Rousseau and Me.

Author: Notoriously, Mandy. /

I've been reading Jean-Jacques Rousseau's Reveries of the Solitary Walker for a paper that's due later this week. Now, let me be clear about this: I am a 50/50 Rousseau fan. I agree with him, philosophically, on many levels (Deism, for example, and the all anti-church-and-state bits), but his sexism pretty much prevents me from totally joining the cult of the Enlightenment.

Anyway, I was reading along, minding my own business, when I came upon this passage:

"...having resolved myself to reconstitute a herbarium more complete than my previous one, until such time as I can collect all the plants of the seashore and the Apls, and the flowerings of all the trees of the Indies, I am making a modest beginning with chickweed, chervil, borage and groudsel I botnize learnedly at my birdcage, and every new blade of grass that I spot makes me say to myself with satisfaction: 'There's one more plant anyhow.'"

Basically, once-upon-a-time, Rousseau had quite the collection of plants, but, for some reason, they were now all gone (In case you didn't know, a lot of the Enlightenment thinkers also dabbled in science, as well as philosophy.). Now, seeking to rebuild t, he had to start from the ground up. Rather than adopting a "this will take foreeever" mentality, he began, cheerily, right at the beginning.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm in Rousseau's position. I want to collect all the flowerings of all the trees of the Indies, but, right now, I'm just muddling through my BA at Texas A&M. And that's frustrating. But, someday, I'll get there. I just need to keep collecting blades of grass... and start turning in homework assignments on time. Sigh.

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Diablo, Feminism, Dreams and My Questionable Mental State.

Author: Notoriously, Mandy. /

Since it's been getting cold, and Abby's never around to shoo him away, I've been letting Diablo sleep inside. He's kind of dirty and smells bad, but I've let Pooky sleep in my room before, too. Besides, he's good company.
I've been dabbling in feminist lit, as usual - The Purity Myth, Yes Means Yes, and - admittedly more fun than those - The Handmaid's Tale (again), which means that guys at bars are getting lots of drunken dissertations from me about the wage gap, abstinence-only education and enthusiastic consent. I have to give it to anyone who can sit through one of these - that kind of dedication is reserved only for men who really, really think I'm the most attractive girl in the establishment. Or guys who actually care about feminism... and I'm batting for the first. Just sayin'. Diablo, on the other hand, will sit on my feet for hours on end while I read, fold pages, underline, and journal.

On top of the other excessive writing I've been indulging in lately, I've also started keeping a dream journal. I thought, at first, about making a dream blog, but I would probably end up omitting some information in the name of my reputation of a person who has retained some sanity. I've been having some pretty vivid dreams, lately, probably as a result of my overtaxed mind, which has nothing to do but run circles around itself. Maybe the next time I have a PG-13 dream that doesn't make me appear to be a total lunatic (this definitely excludes the epic quest dream I had the other night about a nuclear laser attack), I'll share it on the blog.

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New Adventures, or Lack Thereof.

Author: Notoriously, Mandy. /

I've kind of enjoyed unemployment, which is not to say that I'm not looking for a new job. But having some time for homework, leisure reading, and drinking on weeknights (not that I didn't do all those things while I had a job - but now I'm fitting them in more neatly) has not been such a bad thing. I feel like I've actually had time to attend to my classes, which is good, because I haven't been doing as well this semester as I did in the spring. I'm actually playing catch-up in my Enlightenment class, which is something I've never done before - and I really like this class, but it just kind of fell by the wayside during the course of everything else that was going on. Grr. I hate feeling like I'm not in control of my academic success.

Other than in terms of morale, though, I don't feel like I've been hit all that hard by joblessness, yet. Actually, I found a pair of VS Pink pants at My Sister's Closet yesterday for $3! If I continue to bargain shop at this rate, I can maintain my unemployed state for YEARS, provided I don't drive anywhere or buy any of my own food. What's for dinner, Mom and Dad?

