#if you want a standard conventionally handsome love interest why are you reading it????

[steelthroat]

People be reading monsterfucker romance books and then act all surprised and scandalized when the monsterfucking happens.

[steelycunt]

I’m not saying that a lot of Regulus fans are only interested in him because they picture him as a Timothee Chalamet insert and wouldn’t give half a fuck about the character if that fancast didn’t exist but… oh wait that is what I’m saying.

yeah i mean. i definitely think there's something in that lol honestly. as ive said before i never really got the interest in regulus i just couldnt care less about the guy he genuinely has zero canon character but. simultaneously i can see how the little that we do know about him makes him an interesting character and i can see why people enjoy the idea of him as a blank slate that you can superimpose nearly any traits you want on to--treating regulus as essentially an oc gives you lots of room for creation. its for these exact reasons that he is of no interest to me personally, and i really don't like the common conceptualisation of him that has emerged from popular headcanon consensus (especially when it involves stripping his character of all agency and half the things that could arguably make him compelling in order to gloss over the fact that he was a death eater) but thats a matter of opinion i suppose. thats a me problem. its just not my cup of tea.

the timothee chalamet thing irritates me for the same reason the ridiculous instagram model/influencer/celebrity fancasts for most characters irritate me, because one of the ONLY things we know about regulus is that he is 'less handsome than sirius'. like ok why not work with that. especially with a character like him where there is virtually nothing to work with. like please explain to me why you refuse to accept that im genuinely curious. why is that the aspect of his character you are so firmly refuting lol.

all in all, if the character is only likeable or interesting or a convincing love interest if you have to pretend they were actually super conventionally attractive, maybe they're just not that likeable or interesting or well-suited to the character you're trying to pair them off with. its a personal thing again i am just not interested in reading/writing about a cast of characters who are all meticulously tailored to conform to beauty standards i do not respect. the minute u try to convince me all your characters are super hot n yassified it all feels less real to me sorry i care less about them. im bored of hot characters i think all fictional characters should be made to look like normal everyday people and i think everyone should be less afraid of so-called ugliness i triple dog dare u

[hiccanna-tidbits]

Skinny Jack is attractive Jack and this is one and only truth

NO BUT FR THO

(If anyone is confused, this post is in reference to a post I read about weird traits and characterizations of Jack Frost in fanworks!)

Like Jack Frost legit played a huge part in high school me realizing I vastly preferred fun-loving, sassy twinks to buff, macho dudes who like...get off on their own "manliness" and seem to think being aggressive and mean is somehow hot -_____- So when people make Jack ripped or super jocky in fanworks it confuses the fuck outta me because like...the fact that he's a fun, kindhearted twig is what makes him so attractive??? Like a more "unconventional" type of male attractiveness, yes, and a blatant rebellion against the type of body girls are "supposed" to want, but still extremely cute!!! It baffles me how some people are apparently SO married to this idea that the only way for a man to be handsome/desirable is if he's super muscular and athletic and hypermasculine that they feel the need to make any male character they like fit this stereotype to be "worthy" of a ship or love interest. Like my dudes, we ain't living in Neolithic times anymore, there are things to fall in love with in guys besides their ability to bring down a mammoth to feed you for winter XD

Honestly I say either take Jack (and his body) as he is, or don't take him at all, because my homeboy doesn't need you projecting your toxic-ass and severely outdated male beauty standards onto him lmao. I mean like a) he's a cartoon, why are you projecting your thirst for beefy men onto a super skinny CGI character of all things lmao and b) he's lovely as he is, and he deserves all types of love--platonic, romantic, familial, what have you--without having to beef up!!! For what it's worth, same goes for all IRL skinny guys--y'all are beautiful, and I'm sorry if anyone has ever made you feel like you're not a catch because you're a little gangly. It's just so annoying that people feel the need to take this character who's attractive in kind of a non-traditional way and just...make him some conventionally buff jock and have him just rebuild all the stereotypes he originally defied so nicely :/ Like if y'all really wanna thirst over a buff CGI cartoon, go lose your minds over like...Kristoff or something lol. But leave my boy Jack out of it!!! Let him stay skinny, for god's sake--the world has gone to shit enough in 2021 without people body-shaming a fictional frost boy for literally no reason (indirectly body-shaming, but a kind of body-shaming nonetheless--people wouldn't feel the need to change his appearance so drastically otherwise). Good grief, just make an OC if you're THAT invested in the idea of a white-haired blue-eyed dude who's also super ripped.

I know it might seem like kind of a petty thing to be irked by, but guys really don't get enough body positivity, and I feel like giving skinny male characters "buff makeovers" can kinda teach dudes with a thinner build to hate their bodies the same way women are taught to hate their bodies. Is it that deep??? Nah, probably not. Jack Frost is a cartoon, and ultimately this boils down to me preferring the general public not give my beautiful twig son beefy arms XD However, I can and will rant about and overanalyze most anything, so...even if it isn't that deep, I can MAKE it that deep XD

[faraway-in-headspace]

I?? I searched Chicken Choice Judy on google out of curiosity because it sounds oddly familiar like there’s a similar-sounding name and I found 4 websites selling the shirt design. But the descriptions on these pages are BUCK WILD??

Written version of the descriptions under the cut (very long).

[Begin ID

First image states:  Long ago, when I had hair, I was an undergrad living in a house with nine other men. Near as I can tell, three of them (not sure which three) never bought food, just lived off what they stole from the Chicken Choice Judy shirt But I will love this other seven. We had several house meetings about it, but nothing changed. One day, I came in from grocery shopping. By coincidence, all 10 of us were in the kitchen. I started putting my stuff away. 1st thing I pulled out of the bag was my half-gallon of milk. I opened the carton, took a couple of drinks from the carton, then gargled some of it, and spit it back in. I opened my tub of margarine and licked the whole surface. By now, the room chatter had stopped because the other nine jaws had dropped open.) To your original question, those specific topics would take several years to build, as they depend on several layers of pre-requisites, which would require either that more advanced topics such as algebraic topology to be taught in elementary school, or that the buildup process happened blazingly fast during high school – both of which probably stretch the biological limits of what pre-teens and teenagers can reasonably be expected to accomplish. I spit on all my veggies, took the bread out of the package, and licked and spit on it, then carefully put it all back in the plastic bag. Remind teenage daughters to look through them before going on date with the boyfriend, in case they want to use one. I labeled it all and put it away. None of it was stolen. I never said a word, but I made it a point to repeat the performance anytime anyone was around to see it. Others began to emulate my approach and food theft stopped. Even I found it revolting, but it solved the problem. Works even better if you are sick or can at least make your thieving roommates think you are. While some cities are starting to reopen in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, people around the country are continuing to wear masks in public and practice social distancing. Vogue is committed to staying safe, and offering hopeful, optimistic content that highlights moments of camaraderie and exceptional acts of heroism from around the world. We are all looking for a little comfort too—be it a soothing Instagram account or a stylish creator on TikTok. It reminds us of the power of little things.

