Perhaps what I really need to do right now is spend some time focusing my me, reading, writing, sipping coffee and coffee shops, going to jazz clubs, etc. I need to collect my thoughts, understand where exactly I am and where I want to go – and to understand that this is my stuff and to be careful not to project that on others (whether poor, unsuspecting boys that I go out with, or friends). Anyway, might as well restart all of this with another read of Marilyn Frye’s Oppression:

It is a fundamental claim of feminism that women are oppressed. The word “oppression” is a strong word. It repels ant attracts. It is dangerous and dangerously fashionable and endangered. It is much misused, and sometimes not innocently.

The statement that women are oppressed is frequently met with the claim that men are oppressed too. We hear that oppressing is oppressive to those who oppress as well as those they oppress. Some men cite as evidence of their oppression their much-advertised inability to cry. It is tough, we are told, to be masculine. When the stresses and frustrations of being a man are cited as evidence that oppressors are oppressed by their oppressing, the word “oppression” is being stretched to meaninglessness; it is treated as though its scope includes any and all human experience of limitation or suffering, no matter the cause, degree or consequence. Once such usage has been put over on us, then if ever we deny that any person or group is oppressed, we seem to imply that we think they never suffer and have no feelings. We are accused of insensitivity; even of bigotry. For women, such accusation is particularly intimidating, since sensitivity is on eof the few virtues that has been assigned to us. If we are found insensitive, we may fear we have no redeeming traits at all and perhaps are not real women. Thus are we silenced before we begin: the name of our situation drained of meaning and our guilt mechanisms tripped.

But this is nonsense. Human beings can be miserable without being oppressed, and it is perfectly consistent to deny that a person or group is oppressed without denying that they have feelings or that they suffer….

The root of the word “oppression” is the element “press.” The press of the crowd; pressed into military service; to press a pair of pants; printing press; press the button. Presses are used to mold things or flatten them or reduce them in bulk, sometimes to reduce them by squeezing out the gases or liquids in them. Something pressed is something caught between or among forces and barriers which are so related to each other that jointly they restrain, restrict or prevent the thing’s motion or mobility. Mold. Immobilize. Reduce.

The mundane experience of the oppressed provides another clue. One of the most characteristic and ubiquitous features of the world as experienced by oppressed people is the double bind – situations in which options are reduced to a very few and all of them expose one to penalty, censure or deprivation. For example, it is often a requirement upon oppressed people that we smile and be cheerful. If we comply, we signal our docility and our acquiescence in our situation. We need not, then, be taken note of. We acquiesce in being made invisible, in our occupying no space. We participate in our own erasure. On the other hand, anything but the sunniest countenance exposes us to being perceived as mean, bitter, angry or dangerous. This means, at the least, that we may be found “difficult” or unpleasant to work with, which is enough to cost one one’s livelihood; at worst, being seen as mean, bitter, angry or dangerous has been known to result in rape, arrest, beating, and murder. One can only choose to risk one’s preferred form and rate of annihilation.

Another example: It is common in the United States that women, especially younger women, are in a bind where neither sexual activity nor sexual inactivity is all right. If she is heterosexually active, a woman is open to censure and punishment for being loose, unprincipled or a whore. The “punishment” comes in the form of criticism, snide and embarrassing remarks, being treated as an easy lay by men, scorn from her more restrained female friends. She may have to lie to hide her behavior from her parents. She must juggle the risks of unwanted pregnancy and dangerous contraceptives. On the other hand, if she refrains from heterosexual activity, she is fairly constantly harassed by men who try to persuade her into it and pressure her into it and pressure her to “relax” and “let her hair down”; she is threatened with labels like “frigid,” “uptight,” “man-hater,” “bitch,” and “cocktease.” The same parents who would be disapproving of her sexual activity may be worried by her inactivity because it suggests she is not or will not be popular, or is not sexually normal. She may be charged with lesbianism. If a woman is raped, then if she has been heterosexually active she is subject to the presumption that she liked it (since her activity is presumed to show that she likes sex), and if she has not been heterosexually active, she is subject to the presumption that she liked it (since she is supposedly “repressed and frustrated”). Both heterosexual activity and heterosexual nonactivity are likely to be taken as proof that you wanted to be raped, and hence, of course, weren’t really raped at all. You can’t win. You are caught in a bind, caught between systematically related pressures.

