two feet in.

"Clearly following the law..."

So, the topless protesters apparently caused quite a ruckus as they demonstrated against our fine gropenator's ballot measures for today's special election.  As promised, arrests were made:

Both were charged with indecent exposure, disorderly conduct and going beyond the scope of their permit to demonstrate on state property.

"The permit specifically said that nudity would not be allowed," said Tom Marshall, a CHP spokesman. "We're clearly following the law as it was written."

However, as WIIIAI pointed out, the letter of the law apparently applies only to the female bared breasts.  Naked male nipples, clearly a form of nudity, were not arrested.  Also, if you check out the photo gallery provided by the LA Times, you'll also learn that one of the protesters who "covered her nipples with taped on pieces of felt" was not arrested.  So, the lesson to be learned here... it is only the sight of female nipples that constitutes indecent exposure.  The authorities have not yet decided whether or not to list the arrested women as sex offenders. 

Two Breasts In

Bare-breasted women are soon to be sex offenders in California:

Topless women holding a protest may be ho-hum in San Francisco, but at the state Capitol, police say such a display could corrupt children, prompt drivers to veer off the road and cause sex offenders to run amok.

The California Highway Patrol has warned members of an organization called Breasts Not Bombs that if they dare to take their shirts off during a protest scheduled at the Capitol on Monday, they will be arrested and possibly forced to register with the state as sex offenders.

All of this was a shock to the leaders of the Mendocino-based group, which, according to its website, uses public breast-baring as a "forum to speak about the vulnerability of humanity and the earth." Bay Area protests by Breasts Not Bombs have yet to trigger even a disorderly conduct charge.

"We feel what we are doing is harmless," said Sherry Glaser, speaking for the group on the steps of the federal courthouse in Sacramento where she had gone to try to block the state from making arrests Monday.

"It's a demonstration of what freedom is, what peace is, what liberty is."
...
At the court hearing Friday afternoon, Judge Garland E. Burrell ruled that "there is no 1st Amendment right to bare breasts on the grounds of the state Capitol."

Glaser said group members would consider over the weekend whether to defy the court and remove their tops Monday. She seemed to be leaning against it, especially after the CHP raised the issue of sex-offender registration.

State police say that when the group filed for a protest permit last month, there was no indication that Breasts Not Bombs was going to go topless. But the group's name made them suspicious.

"I decided to conduct some research," CHP Officer Keith Troy wrote in his court declaration. It's unclear what that research involved. But soon Troy called Glaser, who acknowledged that breasts would be bared. (link)

Apparently, Breasts Not Bombs plans to perform a play with such dangerous lines as "Mammaries not Missiles," and "Nipples not Napalm." 

My two breasts are unfortunately not able to travel to Sacramento on Monday, but they stand in solidarity with any breasts that choose to bare themselves -- especially if it gets people to open their eyes to the true nature of indecency and degradation, of the true offenders of humanity.

Young Women Take Heed: No Grunting Allowed!

Goodness knows that proper women never make involuntary, animal-like vocalizations.  Someone must be teaching them, and it has just got to stop:

Grunting noises made by female tennis players as they strike the ball are getting out of hand, and rules should be changed to crack down on the practice,

Mills, Wimbledon's chief official for 22 years who retires after this week's tournament, which begins on Monday, told The Sunday Times he believed coaches were teaching young women players to grunt.

"I don't like it at all. Today there is probably more grunting than there has ever been," he said.

"If I was playing an opponent making so much noise, I think I'd just laugh. But it's what young players are being coached to do.

"Many of the non-grunting players are unhappy about the noise pollution and a kind of counter-grunt culture has emerged in recent years whereby offended parties ape their opponent's noises."...

One of the loudest of the modern grunters is defending women's champion Maria Sharapova, who, according to the paper, makes a 100-decibel grunt, roughly the same volume as small aircraft landing nearby. (link)

Women, control yourselves! 

Hmmm, do you think that this would be an issue if the offending grunters were all male? 

Oh what I miss when I don't watch the news.

"It's the sort of cheesecake dads and sons can enjoy together."

This the breaking news that CNN's Aaron Brown felt the need to share with us during my once a month  viewing of News Night.  What is he talking about?  The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue! 

This was followed by a hard-hitting interview with the super-model from this year's cover, who informed us that, "If you didn't have a woman editor, it would be all for the men." 