Second image states:  A couple of guests informed me my office was too minimalist and that they expected more things to be hanging on my wall the Chicken Choice Judy shirt besides I will buy this next time they visited my wife’s and my home. I kinda hope they held their breath while they were waiting for our next invitation. They both went on to backstab me and my wife pretty bad a few years later. Another set of guests tried to squat. I had driven them all the way from Florida to Massachusetts under the impression that they had jobs and a place to live lined up. They offered no money for gas, hotels on the three-day trip, or compensation for the inconvenience and effort. He even tried to weasel out of the dinner he offered as a thank you by forgetting his wallet. The dude got me off the streets years ago and I wanted to pay him back in some way, but my wife and I were in no position to have extra residents in our home. We just don’t have the room or money. I made all of this VERY clear and told my old buddy that we could only house them for a couple of days max. There are MANY other details, but the disrespectful thing my former friend said was wordless. As I was kicking them out and they were angrily loading stuff into my car to bring them anywhere but here, my buddy left his gigantic knife right in the center of my wife’s desk. Like that was supposed to make us change our minds and let them stay? In the days of dial-up, I had a family call and not be able to get through because we were online. They decided to show up unannounced. They literally caught me in my underwear as they were let into the apartment before I could even react to being rudely surprised. Some of my family members have a history of abuse, violence, and stalking, something at least one of the visitors, my mother, was quite aware of since she lived through it with me. Her tagalong friend decided to put in her two cents and tell me I should get a call waiting or a second line because they were trying to call me. That did it! I suddenly forgot I was just wearing underwear and angrily asked my mother’s friend if she was paying my phone bill. My mother-in-law, stepfather and mom’s friend beat a hasty retreat and NEVER did the pop-in ever again.

Third image states:  That was why when we did get to reality shows, Etro and then Dolce & Gabbana plus Jacquemus later in France, it was wonderful. Clothes are all about contact: As a wearer, you feel them on your skin, and as a watcher, you process them with your eye. The watching part can be done secondhand, but the Chicken Choice Judy shirt in contrast I will get this impact will always be second to the real thing. I read some commentators in the U.S. saying, “Too soon” or “Wear a damn mask!” which I always did, but these opinions while valid enough lack perspective. Milan and its surrounding region Lombardy went through what New York did but earlier. Through sagacious governmental management much more effective than that of the U.S., Italy has managed dramatically to flatten the curve across the rest of its territory. These shows just like the reopening of flights, stores, factories, and restaurants were symptomatic of recovery that, far from being taken for granted, is being tended to with vigilance and cherished with gratitude. The digital Fashion Weeks were better than no Fashion Weeks at all, but as an upgrade on the real thing? Nah. Like everyone, I missed the shows in the experiential sense this season. But for the first time since I began covering the collections several years ago, I didn’t miss a single brand or designer’s contribution to Paris Fashion Week. Which is to say, thanks to the Fédération’s online platform, I was able to watch every name on the haute couture and men’s calendars. This brand on-demand convenience not to mention being spared the logistical headaches of zigzagging across the city was pretty great. Also, everything was on time, from the films to the manner in which we filed our reviews. While efficiency can be satisfying, it’s not necessarily exciting. Ultimately, we had to accept that the focus this season wasn’t going to be the clothes but rather the brands conveying some combination of identity, process, and values. And in the absence of standardized criteria as in, showing a minimum number of looks, specifying a time range, it was interesting to observe how heterogeneous these experiments proved to be quasi–ad campaigns versus short films, conceptual or fantastical visions versus raw and documentary style. A proper kimono takes nearly an hour to put on – I’m sure most Japanese girls would much rather spend a few seconds and slip on a dress. Get survey responses from targeted consumers today.

Fourth image states:  Around a decade ago, not long after he started his own label, Massimo Alba made a great mistake. A batch of shirts and T-shirts he was working on that had already been garment-dyed one color were mistakenly exposed to another. Speaking at his showroom presentation this weekend, Alba said: “It’s very interesting to me that so many good things start out as mistakes like this.” That accident was to Alba what the Chicken Choice Judy shirt moreover I will buy this mold-infected petri dish was to Alexander Fleming: a stumbled-upon eureka that led to a career-defining course of the investigation. This collection featured a series of softly tailored jackets, corduroy pants, and shorts, plus light cashmere sweaters that were hand-overdyed two, and sometimes three colors. It’s a process that led to variations in tone that included acid-trip floods of purple on purple to subtle bleeding of magenta across mustard yellow. Like most of Alba’s garments, these dyed pieces appeared at first glance conventionally prosaic. The more attention you gave them, however, the more their exceptional qualities became evident. Take a pale blue jacket, for instance, which at that first glance seemed passingly related to a surgeon’s scrubs. To the hand it was light and almost textureless in its softness: The fabric was a cotton mousseline developed for Alba by Albini. Long-sleeved, in a delicately mottled finish of washed-out sky blue, it made for an ideal mid-summer shake in pink, sleeveless, it was an impactful shirting second skin. Other interesting developments this season included a cotton pant named the Myles with acutely kinking stitched gather at knee-level on both legs and another handsome pant, baggy in white poplin, with patch pockets. A blue tropical weight jacket named the Lenny, after Bernstein, was Alba’s interpretation of a bohemian creative’s ideal piece of workwear. Collarless shirts in ripstop linen and button-up short-sleeves in terry were further finely effective coups de théâtre. Alba is a self-deprecating yet dangerous designer: Try just one carefully chosen piece and that’s it, you’re spoiled for good because nobody else quite compares. The museum in Prague where this portrait is held describes the ring on her first finger as the ring given to her at her wedding. It’s not comfortable. Maybe a lot of girls think that a see-through blouse can attract the attention of boys or they think that it will make her look much smarter. Meghan has no dress sense: no knowledge of fabrics, fit, styles that flatter, proper tailoring, Her father raised her in L.A. Enough said. Her idea of dressing for an event is “dress up” like a little girl dressing up as a princess. Shiny! Tight! Celebrity “fashion” not elegant, just flashy.

/end ID]

[cosmic-m-b]

I didn't want to post this... I worry I'm being annoying. (Scroll down past the pics for my commentary.)

These are screenshots of a post made by @lesblob​ (credit where credit is due) that talks about “compulsory heterosexuality.” (Mostly for lesbians, but can apply to any wlw.) I was searching for insight because of my current confusion about my attraction to men (or lack thereof?). I would have shared the original post, but I wanted to be able to circle the ones that I have experience with. 

My intent with this post is not to convince myself that I am a lesbian (I will address my thoughts on this) but to help me recognize when/if I ever had a real crush on a guy.

On the screenshots, I circled the bullet points in either red or orange. The red ones are ones for which I have a specific example, the orange are either semi-true or only became true recently. I will explain as I go along.

“Analyzing every guy...” I probably should have circled this one in orange, but in general, once I have established that I am physically attracted to a guy (i.e. I think he is handsome enough or whatever) I will look for reasons to justify letting it blow up into a full-on crush.

“Logical reasons...” This kind of mixes with the first point a bit, but things like, “he can take me to the temple,” “he is good with money,” “my mom would think he’s cute,” etc.

“Fantasies about men revolve around the future...” This one is interesting because I had never realized that this was what I was doing. All of my ideas of the future, me being a stay-at-home mom, possibly working from home... I have never been able to imagine any kind of comfortable domesticity with a male partner. I actually didn’t realize this until this past week. There was a moment where I saw myself, sometime in the future, in a relationship with a woman... and I was able to see my place, how I would fit in that kind of partnership... It felt so good and comforting.