Women are caught like this, too, by networks of forces and barriers that expose one to penalty, loss or contempt whether one works outside the home or not, is on welfare or not, bears children or not, raises children or not, marries or not, stays married or not, is heterosexual, lesbian, both or neither. Economic necessity; confinement to racial and/or sexual job ghettos; sexual harassment; sex discrimination; pressures of competing expectations and judgements about women, wives and mothers (in the society at large, in racial and ethnic subcultures and in one’s own mind); dependence (full or partial) on husbands, parents or the state; commitment to political ideas; loyalties to racial or ethnic or other “minority” groups; the demands of the self-respect and responsibilities to others. Each of these factors exists in complex tension with every other, penalizing or prohibiting all of the apparently available options. And nipping at one’s heels, always, is the endless pack of little things. If one dresses one way, one is subject to the assumption that one is advertising one’s sexual availability; if one dresses another way, one appears to “not care about oneself” or to be “unfeminine.” If one uses “strong language,” one invites categorization as a “lady” – one too delicately constituted to cope with robust speech or the realities to which it presumably refers.

The experience of oppressed people is that the living of one’s life is confined and shaped by forces and barriers which are not accidental or occasional and hence avoidable, but are systematically related to each other in such a way as to catch one between and among them and restrict or penalize motion in any direction. It is the experience of being caged in: all avenues, in every direction, are blocked or booby trapped.

Cages. Consider a birdcage. If you look very closely at just one wire in the cage, you cannot see the other wires. If your conception of what is before you is determined by this myopic focus, you could look at that one wire, up and down the length of it, and be unable to see why a bird would not just fly around the wire any time it wanted to go somewhere. Furthermore, even if, one day at a time, you myopically inspected each wire, you still could not see why a bird would gave trouble going past the wires to get anywhere. There is no physical property of any one wire, nothing that the closest scrutiny could discover, that will reveal how a bird could be inhibited or harmed by it except in the most accidental way. It is only when you step back, stop looking at the wires one by one, microscopically, and take a macroscopic view of the whole cage, that you can see why the bird does not go anywhere; and then you will see it in a moment. It will require no great subtlety of mental powers. It is perfectly obvious that the bird is surrounded by a network of systematically related barriers, no one of which would be the least hindrance to its flight, but which, by their relations to each other, are as confining as the solid walls of a dungeon.

It is now possible to grasp one of the reasons why oppression can be hard to see and recognize: one can study the elements of an oppressive structure with great care and some good will without seeing the structure as a whole, and hence without seeing or being able to understand that one is looking at a cage and that there are people there who are caged, whose motion and mobility are restricted, whose lives are shaped and reduced.

The arresting of vision at a microscopic level yields such common confusion as that about the male door-opening ritual. This ritual, which is remarkably widespread across classes and races, puzzles many people, some of whom do and some of whom do not find it offensive. Look at the scene of the two people approaching a door. The male steps slightly ahead and opens the door. The male holds the door open while the female glides through. Then the male goes through. The door closes after them. “Now how,” one innocently asks, “can those crazy womenslibbers say that is oppressive? The guy removed a barrier to the lady’s smooth and unruffled progress.” But each repetition of this ritual has a place in a pattern, in fact in several patterns. One has to shift the level of one’s perception in order to see the whole picture.