Turns out that the cheesecake reference is connected to the intellectual history of the swimsuit issue:

The editors of the swimsuit issue have perfected a genteel notion of female sexuality. You might call it Minivan Cheesecake. That is, the magazine is just tasteful enough to be enjoyed comfortably by a middle-aged man who operates a minivan.

I'm so very glad that they have that woman editor, so that it's not all for the men.  Is that what makes it meet the minivan standard? 

Would you prefer the goat's body or the serpent's tail?

Last week as I was sitting in the doctor's office waiting room, I found out that for perhaps the first time in my life, I am in style!  Well, almost.

My doctor was running very late, and the waiting room had a dearth of reading material that wasn't oriented to Hollywood stars and their latest exploits.  So, I took the opportunity to catch up with J Lo (did you know she's unhappy?), Jennifer and Brad (did you know they're splitting up?) and "MTV's Newlyweds" (who?). 

There was one headline, however, that really caught my eye: 
What's sexy now?  Body Parts Go In and Out of Style!

According to this ground-breaking expose, here are the body parts that are in style now:

in:  soft tummy
out:  six-pack abs

in:  hourglass figure
out:  slim hips

in:  natural breasts
out:  huge implants

in:  round rears
out:  flat behinds

in:  shapely calves
out:  skinny legs

My visions of being in the in-crowd were fleeting, however -- lasting as long as it took me to look at the accompanying photos.  When Paris Hilton embodies the "soft tummy" that is supposedly now in style, then most of us women still don't quite make it.  Over this, you'll be happy to hear, I have not lost even a moment of sleep (over other matters, yes, over this, no). 

It is perhaps a sign of my warped mind, that when reading the following bit of news, I recalled the doctor's office listing of stylish and not-so-stylish body parts:

Scientists have begun blurring the line between human and animal by producing chimeras—a hybrid creature that's part human, part animal...

But creating human-animal chimeras—named after a monster in Greek mythology that had a lion's head, goat's body, and serpent's tail—has raised troubling questions: What new subhuman combination should be produced and for what purpose? At what point would it be considered human? And what rights, if any, should it have?

Scientists have apparently already created pigs with human blood flowing through their bodies, and are working on mice with human brains. 

If I were a more conscientious person (and if it were not currently the middle of the night) , I'm sure that I would be blogging about the questionable moral and ethical implications of these human-animal hybrids -- and I'd be happy to chat over a cup of tea about such matters.  But, no, I am blogging about Paris Hilton and the limitless style possibilities of chimeras and their ilk.

Imagine!  Instead of liposuction, breast implants, or laser vaginal rejuvenation (has this world truly gone insane??), the in-and-out-of-style body parts may be feline, canine, or bovine.  Sounds too far-fetched you say?  Well, at one time the idea of  surgery "to create an aesthetically pleasing vulva" did too, but now it can be yours for "affordable monthly payments" and a "low fixed rate of 9.99 to 13.99%".  Oh happy day.

Some stars are already on their way to chimera-ness...

It is only a matter of time before Paris, Jennifer, and J Lo jump on the bandwagon, and the in-bodyparts are redefined for the rest of us, who are currently 100% human, yet again -- for a low fixed rate, of course.

What'll it be: a college education, or a triple-D cup?

More on the absurdities with which we live, and this time I'm not trying to be funny.  Today I came across the following two "news" items:

First:

Students at a Palo Alto middle school learned more than school officials ever expected when a recent "career day" speaker extolled the merits of stripping and expounded on the financial benefits of a larger bust...
[The speaker] told one group of about 16 students that strippers can earn as much as $250,000 a year and that a larger bust -- whether natural or augmented -- has a direct relationship to a dancer's salary.

He told the students, "For every two inches up there, it's another $50, 000," according to [student], 14.

Then, from a different news source:

Increasingly across the country, parents are buying their daughters larger bosoms for graduation presents and some mothers even get augmentations with their daughters...
...
Breast augmentation "can give some women a boost in confidence as they enter college or the workplace,"...

So, breast augmentation is the newest mother/daughter bonding ritual?  Are parents hoping to boost their daughter's earning potential along with their confidence?  Or... are we just a very sick society?

