Can We Discuss Disney Princesses Though


I was on the phone with my dad yesterday crying (surprise) over my lack of romantic luck recently. He gave me some really wonderful advice, the most hilarious of which came when he said, “The worst thing Disney ever did for society was write those stupid happy endings.” Or something to that effect — I tend to describe things a little more sassily than he does.

Anyway, it got me thinking: according to Disney, everything works out in the end if you’re a quiet woman in a patriarchal society. I am not quiet, and I’m actively attempting to smash the patriarchy at every turn, so I’m a little concerned about what this means for my love life. Also, I’m not exactly straight so I just wanna know what Disney would recommend if I’m trying to woo a mermaid, but I doubt I’ll be getting any answers on that front any time soon.

I’ve never wanted to be a princess, but I’m realizing that in a Disney world, I would have to be in order to fall in love, so uh…here we go. Now, there are a few (million) necessary adjustments I must make to my life in order to attain princess perfection:

  1. Become tiny. Which might be difficult since I’m 6′ and not exactly slender. Maybe I can cut my legs off at the knees, which would successfully reduce my weight and height in one fell swoop. It would also allow me to become helpless. Maybe my prince would be down to push me around in a wheelchair for the rest of eternity (which is obviously also how long our love would last).
  2. Replace my sweet mother with some horrible woman who wants to lock me in a tower or make me mop her floors and take care of her fat, evil cat. I could probably start looking for that type of woman at the local Chicos clothing store. The more chunky jewelry, the better, I’d assume.
  3. Become straight. And probably develop a dwarf and/or squirrel fetish.
  4. Don’t leave the house unless I look immaculate (note to self: find fairy godstylist). Only do housework if forced to. Allow mice to take up residence in my apartment.
  5. Immediately unlearn every self defense skill I’ve ever been taught. Walk into forests alone at night. Take food from strangers. Make deals with weird octopi in ocean caves. Make out with frogs even though they probably have weird swamp bacteria all over their bodies. Totally wander into random cabins in the woods without worrying about some racist hillbilly coming in and axe murdering me while I’m fast asleep.
  6. Let teacups teach me about love. Employ candlesticks for both light and therapeutic advice. Become easily impressed by silverware. Become way too obsessed with my hair for anyone’s good (this one might not be too tricky for me).
  7. Stop talking. This might be hard, as I don’t think I’ve spent more than 3 hours in silence at any given time. I even talk in my sleep, for goodness sake.
  8. Assume kissing men will always be magical and totally save my life. Because obviously everyone knows how to kiss me the way I’d like. None of them will shove their tongues down my throat (princes don’t actually possess tongues, anyway) or drool on me (and yes, before you ask, that has happened to me and I really don’t want to talk about it). Let random twerps kiss me just in case it helps my situation in life.

I think that’s it.

And yes, I’m super serious about the squirrel fetish.

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One Time, A Guy Sang At Me


I always feel really conflicted when men come up and do things that they clearly think are nice when really they’re just making me uncomfortable.

So…for example, one time a guy sang at me. I say he sang at me because I sort of just sat there, bewildered, while I was accosted by Justin Bieber lyrics. He had approached me in the student union, asked me my name and told me I had a “beautiful smile.” He then proceeded to ask me if I had a boyfriend, because he’d “seen my boyfriend this morning. In the mirror.”

Clever. Also why is this happening?

Then he grabbed my hand (stop stop I do not do well with random strangers touching me please stop) and sang “Boyfriend” by Justin Bieber. I think at that point we might’ve gotten engaged, but I really don’t know because I think maybe I have PTSD and also I was focusing on trying to extricate my hand from his grip while simultaneously not seeming like a bitch.

And that’s the issue. I didn’t want to seem like a bitch. He was invading my personal space, particularly because I was trying to do my homework and didn’t really want to have a weird conversation with a random guy. But somehow I was concerned with making him feel comfortable in the situation; my entire life I’ve been subtly told that it’s my job to make sure that men feel comfortable, which…barf, no.

This is the type of thing that women navigate daily. It can be really lovely when people come up to you and say nice things and or just want to brighten your day by giving you a compliment. But it’s can also be really frustrating, because sometimes men assume that women want that sort of thing all the time, and we don’t. Sometimes we just want to get on with our lives without someone assuming that it’s okay to invade our space and make us uncomfortable. I didn’t know that guy. I didn’t want to go on a date with him. I actually told him I had a girlfriend, which was a total lie, and I still don’t totally know why I did that. I wanted to show him that I was both uninterested and unavailable for him while not having to actually say that out loud (thinking back, I probably should’ve just told him I wanted him to leave me alone). But even after I outed myself as not heterosexual to a random stranger, he stayed. That was when he started singing to me and holding my hand.

