The Donation Box

The big bold black letters scrawled hastily across just one of the many cardboard boxes my hands had come across in the past month of moving caught my attention. "DONATION". I'd found myself gently placing old items in the box almost every day of the move, only to remove them later with some excuse as to why I needed to keep them. Being that it was the last day we had in the apartment, I finally had to come to terms with it and what I was really letting go. I peered inside the box at the forlorn objects that I had finally agreed to part with forever.

It wasn't the fact that I had to part with some material items; I'm not a hoarder. It was these particular items in the donation box that really made me think. I saw my early 20's flash before my eyes in a blur of pink. You see, growing up, I never had my own room or my own decorations. I shared a room with my sister and several boxes of my mother's possessions. Okay, my bedroom was a storage room, simply put. So when I moved out on my own at 17, I began to grasp the fact that I could now decorate my apartment EXACTLY how I wanted. And, at 17, all I had eyes for was the color pink. I suppose you could say I was acting out my suppressed adolescent desires.

There were all of the regular items you'd think of that would be pink: curtains, rugs, pillows, bedding, knick-knacks, wall decorations, chairs, candles, and every picture frames. Then there were all of the items that people thought I was crazy for painting pink: the walls, furniture and even my dog's water/food dishes. It was like Barbie had one too many pink panty droppers at the bar and puked pepto bismol all over the room. But you know what? I loved it. Every day I loved coming home to my overly girly apartment, knowing it was just mine and that I didn't have to give a crap about what anyone else thought about it.  It was defining to go out for a drink in my early 20's, have a blast without a care in the world, and drunkedly stumble into bed under my hot pink hello kitty sheets That was the beauty of it all; My pink pepto bismol paradise.

Now, these items that had been so special to me a short time ago, were folded, stacked and placed lovingly in this big box to be gotten rid of. So, just as my early 20's were slowly coming to an end, so was my tacky sense of style. And naturally, just as my late night drinking fests had become fewer and fewer, so had my purchases of hot pink maladies.

Also, I noticed as my boyfriend and I were moving into our first home together that I was taking less and less of these pink items into our new home, and was furnishing it in a much more vintage fashion. When did my tastes suddenly change? Was it with my 24th birthday? Is that the sudden age of maturity? Magical number 24? Is 24 the age of comfortable clothing and shoe choices over fashionable ones? Reaching for the simply adorned socks instead of the zebra print ones? Purchasing white bed sheets instead of pink ones? Though our white sheets are extravagantly comfortable and tasteful, putting those pink ones in that donation box pulled at my heart strings a little bit. There it was, my youth, in a box with 4 walls, all heading to new homes. Even though it does make me uncomfortable, relinquishing my past in the form of donating all of my pink items, I'm open to the future. I'm open to the white bed sheets, the polished decor and whatever else life brings me. So, with love, I closed the box with duct tape and with it, closed my early 20's.

A Christmas Story. A Fun Family Movie? Or a Sexist and Poor Representation of the Roles of Women?

"A Christmas Story" is an all-time seasonal classic that is played every Christmas repeating on a loop. Yes, yes, the typical story of a little boy yearning for his first BB gun amidst a misunderstanding audience (aka his family, teacher, santa etc.) who insist he will "shoot his eye out". Though at times it is heartwarming and even a bit comedic, I noticed some underlying sexism against women that disturbed me a tad. Now, I am not naive enough to disregard the fact that times have changed (slightly) in terms of the treatment and movement for equality for women, but still, I was taken aback.

While I'm aware that before recent years, "times were different" and women were not considered to be equal, why is it that a film so controversially ingrained with sexist undertones has carried over the years so popularly? Since the first women's right convention in 1848, where the Declaration of Sentiments was signed, women have been trying to gain equal rights in both public mentality and in terms of fair treatment (voting, work place treatment, etc). And even though women were finally given "equal rights" and the right to vote in 1920, they were not equal, and I beg to argue that they are still struggling against sexism today. This movie, made in the 1980's (mind you, 60 YEARS after the signing of the 19th Ammendment), is laced with sexism towards women. This is mainly portrayed through the treatment of Ralphie's mother.

Time and time again, Ralphie's mother is consistently portrayed as ALWAYS being at home, even though both of her children are grown and in school. She is portrayed as having extremely domestic jobs around the home: cooking dinner, washing the dishes, doing laundry, doing the shopping and "dealing with"the children. The father is NEVER shown to nurture nor tend to the children, only doling out severe physical punishment. When Ralphie gets hurt by the BB gun (lying to his mother and saying it was an icicle), he stays sitting in his chair while the mother tends to the child. The mother tells her husband to "stay put and keep reading his funnies (the comics)". She clearly caters to everyone in the home. In addition to this, her role as a woman who is a stay at home mom is made clear through her consistent garb:  a shirt and long skirt (usually with an apron).