There was a time when I would have brushed these off as other people's neuroses.  I'm not worried about the my breasts, and so while I would have been angered and saddened about the lengths that girls and women feel that they must go to in order to achieve some sort of male-defined ideal, I would have just gone about my day shaking my head in disbelief.

Now, though, I've got a daughter and a son, and everything is different. 

Sometimes the task of raising children to have a positive body image and self-esteem, as well as a respectful/grounded/knowledgeable/healthy attitude about sexuality, seems quite overwhelming.  On the one hand, they hear about how "just another 2 inches" will throw an extra 100 grand their way.  Then, the flash of Janet Jackson's nipple on national television causes national uproar.   If nothing else, it is a recipe for schizophrenia. 

I can certainly help to teach my kids differently from  the dominant paradigm, but they are their own people, and they don't live in a bubble, and at a certain point they will have to find their own way through the mess that the media, popular culture, and  school-based education present to them.

However, there is at least one thing that I can say with absolute confidence.  Come graduation time, this mother and daughter will find some other way to celebrate.

 

But do they work for 38-year-old, post-childbirth paunch?

All of this holiday hedonism has my pants feeling a bit snug around the waistline. Thank goodness, help is on the way!

I've just found out that there are several cell-phone ring tones (called "Rockmelon" and "Body Thinning") that will help me shed those extra pounds.  As an added benefit, I can also increase my bust size! 

Here are some personal testimonials:

Age:  22 Before:  35.5" bust.  After:  36.5" bust
The bust-boosting ring tone sounds a bit scary, like a horror movie.  I listened to it while I ate, and after awhile it made my appetite decrease.  I used to eat a big bag of chips as a snack every day, but after listening to the ring tone I didn't want to eat that kind of snack.  The most amazing thing is that in a month my bust grew one inch -- I couldn't believe it!  Before, I wouldn't dare wear a see-through shirt, but now I wear one with a colorful bra underneath.  When middle-aged guys pass me on the street they do a double take!

Age:  24 Before:  102 pounds.  After: 98 pounds
The weight-loss ring tone is so harsh.  It's really annoying!  But after I had listened to it for a week, I started seeing results.  I don't know why, but the ring tone makes me want to drink and eat less.  Previously, after eating dinner I would eat four servings of ice cream in one sitting.  Now one serving is enough!  My boyfriend promised that if I lose two more pounds he'll buy me a Burberry miniskirt!

Hmmm... I'd venture to guess that listening to any cell phone ring tone while I eat or for a week might make me lose my appetite as well, especially when said tones are harsh and scary.  As for the bust-enhancing capabilities, you'll have to trust the experts: 

"Most would think it's a lie, but the techniques involved in the process have been known for some time and are the result of research I carried out in the '80s and '90s," Tomabechi tells Shukan Gendai. "I use sounds that make the brain and body move unconsciously. It's a technique involving subliminal effects."
Tomabechi claims that techniques exist to provoke movement in a certain part of the brain that reacts to sounds and light.
"It's a part of cognitive science. I suppose you could call it a kind of 'positive brainwashing,'" he says. "Sound waves travel in patterns that can be properly re-played."

The breast-enhancing tone received more than 10,000 downloads in the first week of availability -- a virtual goldmine at just "300 yen" or $2.90 a month.  However, as an added benefit to loyal two feet in readers, you can test out Rockmelon HERE -- completely free!

I suppose Rockmelon and Body Thinning are cheaper and safer than implants or liposuction. but somehow I don't think that makes them much better for us.   I'll settle for turning off the cell-phone, taking a walk, and engaging in any of a number of other forms of positive brainwashing.

alimentary hedonism

 

As do many American women, I have had a complicated relationship to my body over the course of my lifetime -- I'm sure related to complicated family relationships which too often revolved around whispered suggestions of losing a few pounds.  I could tell many stories there, but not now.

My body and I have been more or less fine -- in fact we get along quite famously together -- since my mid-twenties.  I am at home and happy with my curves, and with the exception of post-childbirth-expansion, I have not spent much time worrying about whether or not I need to lose ten pounds.  The fact is, I love to eat, will never diet again if I can help it.  As long as I am strong and active I will continue this good relationship my body and I have got going.

This past Thanksgiving I decided that I needed to start a new category on this blog:  alimentary hedonism!  Here's what happened that got me going on this track.  My lovely little family and I went to unnamed person's house for Thanksgiving dinner.  The hosts were not relatives, but rather friends of the side of the family that is not mine, and were people who I don't see very often -- maybe once a year at most.