“The thought of doing anything sexual with a man grosses you out.” I’m gonna be real with you... male genitalia grosses me out. It always has. It is literally the reason why I didn’t go into nursing. (So maybe I should have made this one red?) I always told myself that I would be okay once I’m married and I accepted that. But now that I know that I have other options... It’s looking less and less appealing. I put this one on orange because I feel like everything else would be fine. (I think. I’ve never even kissed anyone, so it’s hard to say.)

“Sexual fantasies...” This one is hard to give a specific answer/explanation for because I try so hard to avoid thinking about sex and it is ingrained in me to do so. I will just leave this as is, but know that this one is somewhat true. 

“Emotional support...” Yeah, sometimes I just want some manly arms to hold me when I’m upset, but idk how deep that relationship would be. 

“Lonely...” I also get lonely sometimes. Most of the time I’m happy to be single. It doesn’t bother me to be alone. But when I do get lonely, I want a spouse (before, a man, specifically) to hold me and make me not feel super lonely.

“Approval...” Being a returned missionary has its pressures, and one of them is that of getting married super fast. Not only that, but I always hoped to have a really hot husband so that people from my mission would tell me how well I picked, not necessarily because I wanted one.

“Believing those reports that every woman finds other women attractive...” ‘Nuff said.

“Female friends...” This one has been hard to realize. The last friend I had like this was in middle school and she really broke my heart. I haven’t been able to get that close with anyone since, and since it’s been over ten years, I don’t remember what my actual feelings towards her were or what my daily thoughts were for me to be able to confirm this. 

“Thinking a guy being nice to you means you should date him.” This happened with my last big “crush.” I literally didn’t care for him before, but all of a sudden he was giving me attention and being nice to me and I was like, “This is my chance!” I crushed hard, and then I was crushed hard. He was just being nice like a friend would. (We are friends now and his girlfriend is chill.) It was actually this that made me realize (well before I knew I was attracted to women) that I tended to start to like guys that liked me first. I don’t generally like guys for no reason.

“Thinking guys are cute from afar...” This one I actually thought everyone did? I feel like this one is pretty self-explanatory. (I don’t think I have ever met a man that I thought smelled good...)

“Liking guys until they reciprocate interest...” I thought I just had commitment issues, but maybe I just don’t want to commit to a guy? I feel like my standards for men are so high that at this point, I will never find one that I actually want to be with. Even if there is initial attraction, there is always something that makes me feel like I’m settling, so I break it off because of fear and because I feel that they deserve better than someone who doesn’t think the world of them.

“Testing whether or not you’re attracted to men...” I included this one because I have always felt that I could control whether or not I fell for a guy. Like, if he’s too young or if he is a student in the class I TA. Doesn’t matter if he’s cute or not, I can easily just... not let myself like him. And recently... I haven’t wanted to like any guys. So I just... haven’t. It’s really weird.

“Assuming you have to like men...” Anyone who has grown up in the Church has grown up with the assumption that they will one day fall in love with and marry someone of the opposite gender. I am no different. I never even knew there were women who like women until I was in middle school. Thinking back on my young (5 yr old) self, who thought that guys were dumb and icky, I probably would have LOVED to have a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend, but I didn’t know it was an option.

“Misinterpreting anxiety...” This should have been orange, but yeah. When going on a date with a guy that is conventionally attractive, I have felt anxious and more so hoped that it was butterflies.

“Convincing yourself that you like men because being a lesbian seems too hard to deal with.” This one is where I am at right now. Is that what I am doing now with all of this? I circled more than half of the bullet points. Truthfully, I fear the inflexibility of calling myself a lesbian. Like, I don’t want to discount the still existing possibility of ending up with a man, but then again... that could just be the heteronormativity talking. Or the not-wanting-to-disappoint-my-mother. (Truth be told, I have recently accidentally referred to myself as a lesbian on more than one occasion, but only in my own mind.) Do I even want to end up with a man anymore? The only motivations I have are: being able to remain in the Church, having my own biological children, and not disappointing my mother. 

Idk what all of this accomplished, but I am still afraid of labeling myself as a lesbian. What if I wake up tomorrow, no longer attracted to women and I end up meeting the man of my dreams? Honestly, I would be kind of disappointed. I think this is so difficult for me because I never before this year ever anticipated finding myself attracted to women at all. I have been “straight” my whole life, so I am having a hard time letting go of that. I don’t know how to interpret my feelings and I don’t know how to label myself. (I realize I don’t have to, I just feel like I will be able to relax more once I do.) 

I was hoping to be able to come out to my mom during Christmas time, but idk what to tell her. Idk if I want to say I’m bi because then she will still maintain the hope that I will marry a guy, which, right now, I don’t really want. But I also don’t want to say I’m lesbian because I don’t know that I feel that I am. But I also don’t think she will understand what I mean if I just tell her I’m queer. 

And then I have some severe impostor syndrome like, “my attraction to women probably isn’t even real and one day everyone will realize that I am just a Straight™, infiltrating the LGBT community just so I can feel oppressed.”

Okay I am done for now, but if you read through all of this BLESS YOU you are amazing. 

If any of you has input, feel free to comment, I will read them ALL, but I can’t promise to respond to everyone.

[anastasiaskarsgard]

Hydrangea - Chapter 1

The home was large and imposing. Located on the second largest island, in the Stockholm archipelago, it was connected to Stockholm by a bridge, which meant it was in the perfect location to quickly reach the rest of civilization whenever the moment was required -- but was enough out of the way that I didn't have to be bothered by anyone. The quiet location of the home allowed me the peace and privacy recent events, had made so valuable.

Upon stepping inside, I noted the dust that covered every single surface within the home; and on the kitchen table -- sat a magazine from six years ago. It had been a while since anyone used this place. It had been in our family for several generations, and although it was grand and beautiful in the summer, it was a hard place to live in the winter. Just heating it, was a small fortune, especially considering it had no protection or barriers to help shield it from the ferocious frozen winds, that relentlessly lasted the coldest months of an already savage cold.

 My tiny Pomeranian, Max, took a moment to sniff around. He was as fearless as he was adorable, and I could only pray that he managed to stay out of trouble. Max was my loyal little man, and when i was at my lowest, he really helped me keep going. I had given up on myself, but I couldnt let my little Max down. I leaned down and gave him a quick back rub, before he trotted off to sniff around some more. I could only imagine the sensory overload all this was to a little city dog, that now had an entire new world to investigate.

I walked around the house, going from room to room, opening up windows to let in the fresh air. I peeked over at my neighbors house, and was pleased to see people were there.

Back when I was growing up, I would come here every summer, without fail. During that time, I had managed to develop amazing friendships with the children who had lived next door -- Bill and Eija Skarsgard. Bill was the tall and lanky boy who would always have scrapes and bruises, and absolutely zero fear whatsoever. Eija, was just as bold as her older brother. She never failed to be confident in any situation -- even when I was hesitant about something. In fact, if I tried to chicken out, or god forbid, not even try, she always found a way to change my mind. I was a naturally timid child, but they would have none of it. There were 3 older brothers, and although theyd often humor us, they were too old to play our silly games of pretend.  But looking back on the events that led me here, I couldn't help but wish I’d stayed that sweet timid girl, that cried when i caught a fish, because id made its mouth bleed. Being fearless and passionate hadnt gone well for me.