The door-opening pretends to be a helpful service, but the helpfulness is false. This can be seen by noting that it will be done whether or not it makes any practical sense. Infirm men and men burdened with packages will open doors for able-bodied women who are free of physical burdens. Men will impose themselves awkwardly and jostle everyone in order to get to the door first. The act is not determined by convenience or grace. Furthermore, these very numerous acts of unneeded or even noisome “help” occur in counter-point to a pattern of men not being helpful in many practical ways in which women might welcome help. What women experience is a world in which gallant princes charming commonly make a fuss about being helpful and providing small services when help and services are of little or no use, but in which there are rarely ingenious and adroit princes at hand when substantial assistance is really wanted either in mundane affairs or in situations of threat, assault or terror. There is no help with the (his) laundry; no help typing a report at 4:00 a.m.; no help in mediating disputes among relatives or children. There is nothing but advice that women should stay indoors after dark, be chaperoned by a man, or when it comes down to it, “lie back and enjoy it.”

The gallant gestures have no practical meaning. Their meaning is symbolic. The door-opening and similar services provided are services which really are needed by people who are for one reason or another incapacitated – unwell, burdened with parcels, etc. So the message is that women are incapable. The detachment of the acts from the concrete realities of what women need and do not need is a vehicle for the message that women’s actual needs and interests are unimportant or irrelevant. Finally, these gestures imitate the behavior of servants toward masters and thus mock women, who are in most respects the servants and caretakers of men. The message of the false helpfulness of male gallantry is female dependence, the invisibility or insignificance of women, and contempt for women.

One cannot see the meanings of these rituals if one’s focus is riveted upon the individual event in all its particularity, including the particularity of the individual man’s present conscious intentions and motives and the individual woman’s conscious perception of the event in the moment. It seems sometimes that people take a deliberately myopic view and fill their eyes with things seen microscopically in order not to see macroscopically. At any rate, whether it is deliberate or not, people can and do fail to see the oppression of women because they fail to see macroscopically and hence fail to see the various elements of the situation as systematically related in larger schemes.

As the cageness of the birdcage is a macroscopic phenomenon, the oppressiveness of the situations in which women live our various and different lives is a macroscopic phenomenon. Neither can be seen from a microscopic perspective. But when you look macroscopically you can see it – a network of forces and barriers which are systematically related and which conspire to the immobilization, reduction and molding of women and the lives we live….

From: Marilyn Frye, The Politics of Reality (Trumansburg, N.Y.,: The Crossing Press, 1983)

How About We… try the Salty Pimp at the Big Gay Ice Cream Truck.
How About We… go out and try on different hats, each hat must come with a different funny voice.
How About We… take DJ lessons together and see who can spin better music.

And once a date is posted, other people can “be intrigued” by it, which is essentially the same thing as winking on Match. If you want to send a real message, you have to $ign up for an account. By focusing on the actual date idea, How About We aims to “flip the script on traditional online dating,” although that isn’t exactly how it seems to work as people most often write regarding my pictures or the random things I’ve written in my profile.

Now just a warning ladies, the pool of guys on the site is limited (and since I don’t search for women, I can’t comment on the total membership) and I’ve gotten a few sort of crazy messages, but also gone out on 2 totally fine dates. Also, the company is located in the exact same neighborhood where my ex, Rob lives, which may or may not mean anything. And as much as I am comfortable with dating online, I admit that I’m ready for a real man to walk up to me, begin an interesting conversation, tell me why I caught his eye, and then ask me out. And that means I have to start going out more. Sigh. Dating is so much work.

I’m enjoying it because it fits nicely into my routine and I can go straight home once I’ve finished my run. I do sit-ups (around 100 or so each morning) while I watch videos and MTV and VH1 and then take a shower. I typically get into the office at the exact same time I did before, so it really hasn’t impacted my life that much. Also, running and doing sit-ups in your own home is free. What isn’t free are the spinning lessons I’m taking on the weekends at Soul Cycle ($32 a class + $3 shoe rental fee). I take the SoulSurvivor class and quite enjoy it as they keep the lights low, the music loud, and there are pillar candles lit at the front of the room. I also bought an awesome Living Social deal recently for the 92nd Street Y that includes 1 month of unlimited gym and pool access for under $30 so we’ll see how that goes.

