May 4, 2015 § 2 Comments
May 4, 1015
I put a library hold on Not That Kind of Girl by Lena Dunham because the book is on all kinds of “must read” lists and also because my actress/filmmaker friend Dia told me all about Dunham just before she became so well-known for her HBO series Girls. When a copy finally became available three months after I put it on hold, though, I sat down in the library to read the first few pages before I committed to checking it out. After all, I’m trying to get a submission ready. I have a crap ton of books on my to-read shelf. If I actually checked out this particular book, I would have to finish it in the next two weeks because forget trying to renew it. (There are currently 16 holds on 14 copies.)
I was sold at “But I want to tell my stories, and, more than that, I have to in order to stay sane.”
What made me get up out of the library chair and immediately go check the book out, though, was Dunham’s hope that her stories will, among other things, stop the reader from “thinking that it was your fault when the person you are dating suddenly backs away, intimidated by the clarity of your personal mission here on earth.”
Because I remembered all the dates that stopped happening and the relationships that ended shortly after the guy realized just how serious I am about this writing thing. And now I realized that it was okay.
It really is okay.
March 30, 2015 § Leave a comment
March 30, 2015
I was definitely trying to contain my giggling and snorting while reading this book at the pedicure salon. Moran’s essays on such subjects as the trap women have fallen into of spending time and money on waxing and wearing inadequate underwear are painfully hilarious:
“A man may think, I have a party next week. I’d better roughly scrub my face before I tootle on out the door.
A woman, on the other hand, will call up the calendar in her head—like the midair screens in Minority Report—and start a cycle of furious planning, based around hair management.”
Um, guilty. Only I get out my scary day planner.
“A case in point: a few months ago, I was on a crowded tube with a friend of mine, who gradually grew paler and quieter until she finally leaned forward and admitted that her knickers were so skimpy, her front bottom had eaten them entirely. . . . Clearly, this is not right. Jesus Christ. Underpants like this need to be bombed back to the Stone Age. Batman doesn’t have to put up with this shit—why should we?”
Thank you. If a pair of panties doesn’t provide ass coverage, I ain’t buying it.
And here is my favorite bit on the ludicrousness of proclaiming to not be a feminist:
“What do you think feminism IS, ladies? What part of ‘liberation for women’ is not for you? Is it the freedom to vote? The right not to be owned by the man you marry? The campaign for equal pay? ‘Vogue’ by Madonna? Jeans? Did all that good shit GET ON YOUR NERVES?”
Couldn’t have said it better myself.