One of the other subtle sexist hints involving Ralphie's mother is her entire demeanor. She is always timid, caring and compassionate. Several times when her husband "lays the law down", she timidly holds her finger over her lip almost as if in a "shhh" gesture, afraid to say anything. She never aggressively speaks her mind, except for once when she breaks the leg lamp after several timid attempts to remove it from her front window in the home. Even then, when she breaks the lamp, she holds the broken pieces, kneeling (sign of submission) and uses an almost baby voice to softly apologize to her husband. Though she consistently speaks about and looks at the lamp in consternation, it is all ignored by her husband because he makes the rules. Then, as the family is putting lights on the Christmas tree, her husband is disrespectful again. He picks up a light, says that it is a certain color, and when his wife questions him and says "it is blue", when it CLEARLY is blue to the audience, he retorts "I'm not colorblind, see I told you it was green", and she responds quietly "I'm not colorblind either". It is apparent that the husband is wrong, but the wife can't say anything, of course. Though these characteristics are all subtle hints, they strongly outline the element of sexism in "A Christmas Story".

Even though there are many subtle instances of sexism to choose from, there was one blatant one which persuaded me to write this post. There is a scene in the beginning of the movie where my mouth just dropped immediately. The entire family is sitting down to the table to enjoy a dinner that the mother has undoubtedly toiled over for a few hours (note the pots and pans on the stove and dishes in the sink which await her cleaning immediately after dinner). She served her husband's and her two children's meals first with heaping piles of hot food and the father and sons began eating their meals as soon as they were served. When the mother finally was able to sit down to her meal, she picks up her fork to take a first bite and the husband interrupts her. Before the fork reaches her mouth, he asks her for a refill on the cabbage, without even looking up from his newspaper. She immediately puts down her fork without taking a bite and stocks up her husband's plate with what he wanted. She then sits down to attempt eating her meal for the 2nd time, and just as her fork is picked up, her youngest son makes the same request, for more food. She puts down her fork, again without taking her first bite, to refill her son's plate. Ralphie's narration then says "My mother hadn't had a hot meal in 15 years", alluding to the fact that this was a frequent occurrence. Did it occur to anyone that this poor mother tends to her family's every whim and wish before her own? I understand that a mother must take care of her children, but come on, she isn't a personal servant. Let the woman eat a hot meal with the family! They should respect her enough to wait until she sits down to take her first bites, at least that's how I was raised. No one took a bite until everyone was seated and had their food.

In addition, the entire premise of the movie is the fact that this little boy wants a Red Ryder BB gun. The mother, teacher and even Santa states that the boy will "shoot his eye out". At the conclusion of the movie, Christmas morning, to the mother's surprise, of course, the father has purchased the Red Ryder BB gun against the mother's wishes. She finally succumbs to it saying Ralphie must use it outside. She doesn't really have a choice because the father has already purchased and given the gift without even consulting the mother! And then again, Christmas morning, she has spent the morning cooking up another delicious meal for the family.

This is a movie that we watch year after year which embeds sexist undertones in our minds and our children's minds. And while it is funny, charming and enjoyable, the viewers can't deny the sexism. Anyways, enjoy your Christmas and keep your eye out for these things next time you watch this movie!

I'm a size 9...sometimes a 9 1/2

So my boyfriend and I just moved into a nice, big home! Our first home together actually :) Gosh, what a change from an apartment, I tell you! While packing the endless boxes that incessantly cluttered our apartment for a month, I noticed something. Shoes. So. Many. Shoes.

I started with the shoes in the garage, filling 1 box, which became 5 boxes, which became 7 boxes. Mind you, these were pretty large, heavy duty moving boxes, not your everyday small kitchen appliance ones; each fitting about 10 pairs of shoes. I thought I was done but alas,  there were more. In the bedroom closet, under our bed, stuffed under our dining room table and even some in the kitchen pantry. I thought to myself what my mother would have said: "Who the heck needs this many freaking shoes?!" and "What a waste of money!" A brief thought about how she was right flashed through my mind, but I quickly quieted it. Who wants to admit their mother is right?

I had running shoes: pink ones, blue ones, orange ones. Come on, you just have to have different colors to match different gym outfits! I had hiking boots: brown ugly ones that I felt like a man in, so naturally I needed to find a pair that had some pink on them. That made 2 pairs of $100+ hiking boots. 2 pairs of boots when I only go hiking maybe 10 times a year. Those Crocs that were purchased during a lapse in good judgement, 2 pairs of converse from when I was a wannabe punk rocker, 13 pairs of lovingly used flip-flops (Hey, I'm an Arizona girl), 3 pairs of identical tan wedges (Yeah, I've got nothing to say on that one), 6 pairs of the fake UGG boots in every color, 6 more of the same fake UGG boots in the same colors, BUT with a white faux fur lining on the top, 1 pair of Pocahontas-inspired leather boots for Halloween last year, and my favorite pink personally hand-glued rhinestone jean boots (I was watching Gypsy Sisters too much).