And because every new hobby requires a new pair of shoes, I had to buy myself new running shoes (Asics GEL-Speedstar® 5) at Jack Rabbit, where I was told that my run is pretty f’d up due to my hip (my hip?! wtf?!!) and that I need to do some serious pilates to work that out (nice, right?). Also, while I was testing out the shoes on the treadmill (they video tape your feet so you can watch the difference each shoe makes), a woman was watching and said to her husband, “My feet don’t do that when I run, do they?!” Which of course made me feel super great… but you know what? I still got up the next morning and went for a run. I just wore shorter shorts with the hope that people would then be watching my ass instead of my feet as they hit the pavement.

I wanted to marry him so badly, for so many reasons. The thought of coming home to him day after day made my heart soar (and I know that sounds corny, but it did) and I’d grin ear-to-ear just thinking about it. He was someone I was looking forward to caring for as we grew older – I was actually looking forward to seeing him grow rounder with the years. Rob was always too picky about design and decor, which was something I loved about him until I realized that he was also incredibly afraid to commit to anything including furniture; he wouldn’t even hang anything on the walls. He had never really been through tough times and had (and probably still has) no real passion for anything because he’s too scared to simply dive in or take any risks.

For years, he stayed in New York even though he hates the constant construction, the crowded streets and elevators. When we were breaking up, he told me that he stayed in New York for me, but I saw things differently; I didn’t see him not leaving and us maintaining a weekend relationship as him committing anything to me. I believe that he stayed because it was easier than leaving and that in staying he didn’t actually make a decision about anything. Over time, that wasn’t good enough for me. I wanted to be his wife and him to be my husband. I wanted a life partner.

For a time during our relationship, we would lay in bed after sex and talk about this dream house we wanted to have one day out in Manhattan Beach (California). I would fantasize about him returning from surfing, unzipping and pulling down his wetsuit and the thought still drives me a little wild. We would talk about our library and where we would put that stupid striped chair from B&B Italia. We talked about all kinds of little details concerning our house and it made me so happy because (about a year ago) I really believed that one day our little dream house would become a reality. I thought that we might actually have sex in our gorgeous chef kitchen decked out with Boffi cabinets. After a while, it dawned on me that this dream was simply going to stay just that – a dream.

I would talk about marriage, tell him that the thought of marrying him made me so happy, etc. and he’d always just pull me close, kiss me and sort of brush it off. Over time, it started to eat at me and I began to push him a bit harder even if every girls-guide-to-getting-married would say not to. I knew I couldn’t just wait around for another 3 years for him to either just cave in and marry my ass or finally work up the courage to end things himself. So I stepped up to the plate. I broke up with him even though the decision still hurts me so much. I told him that he had better make good use of this break up and move to California to live out his perfect life fantasy without me. He asked for a long distance relationship and I said no. He said he didn’t want to break up, and I insisted that we had to. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life.

Once all was said and done (and the break up took an entire weekend), I felt incredibly drained, but also lighter and I could finally think clearly. I was no longer considering him and the possibility of marriage in my future; I knew that it was going to just be me. I’m never going to be one of those girls that someone comes to save. I’m always going to work hard for everything that happens to me and my entire life is going to be a study in patience and understanding to some degree. Mr. Big, a fabulous Park Ave penthouse (complete with outdoor garden and a big walk-in closet), is probably not going to happen and it is nice (and yes, a tad depressing) to know that that bullshit is never, ever going to happen for me. The only person who’s ever going to put a ring on it will be me. And in that case, I suppose I should start saving up because you know I want a big one.

