Bad, Feminist, Bad!
Rant warning. If you're not in the mood for my complaints, then just keep surfing.
So, I went to a partner's event last night. And before you can say it, let me say it first: I'm a complete hypocrite. I mock the scrapbooking. I pshaw the cooking classes. I harrumph at the hoedowns. But the minute "paint your own pottery" hit the list, I was signed up before you could say, "Martha Stewart." I've always had a secret longing to find out if I could make those pretty Pottery-Barn-esque things (and the answer is, Nope. I can't). Although I confess I didn't actually confirm the event until Meg swore up and down that she would definitely show up. And all I can say is, thank goodness Meg was there.
Dinner first with Meg--a quiet martini and pizza dinner (for me; Meg is much healthier than I am) at Grafton Street. The snow was coming down pretty heavily, which turns out to be good for the Cambridge parking situation. Then the two of us headed over to Made by Me. We plopped ourselves down at the table while the other cliques formed around us. And I do mean cliques. You haven't seen groups like these since you were in high school. I pick a mug and Meg picks a mug and away we go with the painting (although thanks to Meg, I didn't waste too much time. She ever so kindly pointed out to me, "Will you be able to see the stencils you are so carefully drawing on the bare cup once you've painted the base color on?" Um...). I went with a green base and blue '60s design. I know, these are the important details you are dying to know. But sitting there, overhearing all of the CWITs talking, I felt my blood boil. Everything had to do with the husbands. "So will Alexander Jonathan the Third like what you're making?" "Has Zachariah Charles been interviewing?" "Oh, I'd like to live in Maui, but Spencer T. Johnson prefers Buffalo, so that is where we will be going." And I was infuriated. Do these women not have lives of their own? Do they not do their own interesting things and have their own interesting jobs other than that of appendage (and for the record, I fully support the stay-at-home mom as a full-time, interesting job because that's a tougher career than any of those b-school boys will have, but not even that was discussed)? What really got to me, though, what I was most annoyed at, what I was completely irritated by, what made me want to stand up and shake someone, was that I wasn't annoyed at the apparent chauvinism of the men (evident in their discussions). I was annoyed at these women. I think it's anti-feminist of me to be annoyed by other people's lack of feminism (that's not femininity, folks. Feminism. It's not such a dirty word. Come on, say it with me now. Feminism), but there it is: I am. I mean, hello? It's practically 2003. Our generation got to skip all the examining of vulvas in mirrors and what not because supposedly our mothers liberated themselves for us, but apparently, some moms were busy doing the laundry while the consciousness raising was going on. Am I wrongfully judging women because they choose not to be individuals? They should have the right to want to be '50s wives. I'm being anti-woman in not wanting to let them. Maybe, they are destined to be be blissfully happy forever and ever because they simply don't care, while I'm doomed to a life of questioning, questioning, questioning, and I can't just be open-minded and let things go. Maybe Socrates was full of shit. Maybe it's better to just float around in sequined tops and big honking diamond rings and let the hubby take care of life. After all, I'm just a girl. What could I possibly know?
So, I went to a partner's event last night. And before you can say it, let me say it first: I'm a complete hypocrite. I mock the scrapbooking. I pshaw the cooking classes. I harrumph at the hoedowns. But the minute "paint your own pottery" hit the list, I was signed up before you could say, "Martha Stewart." I've always had a secret longing to find out if I could make those pretty Pottery-Barn-esque things (and the answer is, Nope. I can't). Although I confess I didn't actually confirm the event until Meg swore up and down that she would definitely show up. And all I can say is, thank goodness Meg was there.
Dinner first with Meg--a quiet martini and pizza dinner (for me; Meg is much healthier than I am) at Grafton Street. The snow was coming down pretty heavily, which turns out to be good for the Cambridge parking situation. Then the two of us headed over to Made by Me. We plopped ourselves down at the table while the other cliques formed around us. And I do mean cliques. You haven't seen groups like these since you were in high school. I pick a mug and Meg picks a mug and away we go with the painting (although thanks to Meg, I didn't waste too much time. She ever so kindly pointed out to me, "Will you be able to see the stencils you are so carefully drawing on the bare cup once you've painted the base color on?" Um...). I went with a green base and blue '60s design. I know, these are the important details you are dying to know. But sitting there, overhearing all of the CWITs talking, I felt my blood boil. Everything had to do with the husbands. "So will Alexander Jonathan the Third like what you're making?" "Has Zachariah Charles been interviewing?" "Oh, I'd like to live in Maui, but Spencer T. Johnson prefers Buffalo, so that is where we will be going." And I was infuriated. Do these women not have lives of their own? Do they not do their own interesting things and have their own interesting jobs other than that of appendage (and for the record, I fully support the stay-at-home mom as a full-time, interesting job because that's a tougher career than any of those b-school boys will have, but not even that was discussed)? What really got to me, though, what I was most annoyed at, what I was completely irritated by, what made me want to stand up and shake someone, was that I wasn't annoyed at the apparent chauvinism of the men (evident in their discussions). I was annoyed at these women. I think it's anti-feminist of me to be annoyed by other people's lack of feminism (that's not femininity, folks. Feminism. It's not such a dirty word. Come on, say it with me now. Feminism), but there it is: I am. I mean, hello? It's practically 2003. Our generation got to skip all the examining of vulvas in mirrors and what not because supposedly our mothers liberated themselves for us, but apparently, some moms were busy doing the laundry while the consciousness raising was going on. Am I wrongfully judging women because they choose not to be individuals? They should have the right to want to be '50s wives. I'm being anti-woman in not wanting to let them. Maybe, they are destined to be be blissfully happy forever and ever because they simply don't care, while I'm doomed to a life of questioning, questioning, questioning, and I can't just be open-minded and let things go. Maybe Socrates was full of shit. Maybe it's better to just float around in sequined tops and big honking diamond rings and let the hubby take care of life. After all, I'm just a girl. What could I possibly know?
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