These days, from what I'd seen online and read about in articles, it seemed that almost all of the Skarsgard brothers were actors. I remembered the father was some sort of artistic type, and was shocked his sons had followed suit, all but one of them, got so embarrassed by his unapologetic nudity. The boys I grew up playing "make believe" with as children, were now critically acclaimed actors. Not only that but beautiful ones at that! Bill had grown into quite the looker. He was handsome by anyone's standards,  with his rich and dark brown hair, sinful full lips, chiseled facial features and penetrating green eyes. Looking at him in magazines, it was mind-blowing that this was the same boy that helped me build dams out of stones, or dig in the dirt for hours. I was sorry I'd lost touch with them but was too shy to reach out to them now that they were famous. That wasn't why I missed them, although I'm sure that's what they'd think. I hoped that the fame hadn't gone to their heads and that they were still the friendly, free-spirited family that I had always remembered them to be before I couldn't find the time to come back to this place.

When you're a teenager, you don't want to escape the rat race; you want to be in the thick of it. I was by no means a party girl, but I did enjoy an active social life in my teens, and all through college. I was obsessed with getting good grades and was a bit of an overachiever, so I kept myself busy. I was always aloof with boys because frankly, they all seemed more trouble than they were worth. I had high standards and was of the mindset that I would rather be alone than settle for someone perfect for me. Then I met Adam.

Adam appeared perfect, at least at the surface. He was naturally athletic and tall, attractive by conventional standards; and very funny -- as well as charismatic and successful. He honestly had it all, or so I thought. People, myself included, were instinctively drawn in by him. Adam could always be counted upon for a good time with a great story. He was your typical all-american boy next door that you wanted to do bad things with. It’d actually flattered me, when he took an interest in me, and tirelessly pursued me.

If I had to describe myself, physically, I was fortunate enough to be naturally conventionally attractive as well. However, I had a standoffish vibe. In my defense, resting bitch face is a thing that can’t be fixed for some people, but with every cloud, there's a silver lining. Especially since it's saved me from numerous creeps approaching me, and at least gave me the illusion that I blended in, and didn't draw much notice.  I HATED being the center of attention. On a Friday night, you're more likely to find me at home curled up on my couch engrossed in a good novel -- rather than dealing with strangers and drunk people.

I had a very secure career as a  business analyst, for a big utility company; so I was not the person you ever wanted to see. I analyzed our various departments and employees, to always be sure, we work at our most financial efficiency, and if I did come to see you, it wasn’t because to give you a high five. As long as I kept us out of the red, and looked professional and clean, they really couldn't have cared less about aging or being fashionable.

As time progressed within our relationship, I thought nothing of it when Adam got a new assistant at work named Alexis. Alexis had a lovely face and Victoria's Secret body. She was slender, and never appeared to have a single strand of hair out of place. A few friends made comments, but I defended her, annoyed people only looked at her superficially, and didn't take her seriously. I had suffered this same plight, my entire life, so I refused to acknowledge her beauty as anything suspicious. She was brilliant and tenacious, and her organizational skills were spectacular, and coming from me, that's quite a compliment.  She also knew a lot about healthy eating habits and managed to share diet and exercise tips with Adam when he started to find it difficult to fit in some of his suits. I thought it was sweet of him to make a new friend, and treat her like a peer and looking back, I want to choke myself.  I was, quite frankly, the most naive, trusting idiot on the planet.

It started simply; she would occasionally "forget" to give him some messages from me and once in a while laughing a little too much at one of his jokes that just wasn't as funny, or always would touch his arm or back or shoulder. Honestly, it was a tint bit annoying, but he had always been a handsome, charming guy, that made people feel comfortable. She wasn't the first one to be a bit too familiar, but at the end of the day, he loved me and wanted to marry me. I had no reason to not trust him because of her actions. If I'm honest, I probably should confess I am a bit of a reclusive type and am not very attentive or needy. Alone time is right up there with oxygen, for me, so I have to trust completely, or I’ll drive myself nuts.

If I’d paid closer attention, id have questioned why he started staying later and later at the office. I just assumed he was taking on more cases, that he had gained from all the free publicity when he had represented a notorious South American cartel crime lords son, and saved him from what was thought to be a certain a guaranteed death sentence. He’d still received a life sentence, but considering the 74 crimes had been guilty of, that was damn near a miracle! So, I didn’t mind when he had to cancel several dates with me. In fact, I was proud of him for getting more work, rising in the ranks of the legal hierarchy as well. Then there was his sudden disinterest in looking at houses with me. One of the most significant conflicts in our relationship had always been that I refused to move in together until we were married. Since we were going to be getting married at the end of summer, he had been foaming at the mouth to pick out our future home, but now it was like he planned on buying a house after we were married. I didn't let it bother me though, I figured that because of his busy work schedule, it would just be easier for me to take photos of the houses for him, and put them all in an online portfolio for him to review at his convenience. I even went as far as completely buying his bullshit excuse of "needing something to hold back his hair out of his eyes, while he was at the gym" when I found a woman's hair tye in his fucking bathroom. (Believe me, if I could go back and slap the shit out of myself --) :

It wasn’t until I received a call from my gynecologist with the results from my yearly pap smear -- that I was doused in the cold hard reality of what was going on. I had chlamydia, and quite frankly -- I wanted to cut his manhood off and make him eat it, I was so mad. I stormed into his office and burst through the doors dramatically slamming the test results on his desk in front of him. And you want to know the embarrassing part? I still didn't think it was Alexis.

“What dirty ass whore, have you been sticking your dick in? Who was worth throwing us away, because its fucking over.” I said menacingly enough, he scooted back a bit.

“I dont think you should talk about her like she cant hear you, for fucks sake,” he said looking over at Alexis who continued to work quietly and avoid eye contact with me; almost pretending as if nothing were wrong and she could not in fact hear me.

I was at a complete loss. I stood there with my mouth agape, trying to process this information, and when I could feel the lump in my throat rise, and the tears threatened to fall, I turned on my heel and left, without saying another word.

Looking back, I should have noticed several signs that something was amiss.

About six months ago, he became very concerned with his appearance; hitting the gym, eating healthy, buying anti-aging products, investing in several expensive wardrobe pieces, getting a new hairstyle. I had found it funny that at 30 years old, he was having a mid-life crisis. I’d tease him about it a little bit, and he’d just roll his eyes and say he wasn’t a natural stunner like me.

I’ve always been very low maintenance, but that’s because my body knows it has to keep it together because I’m not doing a bunch of crazy stuff to stay young. I’m totally fine with gray hairs, wrinkles and wearing my Juicy tracksuits that haven’t been in style, for a decade. There were better odds that I’d get superpowers than I’d get Botox.

I had been so blind. Such a fool.