And since the break-up, several things have happened: 1) I started running and doing sit-ups in the mornings and go spinning on the weekends at Soulcycle; 2) Rob and I have gotten back together for a weekend of amazing sex and acted like we were just 4 months into a relationship, which was really fun and actually sort of empowering; 3) I took my son on a spring break trip to Cancun and it was amazing (see below); 4) Rob went to San Francisco to house hunt while we babysat his dog; 5) he realized that San Francisco is stupid and wouldn’t make him happy in the long run; 6) I’ve told everyone I know that I’m now single and joined dating sites Match.com, HowAboutWe.com, and OKCupid.com; 7) Rob has decided to move to Manhattan Beach instead of San Fran and when he told me that, I cried against the wall for about 30 minutes and then talked to absolutely no one (like a crazy person) in the dark for about 2 hours because Manhattan Beach is where we were supposed to live together, not for him to live without me. I also bought myself a really sexy, really amazing new pair of platform, t-strap, watersnake Miu Miu sandals.

I’ve also been thinking about keeping a lighthearted account of my dating adventures this time around on this here blog because so many people seem interested in living vicariously through a single girl – and you know, now that’s me. But we’ll see. We all know I’m an awful blogger and that my time is already stretched too thinly. And with that, good night darlings and future lovers.

You know, I always wanted to be Carrie, but I should’ve gone with Charlotte. I’d take a little bit of Harry right now in my life…

About a week before this past Christmas, I had a breakdown after walking through West Elm and realizing that I’d rather live there than in my own home. It isn’t that I don’t like my home (I do, for the most part), it’s just that it dawned on me how much of my life isn’t exactly the way I want it and that all of the compromising and shutting up about random things made my unhappy and deeply so. I declared my 2011 New Year’s resolution of making myself happy to my boyfriend on the street and immediately burst into tears. Needless to say, the rest of the day was an emotional rollercoaster. I suggested that my boyfriend and I break-up (because I want to get married, but he isn’t ready yet, and I’m going crazy thinking about it all of the time, which is making me depressed); I told my roommate that if we couldn’t figure out how to live together better that we should stop living together (because so many things about her drive me crazy even if she doesn’t intend for them to); I fantasized about leaving my job (even though I love it) and everything and running away and never looking back.

The truth is that I’m constantly telling myself that once something happens, I’ll be able to move on: once my boyfriend proposes, once I get a raise, etc. But the fact of the matter is that only I can make myself happier and that means taking charge of some things. For example, if my boyfriend and I aren’t engaged by the end of this summer (and btw, see a few of the rings I love), I’m calling things off. I love him (so very much), but I also know that I really want to get married and possibly have another child–and if he’s still not “ready” then he may never be and so I’ll have to move on without him.

Sometime last year I asked myself (and you as well), “What the hell do you want to do with your life?” And now I know that I want to be happy. Of course I’ll always try to be considerate of others’ feelings, but I’ve realized that there is no way I’ll ever be able to make everyone happy – I’ll never have enough time, money, or energy. So now it is time to focus on me. And that’s ok. Better than ok, actually.

So what I am I hoping for this year? Many more years of fun, fashion, being delighted by my son, hopefully getting married, and pushing myself even further in everything I do. Oh who am I kidding? Here are some other lovely little things I wouldn’t mind receiving as well…

I haven’t bought a fun pair of shoes in a very long time and I could use a new, killer pair (or 3). Some of my current faves? Well, my favorite, favorite, favorite is the Louis Vuitton Beauty Pump (they are just so me and a pair I know I’d wear for years–love the bow and overall silhouette), but I’d happily take Christian Louboutin’s Pigalle spiked ballerina flats or perhaps one of his chiffon evening peep-toe styles.

Like so many others, I’m a total Apple whore and while I’d love a new MacBook Air, I really need an iPad. Like, really, really badly.

I’d also really love one of the mid-sized satchels from Be Inthavong‘s new line. As much as I loathe black bags, I died for what I saw today and almost put in a personal order on the spot. You’ll be seeing the collection next February in fine, specialty retailers around the world.