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Ode to My Eyebrow

Author: Notoriously, Mandy. /

Oh, eyebrow. When I was married, and for long years preceding, you were two. The great divide began in high school, as I admired my friend Rachel's brows. They were thin, arched, and ever-so-far apart. Mine were thick, straight, and gently grazed one another, right over the bridge of my nose. That I had an eyebrow problem had never occurred to me, but, upon the realization that other girls my age were not sporting a single brow, I was wracked with anxiety. How was I supposed to garner the all-important attention of boys with such an obvious beauty deficiency? So, I worked quickly to correct my newly-discovered facial quandary. With the help of a pair of tweezers, I achieved the coveted eyebrow segregation. Being clumsy and lazy in nature, I never did quite perfect the art of plucking, but, as the years went by, I slowly honed my skills. No one ever complimented me on my arches, but, if I made sure to maintain them consistently, nobody ever used my name and the dirty word "unibrow" in the same sentence, either.

My ex-husband was in the camp of those who think that a woman should have two distinct brows, even though he, himself, had only one (This was even true of him when he shaved the offending hairs, creating not two brows, as I can only assume was his goal, but merely one that was full and bushy on both sides and short and angry in the center.). Throughout the course of our marriage, I had dutifully plucked away, but, at about the time when we separated our bank accounts, the old beauty ritual had begun to wear on me. I had been mutilating my own forehead for years in order to find a mate, but now, my unpleasant marriage was causing me to ponder the conundrum of what the hell, exactly, a mate had ever done for me.

At the same time, in the world of academia, I had learned that a girl could have conjoined brows without being forced into solitary confinement by the rest of society. My revered exhibitor of this revolutionary notion was Frida Kahlo, whose eyebrow was a trademark aspect of her beauty and individuality. I decided that I was in a unique position to channel her free spirit by mimicking her iconic unspoiled brow - after all, what man had the right to tell me how to groom my facial hair? And so, it came to pass that I divorced my tweezers with my husband.

When I announced my intention to retaliate against fashion, I was warned by some: it might be hard to find a job, a boyfriend, or to talk my way out of speeding tickets. It was unsightly; I looked unkempt. What was I now, a lesbian? It was natural for me to want to poetically retaliate against my controlling ex-husband, but, come on! This was the real world, and a woman had to look good to get ahead, whether I liked it or not! Oh, well. My tweezers slowly worked their way to the bottom of my makeup bag, and my eyebrows regrew to their virgin state.

Since my fateful decision to "let myself go", I have caved, a time or two, to the pressure to be a nice, hairless American girl. Once, before a job interview, and once, before a big date, I winced as I removed the renegade hairs that make my eyebrow singular, instead of plural. But, for a long time since, my eyebrow has remained intact. I know now that there is no job I cannot do from beneath the fine hairs that shield my eyes, collecting dirt and other tiny particles that I am pretty sure my old friend, Rachel, is still trying to blink away. Likewise, I have also made myself comfortable with the deduction that any man who is interested in my other outstanding physical qualities will also have to accept my coupled eyebrows, socially unacceptable for my gender though they may be.

Those who thought that my au naturel eyebrow would instantly convert me into some sort of radical, self-styled she-man were as wrong as the ones who thought that I would start receiving speeding tickets (Zero tickets in over a year have actually led me to believe that my united brow is a good luck charm - either that, or I'm driving slower these days... and I'm pretty sure it's the former.). I still wear makeup, dresses, and the occasional thong. I have yet to burn my bra. But, even if I do decide that the bra has to go, there's not a damn thing that they can say to stop me.

In my opinion, my eyebrow and I never made much of a threesome, but the two of us make a great team. I suppose it's possible that a few men have been turned off by the hairs between my eyes, but, regardless, I'm still pretty sure that Frida Kahlo had the right idea. Now, if only I could grow a mustache.



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You'll Have to Ask Pickles.

Author: Notoriously, Mandy. /

Today, I had a lot of things to say about how I lost my job, and, thusly, about attourneys, about the EEOC, and, basically, a lot of miscellaneous bitchings. I thought about putting these things in my blog. But, instead, I told them to Pickles.


There's a big, big story here. And it's full of the elements of my favorite kinds of stories: feminist issues. But I've decided not to spill on my blog about it. At least, not yet. Not until I've figured a few things out.

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