When Adam came by my home to pick up his possessions he’d left there over the years, she came along and even had the audacity to come inside with him. She had this smug look on her face, and kept whispering to Adam and giggling. I knew she was trying to get a rise out of me but was a lady dammit... I held it together until they finally left, and as I closed the door and locked it behind them, I pressed my forehead to the door, willing myself to stay strong, but my legs got so weak, and the air felt like it’d been knocked out of me. And I suddenly felt far too heavy to stand. I crumpled to the floor, and curled myself into the fetal position, and cried like I, ve never cried in my entire life. Hysterical, slobberyface, sobbing with boogers, till my throat and diaphragm hurt, and then I cried some more.

My heart was broken. I felt like my life was over, and my chance at happiness had left with him. I sunk into a pretty deep depression and stopped cleaning the house and speaking to anyone outside of work. If it hadn't been for my loyalty to Max, I don't know if I would of left my house. I had to take care of Max tho, so I pressed on although I was a shell of my old self.

I’d torture myself looking at their social media accounts, with all their cute little pictures and sappy comments. I’d never been one to post 1000 pictures of my life or write to my boyfriend. I saw every day, professions of my love for all the world to see. I updated my Instagram maybe once a month, unlike Alexis, who seemed to update hers about once an hour. It was disgusting.

That’s how I saw the hydrangea bushes.

I always loved hydrangeas and had asked Adam if I could plant some at his office, and he’d always said they were too problematic. I’m an analyst, so rather than argue, I gathered various varieties and strains, what their strengths and weaknesses were, what colors were offered, how often they bloomed and what was required to keep them alive. I had presented Adam with the top 3 hydrangea candidates in folders that were the color they’d bloom to be, and was rather pleased with myself. He’d been busy at the time and handed the folders off to Alexis, promising to look them over later. I asked him a few times if he’d gotten a chance to look them over and he’d get annoyed, so I just let it go.

Now I was sitting here, seething with rage, looking at Alexis, posing next to a sizeable Bloomstruck hydrangea bush holding my motherfucking folder.

I don’t know what came over me, but I had to destroy that bush.: I stayed up all night, figuring out the best strategy. Finally, I decided to go by his office before sunrise, since no one would be around, for me to douse said bush in lighter fluid and walk away to let it soak in. Eventually, once they had arrived at the office a little bit later, I would wait for them to all be inside and then casually stroll on by and toss a lit match in the bush.

 Burn baby, burn! 

His office building was made out of bricks and the flowering bed was also encased in bricks; there was no risk of it getting out of control.

I jogged by, splashing the contents all over the bush, and then crossed the street to the parking garage, where I took the stairs up to the sixth floor, where I could see them arrive without being seen. People never look up.

It didn't take long before I saw Adam’s shiny black Mercedes pull into his reserved parking space, and imagine my surprise when Alexis got out the passenger side. I guess he was giving her rides to work now too, or maybe they even lived together. Frankly, I didn't care, but they were not getting happily ever after, with my favorite fucking flowers!

They kissed and held hands, in front of God and everybody. It was repulsive and so unprofessional. He pulled her into a deep kiss and then went inside, leaving her outside. What was she doing? I bet she was going to take some fucking selfies. She walked over to MY bush, digging in her purse. More pictures with the bush, but when she pulled something out of her purse, my stomach dropped. In her hand, she had a cigarette and a lighter. She tried to light her cigarette, but it was a windy day. Thank God, I breathed a sigh of relief until she huddled down into the bush, using it to block the wind and lit her cigarette. I'm not exaggerating when I say; she quite literally burst into flames.

 I watched in horror, as she ran around flailing her arms and screaming completely engulfed in flames. Then I turned around, and I ran as fast and as far as my legs would take me in the opposite direction.

I want to give a huge thank you for helping me with editing @imaginationlane. She is such a good writer, and she took the time to help point me in the right direction and I'm very thankful. I actually edited something!!!! Yeah!!!

If I should keep going, like or comment or reblog. I welcome any comments, good or bad.

[beardcore-blog]

A Princess Diary

"What’s Wrong With Cinderella?"

I finally came unhinged in the dentist’s office — one of those ritzy pediatric practices tricked out with comic books, DVDs and arcade games — where I’d taken my 3-year-old daughter for her first exam. Until then, I’d held my tongue. I’d smiled politely every time the supermarket-checkout clerk greeted her with ”Hi, Princess”; ignored the waitress at our local breakfast joint who called the funny-face pancakes she ordered her ”princess meal”; made no comment when the lady at Longs Drugs said, ”I bet I know your favorite color” and handed her a pink balloon rather than letting her choose for herself. Maybe it was the dentist’s Betty Boop inflection that got to me, but when she pointed to the exam chair and said, ”Would you like to sit in my special princess throne so I can sparkle your teeth?” I lost it.

”Oh, for God’s sake,” I snapped. ”Do you have a princess drill, too?”

She stared at me as if I were an evil stepmother.

”Come on!” I continued, my voice rising. ”It’s 2006, not 1950. This is Berkeley, Calif. Does every little girl really have to be a princess?”

My daughter, who was reaching for a Cinderella sticker, looked back and forth between us. ”Why are you so mad, Mama?” she asked. ”What’s wrong with princesses?”

Diana may be dead and Masako disgraced, but here in America, we are in the midst of a royal moment. To call princesses a ”trend” among girls is like calling Harry Potter a book. Sales at Disney Consumer Products, which started the craze six years ago by packaging nine of its female characters under one royal rubric, have shot up to $3 billion, globally, this year, from $300 million in 2001. There are now more than 25,000 Disney Princess items. ”Princess,” as some Disney execs call it, is not only the fastest-growing brand the company has ever created; they say it is on its way to becoming the largest girls’ franchise on the planet.

Meanwhile in 2001, Mattel brought out its own ”world of girl” line of princess Barbie dolls, DVDs, toys, clothing, home décor and myriad other products. At a time when Barbie sales were declining domestically, they became instant best sellers. Shortly before that, Mary Drolet, a Chicago-area mother and former Claire’s and Montgomery Ward executive, opened Club Libby Lu, now a chain of mall stores based largely in the suburbs in which girls ages 4 to 12 can shop for ”Princess Phones” covered in faux fur and attend ”Princess-Makeover Birthday Parties.” Saks bought Club Libby Lu in 2003 for $12 million and has since expanded it to 87 outlets; by 2005, with only scant local advertising, revenues hovered around the $46 million mark, a 53 percent jump from the previous year. Pink, it seems, is the new gold.

Even Dora the Explorer, the intrepid, dirty-kneed adventurer, has ascended to the throne: in 2004, after a two-part episode in which she turns into a ”true princess,” the Nickelodeon and Viacom consumer-products division released a satin-gowned ”Magic Hair Fairytale Dora,” with hair that grows or shortens when her crown is touched. Among other phrases the bilingual doll utters: ”Vámonos! Let’s go to fairy-tale land!” and ”Will you brush my hair?”

As a feminist mother — not to mention a nostalgic product of the Grranimals era — I have been taken by surprise by the princess craze and the girlie-girl culture that has risen around it. What happened to William wanting a doll and not dressing your cat in an apron? Whither Marlo Thomas? I watch my fellow mothers, women who once swore they’d never be dependent on a man, smile indulgently at daughters who warble ”So This Is Love” or insist on being called Snow White. I wonder if they’d concede so readily to sons who begged for combat fatigues and mock AK-47s.