I laughed about it later with my roommate, because it was so random and out of nowhere, but I definitely felt more bewildered than happy about what had happened. Often, women have interactions with men that make them uncomfortable, and we just walk away from those encounters feeling bad and confused. I think we typically don’t feel justified in being upset about these types of things, because often men’s response is “why can’t you just take the compliment?”

I don’t want to be “complimented” like that. I do not want to be touched by strangers. I do not want to be sang to by strangers. I do not want to be hit on by strangers when I’m minding my own business at 4 pm in the student union.

I don’t know. This post was originally going to be a funny story about a weird thing that happened to me, but I couldn’t write it that way. As I wrote, I just felt weird. I don’t want people to do that; I don’t do that to other people. I just want to go about my life without people touching me without my permission simply because I’m a woman and they assume that I’ll be flattered. It was kinda creepy, to be honest. And I’m aware that some doofus is going to comment on this post and tell me I’m being a bitch, but at least people on the internet can’t try to hold my hand.

A Quick Thought…


I’d just like to let everyone know that women aren’t really complaining about chivalry being dead…The only people I hear talking about chivalry are men who claim that women are upset about men not holding doors open for them.

Women want equal pay, equal rights, equal everything. I couldn’t give a shit if you hold a damn door open for me or like…throw your coat over a puddle so I can walk over it.

This is a non-issue, guys, and it’s distracting from real inequality and the real issues here. So let’s put it to bed: no one is concerned about the “death of chivalry.” Be polite, normal humans to men and women and intersex people and trans people, and let it go.

Now. Next step, equal rights. K thanks bye.

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I’m Not FOR Men


I’d like to clear a few things up.

As a bisexual woman, I encounter a lot of nonsense on a daily basis. I hear these bizarre — and offensive — comments on a pretty regular basis, mostly from men but sometimes from women. But let’s be real…I mostly hear this shit from men.

“Oh, you like chicks AND dudes? That’s hot.”

No. I am not for you. When you hear that I’m not exclusively interested in men, you still think that my sexuality is something for you to enjoy? You hear that I like kissing girls and you think I’m doing that for you? You poor, poor moron. This is all for me.

“Oh, so you must sleep around a lot.”
I have the same sex drive as anyone else. I just am driven toward both men and women. But thank you for basically calling me a slut?

“Oh, so you just can’t decide whether you’re straight or gay.”
Yes. Obviously I am experimenting. Testing out both ponds in order to decide which one I’d like to swim in forever.
NO! Sexuality is a spectrum. A continuum. A lot of people are sexually attracted to both men and women. I’m not indecisive, this isn’t a phase, I’m not experimenting because it’s college and I like to drunk-kiss girls. This is a thing I have always felt, and it is who I am.

This shit gets really annoying. So I keep it to myself, mostly. I don’t feel the need to be explicit or particularly public about my sexuality, but I also don’t want to feel like I have to hide it in order to feel comfortable. It’s frustrating that people find it acceptable to not only have these ideas and thoughts, but to express them to my face, often while attempting to hit on me.

So be a good, sensitive, intelligent human. Educate yourself. Use good manners. And please, for the love of god, stop asking me if I’ll have a threesome with you and some random girl.

Wave Your Tampon in the Air If You’re With Me


Look. I just read this post over at Firework in Stilettos and it got me thinking. Thinking about obnoxious people protesting outside Planned Parenthood when they could be devoting their time to volunteering at Big Brothers Big Sisters or something, if they really want to save the youth of tomorrow. Thinking about how annoying it is that everyone assumes your legs are always open if you take birth control. How people think that having your legs open all the time is really that bad…if you want to have sex and you’re being safe and responsible, by all means, open your legs up and go for it.

But mostly, strangely enough, it got me because of one line that Kat wrote:

The nurse hands me my pills and as per Planned Parenthood protocol, she places them into a small brown paper bag.  They’re already in a protective plastic blister back, a blue plastic envelope and a foil wrapper, but they (like tampons, maxi pads and most things associated with the female reproductive system) have to be hidden.

And that, right there, caused an epiphany the likes of which I have never before experienced. I’m awkward about my period.