We got out of the car, and patriarch of the family came to greet us, and the first words out of his mouth were:  "You sure lost all that baby weight!  You're looking much thinner than last time I saw you!"  His wife gave a similar proclamation when she saw me.  Now please understand, I am all for compliments, and will never refuse one when it comes my way (so send 'em on over!).  However, I had a hard time deciding if this was a compliment, and it pissed me off that this was what these people deemed as the most important thing to say to someone that they barely knew and had not seen in a long time.  It was very indicative of the giant mind-fuck that women and girls must overcome in our society.  (Excuse my language there, but, well, it seems appropriate.)

At that moment, I decided that my political statement at that particular Thanksgiving dinner would be to consume with gusto.  So, as several quasi-anorexic members of host family picked at their meal and worried about their cellulite, I helped myself to all three desserts and made a point to visibly savor each and every sweet morsel.  Okay, so maybe that was a lame political statement (especially on Thanksgiving when much more important political statements could be made), but oh so satisfying.  Alimentary hedonism -- "the pursuit of pleasure as a matter of ethical principle" was my mantra during that particular meal.

I'm not often for hedonism, but now and then it is a darned fine thing, even highly encouraged.  So, I'll write from time to time about food and food-related matters -- especially as they relate to feeling good about who and what we are in this body-obsessed culture. 

Beauty and the Modern Girl

(Originally published on Rudolf's Diner)

"You're not fat," my mother would tell me, "just big-boned."  Nearly eleven, I'd heard it for years.  "Think of the ugly duckling that grew into a swan," she reassured me with averted eyes.  I was about to begin my first Wendy Ward class.  Each Tuesday evening in the Spring of my fifth grade year, my mother would give a similar pep talk as she deposited me at the entrance to the Montgomery Ward department store a few miles from our house, no doubt hoping that when she picked me up I would be transformed into that graceful swan. 

Clutching my Ward's beauty manual, I'd join fifteen other pre-teens in a specially designed "seminar" room at the back of the store, behind the ladies intimate apparel section.  We sat in rows of chairs, facing the Wendy Ward beauty consultant-of-the-week, each an expert in her chosen field, recruited from the Ward's cosmetics counter, from the Hair Barn Cuttery down Route 355, or perhaps from the local branch of the Barbizon School of Modeling.  During each session we would focus on a different body region, getting tips and advice about our own special "problem areas".  Miss Ward always ruled from the seat of honor, which glowed under carefully aimed track lighting, and where, within arm's reach, she could pluck from a dazzling display of beauty products, each neatly labeled with its price and the location in the store where it could be purchased .    

Every week was the same.  Girl by girl, row by row, Miss Ward would call us up to her platform, under the lights.  Here, we faced the group as she compared our feature-in-question with that of the supposed ideal pictured in the manual.  All eyes followed her neatly manicured hand as it swept from the girl on display, to the bright color photos in the manual, to the product table, and back again.  Some of the Miss Wards even wrote their recommendations down on a small index card that we could carry with us during the final fifteen minutes of the session, when our mothers arrived to take us shopping.  "Love's Baby Soft Dusting Powder will help cut down on that oily shine, while also giving you a fresh clean scent," read the first card I received. 

I always sat in the back row, near the end but not the very last person.  The other girls whispered and giggled together, but I never even learned their names.  To me, they were all thin and blond and from a different universe.  We were supposed to be able to benefit from hearing everyone's commentary, but with my stomach lodged in my throat, and my head pounding, I barely comprehended the nuggets of advice and encouragement that Miss Ward surely bestowed on each of them.  I would keep a count in my head as each girl returned to her seat - three more...two more till my turn...I'm next...but then again maybe this one will take a long time...oh that was too fast...

"E-! Come'on up here and let's see what we can do with those curls of yours!"  My turn.

When finally called under the spotlights, I would hold my breath as Miss Ward paused, head tilted to one side, obviously perplexed at how to approach my problem-of-the-week with tact and grace:  "So, E-...." (longer pause) "...Do you always wear your hair that way?" 