More to the point, when my own girl makes her daily beeline for the dress-up corner of her preschool classroom — something I’m convinced she does largely to torture me — I worry about what playing Little Mermaid is teaching her. I’ve spent much of my career writing about experiences that undermine girls’ well-being, warning parents that a preoccupation with body and beauty (encouraged by films, TV, magazines and, yes, toys) is perilous to their daughters’ mental and physical health. Am I now supposed to shrug and forget all that? If trafficking in stereotypes doesn’t matter at 3, when does it matter? At 6? Eight? Thirteen?

On the other hand, maybe I’m still surfing a washed-out second wave of feminism in a third-wave world. Maybe princesses are in fact a sign of progress, an indication that girls can embrace their predilection for pink without compromising strength or ambition; that, at long last, they can ”have it all.” Or maybe it is even less complex than that: to mangle Freud, maybe a princess is sometimes just a princess. And, as my daughter wants to know, what’s wrong with that?

The rise of the Disney princesses reads like a fairy tale itself, with Andy Mooney, a former Nike executive, playing the part of prince, riding into the company on a metaphoric white horse in January 2000 to save a consumer-products division whose sales were dropping by as much as 30 percent a year. Both overstretched and underfocused, the division had triggered price wars by granting multiple licenses for core products (say, Winnie-the-Pooh undies) while ignoring the potential of new media. What’s more, Disney films like ”A Bug’s Life” in 1998 had yielded few merchandising opportunities — what child wants to snuggle up with an ant?

It was about a month after Mooney’s arrival that the magic struck. That’s when he flew to Phoenix to check out his first ”Disney on Ice” show. ”Standing in line in the arena, I was surrounded by little girls dressed head to toe as princesses,” he told me last summer in his palatial office, then located in Burbank, and speaking in a rolling Scottish burr. ”They weren’t even Disney products. They were generic princess products they’d appended to a Halloween costume. And the light bulb went off. Clearly there was latent demand here. So the next morning I said to my team, ‘O.K., let’s establish standards and a color palette and talk to licensees and get as much product out there as we possibly can that allows these girls to do what they’re doing anyway: projecting themselves into the characters from the classic movies.’ ”

Mooney picked a mix of old and new heroines to wear the Pantone pink No. 241 corona: Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Ariel, Belle, Jasmine, Mulan and Pocahontas. It was the first time Disney marketed characters separately from a film’s release, let alone lumped together those from different stories. To ensure the sanctity of what Mooney called their individual ”mythologies,” the princesses never make eye contact when they’re grouped: each stares off in a slightly different direction as if unaware of the others’ presence.

It is also worth noting that not all of the ladies are of royal extraction. Part of the genius of ”Princess” is that its meaning is so broadly constructed that it actually has no meaning. Even Tinker Bell was originally a Princess, though her reign didn’t last. ”We’d always debate over whether she was really a part of the Princess mythology,” Mooney recalled. ”She really wasn’t.” Likewise, Mulan and Pocahontas, arguably the most resourceful of the bunch, are rarely depicted on Princess merchandise, though for a different reason. Their rustic garb has less bling potential than that of old-school heroines like Sleeping Beauty. (When Mulan does appear, she is typically in the kimonolike hanfu, which makes her miserable in the movie, rather than her liberated warrior’s gear.)

The first Princess items, released with no marketing plan, no focus groups, no advertising, sold as if blessed by a fairy godmother. To this day, Disney conducts little market research on the Princess line, relying instead on the power of its legacy among mothers as well as the instant-read sales barometer of the theme parks and Disney Stores. ”We simply gave girls what they wanted,” Mooney said of the line’s success, ”although I don’t think any of us grasped how much they wanted this. I wish I could sit here and take credit for having some grand scheme to develop this, but all we did was envision a little girl’s room and think about how she could live out the princess fantasy. The counsel we gave to licensees was: What type of bedding would a princess want to sleep in? What kind of alarm clock would a princess want to wake up to? What type of television would a princess like to see? It’s a rare case where you find a girl who has every aspect of her room bedecked in Princess, but if she ends up with three or four of these items, well, then you have a very healthy business.”

Every reporter Mooney talks to asks some version of my next question: Aren’t the Princesses, who are interested only in clothes, jewelry and cadging the handsome prince, somewhat retrograde role models?

”Look,” he said, ”I have friends whose son went through the Power Rangers phase who castigated themselves over what they must’ve done wrong. Then they talked to other parents whose kids had gone through it. The boy passes through. The girl passes through. I see girls expanding their imagination through visualizing themselves as princesses, and then they pass through that phase and end up becoming lawyers, doctors, mothers or princesses, whatever the case may be.”

Mooney has a point: There are no studies proving that playing princess directly damages girls’ self-esteem or dampens other aspirations. On the other hand, there is evidence that young women who hold the most conventionally feminine beliefs — who avoid conflict and think they should be perpetually nice and pretty — are more likely to be depressed than others and less likely to use contraception. What’s more, the 23 percent decline in girls’ participation in sports and other vigorous activity between middle and high school has been linked to their sense that athletics is unfeminine. And in a survey released last October by Girls Inc., school-age girls overwhelmingly reported a paralyzing pressure to be ”perfect”: not only to get straight A’s and be the student-body president, editor of the newspaper and captain of the swim team but also to be ”kind and caring,” ”please everyone, be very thin and dress right.” Give those girls a pumpkin and a glass slipper and they’d be in business.

At the grocery store one day, my daughter noticed a little girl sporting a Cinderella backpack. ”There’s that princess you don’t like, Mama!” she shouted.

”Um, yeah,” I said, trying not to meet the other mother’s hostile gaze.

”Don’t you like her blue dress, Mama?”

I had to admit, I did.

She thought about this. ”Then don’t you like her face?”

”Her face is all right,” I said, noncommittally, though I’m not thrilled to have my Japanese-Jewish child in thrall to those Aryan features. (And what the heck are those blue things covering her ears?) ”It’s just, honey, Cinderella doesn’t really do anything.”

Over the next 45 minutes, we ran through that conversation, verbatim, approximately 37 million times, as my daughter pointed out Disney Princess Band-Aids, Disney Princess paper cups, Disney Princess lip balm, Disney Princess pens, Disney Princess crayons and Disney Princess notebooks — all cleverly displayed at the eye level of a 3-year-old trapped in a shopping cart — as well as a bouquet of Disney Princess balloons bobbing over the checkout line. The repetition was excessive, even for a preschooler. What was it about my answers that confounded her? What if, instead of realizing: Aha! Cinderella is a symbol of the patriarchal oppression of all women, another example of corporate mind control and power-to-the-people! my 3-year-old was thinking, Mommy doesn’t want me to be a girl?

According to theories of gender constancy, until they’re about 6 or 7, children don’t realize that the sex they were born with is immutable. They believe that they have a choice: they can grow up to be either a mommy or a daddy. Some psychologists say that until permanency sets in kids embrace whatever stereotypes our culture presents, whether it’s piling on the most spangles or attacking one another with light sabers. What better way to assure that they’ll always remain themselves? If that’s the case, score one for Mooney. By not buying the Princess Pull-Ups, I may be inadvertently communicating that being female (to the extent that my daughter is able to understand it) is a bad thing.