Then there were the heels; every color under the sun. There were "stripper" heels, short kitten heels, secretary heels, regular heels, all of them varying from 2 inches to 7 inches. The heels were what got me thinking the most. Why, when we're young, do we think that high heels are so awesome? When I was 18 through maybe the age of 22 I never went anywhere (besides work, obviously) without a pair of sassy heels on. The answer was always heels. Every date, heels. Every run to the store, heels. Every night out, heels. Church, heels. (That last one I feel a little bad about). When I was younger, I was committed to my shoes from the moment I put them on until I came back home. Never would I have condoned the personal embarrassment I would have faced had I succumbed to the pain and torn off those torture devices like I wanted to. No, I simply grimaced frequently and went on wearing them. They made me feel sexy, strong and I walked more confidently, which was reason enough to justify wearing them during those awkward low self-esteem years.

Then I thought to myself, as I felt the glossy surface of my favorite yet worn pair of black stilettos. "When's the last time I wore any of these"? You see, now I'm the ripe old age of 24 and I have a bit more sense than I did back then. High heels are like a bad life decision that you can't help but make and repeat a few times, just to make sure it's a bad decision. I realize now that heels hurt. They freaking HURT. They smash your toes, chip your nail polish, and ultimately leave you wanting to chop your feet off by the end of the night. They cause tension in your foot, ultimately affecting your hips and lower back. Sure, they make you look like a womanly, fragile vixen and may help you pick up on that hottie at the bar, but what is the real cost to your body later on in life?

Nowadays I have pretty much abandoned high heels and opted for a much simpler and more comfortable option. Flip-flops, my mom-ish tennis shoes or an ugly pair of grandma loafers. My feet thank me, as well as my wallet, and I can honestly say that I'm better for it. However, I can't deny that when a special occasion or date night rolls around, I'm back in those painful shoes in no time. Though I often have the same fleeting thought each time before walking out the door: "Could I get away wearing some all black simple Vans with this dress?" No? No.

So while I am no longer that sexy, sassy girl walking around with all eyes on her, I am comfortable. Comfortable in physicality, but also comfortable knowing that my hips, feet and back will not be in pain from a pair of shoes. Besides, I know that my boyfriend loves me anyways, ugly grandma loafers and all.

What the Hell has happened to the Comedy Genre of Movies Nowadays?

Think about the last movie you watched; what was it? Could you decipher which genre it would fit into? What actors were in it? Have you seen those actors in other movies frequently? Do you even really remember the plot?  Or was it simply a large amount of misguided cheap shot chortle-worthy moments, crammed together in an improper sequence with no real plot conclusion?

From my recent experiences, it seems most of them, especially "comedic" movies, are the latter. I don't understand it. When, as an audience, did we stop demanding enriching cinematic experiences with a diverse cast? When did we settle for the mundane material that is passed off as "movies" that we sometimes pay upwards of $9.00 per viewing in a theater to experience? Is it possible that we have just become so numbed to it, so desensitized, that we don't know a good film from a "bad" one? Is it also possible that we don't know a good actor from a regular guy just saying random crap and hoping it comes out funny?

The "actors" that have created the current comedy vein are what concern me the most. It seems many of the most recent popular movies are a combination of the same group of funny men in Hollywood with painfully similar senses of humor. Seth Rogen, Dave Franco, Zac Efron, Jason Bateman, James Franco, Jason Segel, Paul Rudd, Danny McBride, Jason Sudeikis, Johan Hill, Jay Baruchel, Michael Cera, Christopher Mintz-Plasse. Stop for a minute. Look up these men. Think about how many movies you have seen them in together, or when you've seen a combination of a few of them in the same movie. I'll give you a hint: Superbad, Neighbors, Your Highness, This is the End, 22 Jump Street, The Sitter,  Forgetting Sarah Marshall, This is 40, Knocked Up, Paul. Look up these movies. These guys make up a majority of the "funny" movies out there nowadays; But I just don't find them that funny!

For example, I watched 22 Jump Street tonight. Am I allowed to mention that? Well screw it, it was so bland I feel the need to warn the world about it. I mean Holy CRAP, I swear my IQ dropped a few points with every line of dialogue that passed through my ears. The thing that I found to be the saddest was that the dialogue kept alluding to how lame it was to make a second of anything, how a "sequel is never as good as the first one". Hint, hint, 22 Jump Street is the sequel to 21 Jump Street... Why, if you are to allude to this in your movie, would you bother putting out a movie that is, in fact, a sequel? Also, they kept making it a point to say that this sequel is "exactly like the original movie". I do understand the point they are trying to make and the humor they're desperately clinging to, but why, oh why? It just doesn't work. We all know sequels never live up to the original, thank you for that lengthy reminder.

And no, I'm not hating, I really am not, so don't take this post as such. It's simply my observation. Besides my point, these directors are having a great time making the movies, they are making money, and the actors are making money too. I digress.

I get it, they're all friends, and they all like to have a good time on film. But that's just it. It's the same everyday humor that they themselves may find funny, over and over and OVER again. Sure, I laughed at the first few, but maybe it's not funny enough to create so many different movies with similar dialogue and content. Why can't funny movies encompass more of the actors that are out there? The film industry, in terms of comedic movies, should have more variety, and we, as an audience, deserve that.