatoes and pans of candied sweet potatoes – sweet potatoes cooked in butter and brown sugar until a thick syrup forms, and then, sometimes, mom puts on marshmallows so they melt into a gooey mass on top. Pans of corn, broccoli and rice casserole with cheese and mushroom soup, green bean casserole, jello salads, and pecan pies, butterscotch candy, and canisters of cookies. Enough food for an army. Enough food for a small nation, really, and there are still leftovers that we’ll all eat on for the next three or four days – and that’s not counting the two days of turkey soup after the bird has been picked clean of the best meat before being boiled down for stock. Thanksgiving is surely the most wretched of excesses in the American calendar year. Afterwards, all anyone can manage is to lay bloated and unmoving on the couch to spend time mindlessly watching football, or napping like a boa constrictor who’s just eaten a cow.
But more than likely, family visiting or not, I’ll go ahead and cook a scaled down version, because well… it just wouldn’t be right not to. I may laugh at a great deal of tradition, I may scorn the sometimes vapid excuses, or excesses of our culture, but there’s something comforting in doing a thing purely because that’s the way you’ve always done it. And when family isn’t around you still want to hold something of the sense of togetherness that a shared meal inspires – even if they’re not there to eat it. Truth is, it’s complete, utter sentimentality but I refuse to feel embarrassed about it. We don’t have many traditions in our family, but this one represents the best of us, and I’m hanging on to it.
Bon appetite to you and yours…
The thing is – my family doesn’t have many traditions. We are not the Cleavers. We are not the Smiths and Jones of 1950s America who gather together each summer in a display of togetherness – we don’t even gather at “the holidays” with extended family since most of the extended family were identified as weasels long before my parents ever met, let alone conceived. So that leaves the establishment of tradition as something barely longer than my own lifetime, and it won’t survive past us since neither my brother nor myself have kids. Well, so be it. The Wilson family tree needed some pruning anyway. In any event, of short duration they may be, but there are certain things come Thanksgiving and Christmas that our family could not conceive of forgoing.
For one thing – turkey. We have turkey for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We even had it when we lived in Australia, and it wasn’t so easy to find one of the darn birds down there, let alone cook one, because in Australia, November and December come in the summer. The entire nation camps out on the beach, or spends its time by the pool or the barbeque. Doing the extensive cooking we do is unheard of – but mom did it. Wouldn’t have been Thanksgiving and Christmas otherwise, and further, all our friends loved it – even if we did wind up eating it outside around the pool instead of huddled indoors watching football. So the night before, a lot of the preparations are done – chopping onion and celery, chopping up pecans, cooking a double batch of cornbread for the dressing, boiling sweet potatoes. Very early on the big day mom gets up and puts the turkey in to cook, and then goes back to bed for a couple hours. Later in the morning, the intensive cooking starts – pies, cookies, candy, boiling potatoes for mashing, sautéing the onions and celery for the dressing, pouring off the rich, brown broth from the turkey, and the house begins to smell the best it smells all year – an aroma that instantly says “home.”
The big event of the day is the making of dressing. The recipe is from my mom’s side of the family, but is a traditional Southern dish. Some may stuff it into the bird, but mom has always put it into a separate roasting dish. Even more than the turkey, the dressing is the star of the Thanksgiving and Christmas meals in our family. Something magical happens when you add onions, celery, poultry seasoning, sage and turkey broth to cornbread, and darned if I can explain what it is – but we gather around mom like chicks around mama bird when the mixing is complete and the Ritual of the Tasting begins. We simply can’t keep our forks out of the stuff, and it hasn’t even been cooked yet. Dad is always concerned there not be too much sage, I always want more seasoning, mom always thinks it’s too dry, Kevin just wants another forkful. Eventually consensus is reached that perfection has been achieved and into the pan it goes, to cook for the next hour and a half or so. The turkey may be the most golden, perfect specimen ever encountered in the world of American Thanksgiving, but at our house, the dressing goes in the center of the table, because that’s the largest space and the most accessible to all. It’s the first thing everyone reaches for, and the last forkful anyone can put in their mouths.
The first year I made dressing myself, it was for Stephane, and it was a complete disaster. Far too much sage. I put in so much sage the dressing came out green, and it was so dry we couldn’t eat it. We couldn’t eat it for all the sage anyway, and Stephane looked at me with what could only be translated as “and your family likes this?” Well, couldn’t blame him. It would have been insane to eat that stuff, and I was so depressed over it the entire day was ruined. Family tradition had been let down. The only thing our family was really known for, and I’d spectacularly blown it. The following year we went to my parent’s place and mom showed him how it was done. He’s been a devoted acolyte ever since - brought firmly into the Wilson fold by the savory lure of properly made dressing – and in subsequent years I got the knack of it myself, and now friends eagerly await Dressing Day.
This year, Thanksgiving has crept up on me. I only realized last night that it was this week – and I haven’t done a thing to prepare. I’ve been absorbed with work and hobbies, and since family isn’t coming over this year, the whole thing went un-noticed. This year I find myself wondering if I should bother. If I should just make something sensible, because the Traditional Wilson Feast as we call it, has every dish you should never eat represented in a single meal. Mountains of mashed potatoes and pans of candied sweet potatoes – sweet potatoes cooked in butter and brown sugar until a thick syrup forms, and then, sometimes, mom puts on marshmallows so they melt into a gooey mass on top. Pans of corn, broccoli and rice casserole with cheese and mushroom soup, green bean casserole, jello salads, and pecan pies, butterscotch candy, and canisters of cookies. Enough food for an army. Enough food for a small nation, really, and there are still leftovers that we’ll all eat on for the next three or four days – and that’s not counting the two days of turkey soup after the bird has been picked clean of the best meat before being boiled down for stock. Thanksgiving is surely the most wretched of excesses in the American calendar year. Afterwards, all anyone can manage is to lay bloated and unmoving on the couch to spend time mindlessly watching football, or napping like a boa constrictor who’s just eaten a cow.
But more than likely, family visiting or not, I’ll go ahead and cook a scaled down version, because well… it just wouldn’t be right not to. I may laugh at a great deal of tradition, I may scorn the sometimes vapid excuses, or excesses of our culture, but there’s something comforting in doing a thing purely because that’s the way you’ve always done it. And when family isn’t around you still want to hold something of the sense of togetherness that a shared meal inspires – even if they’re not there to eat it. Truth is, it’s complete, utter sentimentality but I refuse to feel embarrassed about it. We don’t have many traditions in our family, but this one represents the best of us, and I’m hanging on to it.
Bon appetite to you and yours…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)