Anyway, you have to give girls some credit. It’s true that, according to Mattel, one of the most popular games young girls play is ”bride,” but Disney found that a groom or prince is incidental to that fantasy, a regrettable necessity at best. Although they keep him around for the climactic kiss, he is otherwise relegated to the bottom of the toy box, which is why you don’t see him prominently displayed in stores.

What’s more, just because they wear the tulle doesn’t mean they’ve drunk the Kool-Aid. Plenty of girls stray from the script, say, by playing basketball in their finery, or casting themselves as the powerful evil stepsister bossing around the sniveling Cinderella. I recall a headline-grabbing 2005 British study that revealed that girls enjoy torturing, decapitating and microwaving their Barbies nearly as much as they like to dress them up for dates. There is spice along with that sugar after all, though why this was news is beyond me: anyone who ever played with the doll knows there’s nothing more satisfying than hacking off all her hair and holding her underwater in the bathtub. Princesses can even be a boon to exasperated parents: in our house, for instance, royalty never whines and uses the potty every single time.

”Playing princess is not the issue,” argues Lyn Mikel Brown, an author, with Sharon Lamb, of ”Packaging Girlhood: Rescuing Our Daughters From Marketers’ Schemes.” ”The issue is 25,000 Princess products,” says Brown, a professor of education and human development at Colby College. ”When one thing is so dominant, then it’s no longer a choice: it’s a mandate, cannibalizing all other forms of play. There’s the illusion of more choices out there for girls, but if you look around, you’ll see their choices are steadily narrowing.”

It’s hard to imagine that girls’ options could truly be shrinking when they dominate the honor roll and outnumber boys in college. Then again, have you taken a stroll through a children’s store lately? A year ago, when we shopped for ”big girl” bedding at Pottery Barn Kids, we found the ”girls” side awash in flowers, hearts and hula dancers; not a soccer player or sailboat in sight. Across the no-fly zone, the ”boys” territory was all about sports, trains, planes and automobiles. Meanwhile, Baby GAP’s boys’ onesies were emblazoned with ”Big Man on Campus” and the girls’ with ”Social Butterfly”; guess whose matching shoes were decorated on the soles with hearts and whose sported a ”No. 1” logo? And at Toys ”R” Us, aisles of pink baby dolls, kitchens, shopping carts and princesses unfurl a safe distance from the ”Star Wars” figures, GeoTrax and tool chests. The relentless resegregation of childhood appears to have sneaked up without any further discussion about sex roles, about what it now means to be a boy or to be a girl. Or maybe it has happened in lieu of such discussion because it’s easier this way.

Easier, that is, unless you want to buy your daughter something that isn’t pink. Girls’ obsession with that color may seem like something they’re born with, like the ability to breathe or talk on the phone for hours on end. But according to Jo Paoletti, an associate professor of American studies at the University of Maryland, it ain’t so. When colors were first introduced to the nursery in the early part of the 20th century, pink was considered the more masculine hue, a pastel version of red. Blue, with its intimations of the Virgin Mary, constancy and faithfulness, was thought to be dainty. Why or when that switched is not clear, but as late as the 1930s a significant percentage of adults in one national survey held to that split. Perhaps that’s why so many early Disney heroines — Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Wendy, Alice-in-Wonderland — are swathed in varying shades of azure. (Purple, incidentally, may be the next color to swap teams: once the realm of kings and N.F.L. players, it is fast becoming the bolder girl’s version of pink.)

It wasn’t until the mid-1980s, when amplifying age and sex differences became a key strategy of children’s marketing (recall the emergence of ” ‘tween”), that pink became seemingly innate to girls, part of what defined them as female, at least for the first few years. That was also the time that the first of the generation raised during the unisex phase of feminism — ah, hither Marlo! — became parents. ”The kids who grew up in the 1970s wanted sharp definitions for their own kids,” Paoletti told me. ”I can understand that, because the unisex thing denied everything — you couldn’t be this, you couldn’t be that, you had to be a neutral nothing.”

The infatuation with the girlie girl certainly could, at least in part, be a reaction against the so-called second wave of the women’s movement of the 1960s and ’70s (the first wave was the fight for suffrage), which fought for reproductive rights and economic, social and legal equality. If nothing else, pink and Princess have resuscitated the fantasy of romance that that era of feminism threatened, the privileges that traditional femininity conferred on women despite its costs — doors magically opened, dinner checks picked up, Manolo Blahniks. Frippery. Fun. Why should we give up the perks of our sex until we’re sure of what we’ll get in exchange? Why should we give them up at all? Or maybe it’s deeper than that: the freedoms feminism bestowed came with an undercurrent of fear among women themselves — flowing through ”Ally McBeal,” ”Bridget Jones’s Diary,” ”Sex and the City” — of losing male love, of never marrying, of not having children, of being deprived of something that felt essentially and exclusively female.

I mulled that over while flipping through ”The Paper Bag Princess,” a 1980 picture book hailed as an antidote to Disney. The heroine outwits a dragon who has kidnapped her prince, but not before the beast’s fiery breath frizzles her hair and destroys her dress, forcing her to don a paper bag. The ungrateful prince rejects her, telling her to come back when she is ”dressed like a real princess.” She dumps him and skips off into the sunset, happily ever after, alone.

There you have it, ”Thelma and Louise” all over again. Step out of line, and you end up solo or, worse, sailing crazily over a cliff to your doom. Alternatives like those might send you skittering right back to the castle. And I get that: the fact is, though I want my daughter to do and be whatever she wants as an adult, I still hope she’ll find her Prince Charming and have babies, just as I have. I don’t want her to be a fish without a bicycle; I want her to be a fish with another fish. Preferably, one who loves and respects her and also does the dishes and half the child care.

There had to be a middle ground between compliant and defiant, between petticoats and paper bags. I remembered a video on YouTube, an ad for a Nintendo game called Super Princess Peach. It showed a pack of girls in tiaras, gowns and elbow-length white gloves sliding down a zip line on parasols, navigating an obstacle course of tires in their stilettos, slithering on their bellies under barbed wire, then using their telekinetic powers to make a climbing wall burst into flames. ”If you can stand up to really mean people,” an announcer intoned, ”maybe you have what it takes to be a princess.”

Now here were some girls who had grit as well as grace. I loved Princess Peach even as I recognized that there was no way she could run in those heels, that her peachiness did nothing to upset the apple cart of expectation: she may have been athletic, smart and strong, but she was also adorable. Maybe she’s what those once-unisex, postfeminist parents are shooting for: the melding of old and new standards. And perhaps that’s a good thing, the ideal solution. But what to make, then, of the young women in the Girls Inc. survey? It doesn’t seem to be ”having it all” that’s getting to them; it’s the pressure to be it all. In telling our girls they can be anything, we have inadvertently demanded that they be everything. To everyone. All the time. No wonder the report was titled ”The Supergirl Dilemma.”