Sure, I’ve blogged about cramps before, and sure, I’ve mentioned it to guys (my ex-boyfriend used to visibly cringe whenever I said anything about my period, as if he would “catch” my heavy flow by simply hearing the word “cramp” or “period” or…time of the month, honestly). But why are we so private about something literally every woman experiences? It isn’t like an STI, where you maybe did something risky or irresponsible and got infected. My period happened when I was in 7th grade, and it happened to millions of women before and millions since.

Since you asked, the day I got my period sucked. It was Easter morning, and all of a sudden whazam! (that’s the new *I got my period* word) there it was.

You’ve probably heard this before — or maybe not, since apparently we just don’t talk about these things in polite society, Cappy — but girls wait and wait and wait to get their periods. We rush to the bathroom in the middle of math because we think it happened, but it didn’t, and we’re secretly dismayed. And then it’s real. It actually happens, right before you have to put your Easter dress on and sit through two hours of church, and you suddenly hate your period with the passion only a hormonal pre-teen can possess.

I had that.

I had to wear a pad, y’all. And it was not small…they call them maxi-pads for a reason. I basically wore a diaper to church. I was 12 years old and wearing a big ole diaper in the house of God, singing songs about how He Is Risen but the whole time I wanted Him To Smite Me so I could be Done-zo With Periods.

And now, my period is something that just happens. For a while, it was debilitating, and I couldn’t get out of bed half the time, so I’m on birth control. For my period, not that it’s any of your business. But in case you think it is, I’ll indulge you. It’s for my period. And I wear tampons now because let’s be real, I do not need diapers and I definitely don’t need a pillow in my undies.

Y’all can deal with my lady parts, and you will like it! Or at the very least, you can keep your complaints to yourselves. Wave your tampons in the air if you’re with me!

On Feminism


Dear Men,

You can open the door for me. You can pay for my dinner. You can walk me home at night. You can carry me over puddles (do people still do that?).  And anyone who won’t let you is off her rocker.

Every human being on the planet wants independence, even those who think they don’t. Grownups don’t ask people to pick out their clothes every day, live with them at all times, enslave them, etc etc. Once you’re past the age of 16, you don’t want people helping you with every little thing you have to do. But there is a line I draw between independence and self-righteousness. Why in the name of  Gandalf’s burning bra would I get mad at you for being nice to me? Yeah, I bloody well will walk through the door before you, because the people inside probably want to see my pretty face, not your balding head.
Just kidding. But really…

As a woman, I want to make my own living, have my own ideas, and be independent of men (and other women…and my family). But I also want to be taken care of. Opening doors and walking me home at night is how you (men) show me that you care.
I want to write my way to the top, but it doesn’t mean I want people to let me get there simply because I’m a woman. I will make no excuses for my frailties…because I do have frailties, but it doesn’t mean that as a whole I am frail. I can do things on my own. I will not ask you (men) to help me out if I don’t need it. But when I do, I’ll expect you to be there (smiling and looking handsome) to give me a hand.

I want to wear short skirts. I want to look beautiful, and I want people to tell me so. I understand that wearing short skirts and being attractive have certain benefits and drawbacks. I understand that I am more likely to get whistled at by creepy men on the street when I wear short skirts than when I wear a potato sack and a bag over my head. However, I also expect men to keep it in their pants and contain themselves when I walk by and don’t look completely ugly. If I can walk by an attractive man without calling out and/or whistling, you (men) can too. At the same time, I am completely aware that I have no right to complain if I get called out for looking like a total tramp.

In a time when I have more rights than any of my female ancestors, I’m thankful for the sacrifices feminists made for me. I’m thankful that women were risking everything to call for women’s rights. I’m proud of what those women did for our society, and I’m glad that women are still working hard for my rights as an individual. But I’d like to stop being put into the category of “first woman to do this” and “second woman to do that.” As someone once said (but I forget who they were), it’s time for people to stop counting how many women have achieved things.

I am not a feminist. I am also not a child or an idiot. It’s time that extreme feminists realize that allowing people to do things for me does not mean I am weak, controllable, or unable to do those things for myself.  

So men, I am a person first and foremost. I am not strictly a woman. With that in mind, I expect to be treated as your equal. I also expect you to tell me to shut up if I get angry when you treat me nicely. There is nothing wrong with you holding a door open for me; I promise I will not slap you if you do. But promise me that if I want to open the door for you sometime, you’ll let me.

Sincerely,

Cappy