I rarely answered their questions and never looked at the audience.  Tears always threatened, pushing against the back of my eyelids, and I would try hard not to blink.  So close, under those lights, I could sometimes see lipstick smudged onto Miss Ward's teeth, the outline of a girdle under her dress, or even the redness of a pimple swelling on her chin. 

At Wendy Ward I learned that I've got no upper lip ("use lip liner to create the illusion"), that my hair is unruly ("try the layered and feathered look and more hairspray"), and that I would have to choose my clothes carefully in order to draw eyes away from my body. 

At the end of the ten week class, we were each to be awarded the designation of Junior Wendy Ward, which entitled us to a five percent discount on specially selected products and services at the store.  The culminating event was the much anticipated Wendy Ward fashion show, where we were expected to display our new-found beauty knowledge, while at the same time modeling Ward's spring line of girls' clothing.  The Miss Wards were in a bit of a quandary about the best outfit for me to model - it seemed that the new line was not well suited for "larger" girls.  It was decided that I alone would wear something leftover from the winter stock, a brown velour pullover with a bland corduroy skirt, making me the monotone exception to the parade of fresh pastel jumpers and short sets. 

The dress rehearsal was a disaster, at least in my mind.  A stage had been erected between the intimate apparel and teen clothing sections.  As I tried to walk across to the beat of The Hustle, blasted from a portable record player that Miss Ward Number Three had set up, I could feel the other girls whispering and sensed a few stifled laughs.  Without looking, I figured their ridicule was about my lack of upper lip and my reject clothing.  Why else would they be laughing now?  My face burned as I misstepped several beats causing one of the Miss Wards to send me back to try it again.  What was the use?  I'd never be able to do this like the others, so why even try to pretend?  I vowed not to return for the actual show.

However, my mother, having paid good money to send me to Wendy Ward, was not about to forgo the fashion show.  I would participate, like it or not.  Every night for the entire week before the show I lay in bed imagining all the possible ways that the show could turn out.  None of them were good.  Closing my eyes I could already feel my body break into a sweat under the heavy velour pullover, could see myself tripping as I walked the steps to the stage.  What if the skirt was caught up in the back of my tights and I didn't even know it?  I hated the thick, dark outfit they had picked out for me.  I couldn't do it, maybe...if only... 

My terror increased. 

I don't know how I got the idea.  Maybe I needed to get back at those Miss Wards.  Maybe I simply wanted to be colorful like the other girls.  Maybe, maybe, if I just wore my own clothes, it would all be okay.  All I knew is that, after deciding, I was finally able to fall asleep.

The following Tuesday I arrived at the seminar room, which had been set up as a preparation area for the show, in my favorite dress instead of my assigned outfit.  I was late, and the show was about to begin.  I stood still, watching the flurry of activity and excitement, until one of the Miss Wards called across the room for me to get dressed.  "I'm going to wear this dress," I announced.  It came out louder than I expected, and the room grew still as mouths dropped open and girls averted their gaze in pity and embarrassment.

"But E-, that dress... that dress is not appropriate!" exclaimed the Miss Ward nearest the door.

Apparently, I was not aware that my beloved dress was everything that I as a "larger" girl was not supposed to wear.  It was short, showing much more leg than the Ward’s skirt had, and it was cheerfully sky-blue colored rather than bland brown.  Even more egregious, the entire front of the dress from collar to hem was taken up with a huge drawing of a lion's head, mane and all, serving to keep the audience's gaze smack on my torso. 

What felt like an interminable silence was finally broken as one of the Miss Wards began to herd the rest of the girls out to line up by the stage.  Watching them leave, it hit me that my decision wasn't really going to make everything okay, and I started to shake in anticipation of what might happen. 

I was alone, surrounded by a circle of Miss Wards who were arguing about whether or not to exclude me from the show.  After all, one reasoned, I wasn't wearing Ward's clothing.  Number Four demanded to know where my outfit was, Number One threatened to make my parents pay for the missing clothing, and Number Six wondered out loud what they might do to distract eyes from the lion on the dress.  Outside the room, the show had begun.  I could hear the parents proudly clapping for their daughters, and the music sounded far away through the wall.  I waited to be told what to do.

In the end, the Miss Wards decided that I would participate.  They tied a Ward's scarf around my pony-tail and sent me out, throwing up their collective hands in resignation.  I was the last to cross the stage, like an after-thought to the main event.  Even the mirror ball had stopped turning by the time they announced my name.