The princess as superhero is not irrelevant. Some scholars I spoke with say that given its post-9/11 timing, princess mania is a response to a newly dangerous world. ”Historically, princess worship has emerged during periods of uncertainty and profound social change,” observes Miriam Forman-Brunell, a historian at the University of Missouri-Kansas City. Francis Hodgson Burnett’s original”Little Princess” was published at a time of rapid urbanization, immigration and poverty; Shirley Temple’s film version was a hit during the Great Depression. ”The original folk tales themselves,” Forman-Brunell says, ”spring from medieval and early modern European culture that faced all kinds of economic and demographic and social upheaval — famine, war, disease, terror of wolves. Girls play savior during times of economic crisis and instability.” That’s a heavy burden for little shoulders. Perhaps that’s why the magic wand has become an essential part of the princess get-up. In the original stories — even the Disney versions of them — it’s not the girl herself who’s magic; it’s the fairy godmother. Now if Forman-Brunell is right, we adults have become the cursed creatures whom girls have the thaumaturgic power to transform.

In the 1990s, third-wave feminists rebelled against their dour big sisters, ”reclaiming” sexual objectification as a woman’s right — provided, of course, that it was on her own terms, that she was the one choosing to strip or wear a shirt that said ”Porn Star” or make out with her best friend at a frat-house bash. They embraced words like ”bitch” and ”slut” as terms of affection and empowerment. That is, when used by the right people, with the right dash of playful irony. But how can you assure that? As Madonna gave way to Britney, whatever self-determination that message contained was watered down and commodified until all that was left was a gaggle of 6-year-old girls in belly-baring T-shirts (which I’m guessing they don’t wear as cultural critique). It is no wonder that parents, faced with thongs for 8-year-olds and Bratz dolls’ ”passion for fashion,” fill their daughters’ closets with pink sateen; the innocence of Princess feels like a reprieve.

”But what does that mean?” asks Sharon Lamb, a psychology professor at Saint Michael’s College. ”There are other ways to express ‘innocence’ — girls could play ladybug or caterpillar. What you’re really talking about is sexual purity. And there’s a trap at the end of that rainbow, because the natural progression from pale, innocent pink is not to other colors. It’s to hot, sexy pink — exactly the kind of sexualization parents are trying to avoid.”

Lamb suggested that to see for myself how ”Someday My Prince Will Come” morphs into ”Oops! I Did It Again,” I visit Club Libby Lu, the mall shop dedicated to the ”Very Important Princess.”

Walking into one of the newest links in the store’s chain, in Natick, Mass., last summer, I had to tip my tiara to the founder, Mary Drolet: Libby Lu’s design was flawless. Unlike Disney, Drolet depended on focus groups to choose the logo (a crown-topped heart) and the colors (pink, pink, purple and more pink). The displays were scaled to the size of a 10-year-old, though most of the shoppers I saw were several years younger than that. The decals on the walls and dressing rooms — ”I Love Your Hair,” ”Hip Chick,” ”Spoiled” — were written in ”girlfriend language.” The young sales clerks at this ”special secret club for superfabulous girls” are called ”club counselors” and come off like your coolest baby sitter, the one who used to let you brush her hair. The malls themselves are chosen based on a company formula called the G.P.I., or ”Girl Power Index,” which predicts potential sales revenues. Talk about newspeak: ”Girl Power” has gone from a riot grrrrl anthem to ”I Am Woman, Watch Me Shop.”

Inside, the store was divided into several glittery ”shopping zones” called ”experiences”: Libby’s Laboratory, now called Sparkle Spa, where girls concoct their own cosmetics and bath products; Libby’s Room; Ear Piercing; Pooch Parlor (where divas in training can pamper stuffed poodles, pugs and Chihuahuas); and the Style Studio, offering ”Libby Du” makeover choices, including ‘Tween Idol, Rock Star, Pop Star and, of course, Priceless Princess. Each look includes hairstyle, makeup, nail polish and sparkly tattoos.

As I browsed, I noticed a mother standing in the center of the store holding a price list for makeover birthday parties — $22.50 to $35 per child. Her name was Anne McAuliffe; her daughters — Stephanie, 4, and 7-year-old twins Rory and Sarah — were dashing giddily up and down the aisles.

”They’ve been begging to come to this store for three weeks,” McAuliffe said. ”I’d never heard of it. So I said they could, but they’d have to spend their own money if they bought anything.” She looked around. ”Some of this stuff is innocuous,” she observed, then leaned toward me, eyes wide and stage-whispered: ”But … a lot of it is horrible. It makes them look like little prostitutes. It’s crazy. They’re babies!”

As we debated the line between frivolous fun and JonBenét, McAuliffe’s daughter Rory came dashing up, pigtails haphazard, glasses askew. ”They have the best pocketbooks here,” she said breathlessly, brandishing a clutch with the words ”Girlie Girl” stamped on it. ”Please, can I have one? It has sequins!”

”You see that?” McAuliffe asked, gesturing at the bag. ”What am I supposed to say?”

On my way out of the mall, I popped into the ” ‘tween” mecca Hot Topic, where a display of Tinker Bell items caught my eye. Tinker Bell, whose image racks up an annual $400 million in retail sales with no particular effort on Disney’s part, is poised to wreak vengeance on the Princess line that once expelled her. Last winter, the first chapter book designed to introduce girls to Tink and her Pixie Hollow pals spent 18 weeks on The New York Times children’s best-seller list. In a direct-to-DVD now under production, she will speak for the first time, voiced by the actress Brittany Murphy. Next year, Disney Fairies will be rolled out in earnest. Aimed at 6- to 9-year-old girls, the line will catch them just as they outgrow Princess. Their colors will be lavender, green, turquoise — anything but the Princess’s soon-to-be-babyish pink.

To appeal to that older child, Disney executives said, the Fairies will have more ”attitude” and ”sass” than the Princesses. What, I wondered, did that entail? I’d seen some of the Tinker Bell merchandise that Disney sells at its theme parks: T-shirts reading, ”Spoiled to Perfection,” ”Mood Subject to Change Without Notice” and ”Tinker Bell: Prettier Than a Princess.” At Hot Topic, that edge was even sharper: magnets, clocks, light-switch plates and panties featured ”Dark Tink,” described as ”the bad girl side of Miss Bell that Walt never saw.”

Girl power, indeed.

A few days later, I picked my daughter up from preschool. She came tearing over in a full-skirted frock with a gold bodice, a beaded crown perched sideways on her head. ”Look, Mommy, I’m Ariel!” she crowed. referring to Disney’s Little Mermaid. Then she stopped and furrowed her brow. ”Mommy, do you like Ariel?”

I considered her for a moment. Maybe Princess is the first salvo in what will become a lifelong struggle over her body image, a Hundred Years’ War of dieting, plucking, painting and perpetual dissatisfaction with the results. Or maybe it isn’t. I’ll never really know. In the end, it’s not the Princesses that really bother me anyway. They’re just a trigger for the bigger question of how, over the years, I can help my daughter with the contradictions she will inevitably face as a girl, the dissonance that is as endemic as ever to growing up female. Maybe the best I can hope for is that her generation will get a little further with the solutions than we did.

For now, I kneeled down on the floor and gave my daughter a hug.

She smiled happily. ”But, Mommy?” she added. ”When I grow up, I’m still going to be a fireman.”

– by Peggy Orenstein, for the New York Times Magazine (December 2006)

Posted by lukewho on 2007-01-01 19:50:52

Tagged: , fremont , christmas , 2006 , jacinto , princess , disney

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