And this isn’t the end of my birthday wishlist… I just need to go to bed now. Remember guys, I’m getting old!

When I was younger, my career is what I had to look forward to–babies, marriage, etc. were at the back of my mind, if anywhere. First I wanted to be a veterinarian. Then I wanted to be a lawyer so I could wear sharp suits. And then I realized that I wanted to have a career I was super passionate about and so I dropped everything in Hawai’i to move to New York (where I had never been) to work in fashion. I wanted to be the chic, sexy fashion writer I always dreamed about being. Wanted to walk down 5th Avenue in stilettos and become a source of inspiration for other young women.

Now that I’ve worked in the industry for over 7 years, I’m a little sick of how slow it moves. The fashion industry isn’t ready, willing, or able to move into the next century and remains rather aloof in this one. Seriously, if a fashion company is on twitter, they think that they’re super in-the-know.

So what do I really want? I want my son to always feel secure and happy. I want to marry my boyfriend and have another baby. I want to live closer to my relatives. To continue to work in fashion, but work smarter in the industry and help young brands establish themselves. I want to be part of a bigger effort, something that impacts hundreds/thousands of people. I don’t want to limit myself and want to always make the best of whatever situation I’m presented with. I want to read more books, light more candles, and take care of myself better.

What the hell do you want to do with your life?

Due to the extremely hot summer, the only apples available for picking were Golden Delicious, Empire and Idared, so we ended up picking up several small pumpkins, butternut squash, and a few gourds as well.

We’re going to give a bunch of apples to my son’s kindergarten and will definitely eat a ton more, but what to do with all of the other apples? Here are a few idea I found trolling online just now that I may or may not try:

• Create apple candle holders (I’m a little psycho for candles in general, so this I might actually try). With a carving knife, core or hollow out an apple. Stick a candle inside–narrow or stumpy, depending on the hole size–and light it. The smell of candle and apple will evoke cozy fall evenings in New England.
• Pour yourself a drink. Make an apple smoothie by mixing in a blender peeled and chopped apples, apple juice, ground cinnamon and vanilla frozen yogurt. If your fruit bowl is overflowing, toss in those bananas, peaches and pears, too.
• Whip up an apple facial mask (totally skeptical about this one). Combine one grated apple with honey, smooth the mixture on your face, then rinse it off after 10 minutes. For a pastier consistency, add some uncooked oatmeal.
• Make prints, cards or wrapping paper. Turn apples into decorative stamps by slicing the fruit horizontally, exposing the inside star shape. Or create more elaborate designs–hearts, moons, Hitchcock’s profile–with a small knife. Then stick a fork in the rounded side of the fruit, dip it in paint and press the stamp on paper.
• Make apple and blackberry crumble. Cook 3 peeled and chopped apples with 150g blackberries, 2 tablespoons sugar and a pinch of cinnamon in a saucepan with 2 tablespoons water. Place in a baking dish. Rub 75g butter into 225g flour and stir in 75g sugar. Spread onto the apple mixture and bake at 180°C/350°F/gas mark 4 for 30 minutes.
• Have baked apples. Cut a horizontal slit around the top and bottom of each cooking apple and take out the core. Stuff the cavities with dried fruit and drizzle in a little honey, dot the top of each apple with a knob of butter and bake at 200°C/400°F/gas mark 6 for about 40 minutes, or until soft.

Afterall, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.

When I’m too sick to drag my ass out of the house and get a cup of joe at Starbucks (which is literally less than one block away from me), you know it’s bad. I keep falling in and out of sleep and having the most bizarre dreams because of it. One of them involved a pseudo-Frankenstein character who kept ripping people’s limbs off and putting them on other people. (See, I’m sick in the head too.)

In all seriousness, being sick is really quite awful–and I hope anyone who is currently wallowing in the same misery that I am gets better sooner rather than later–although you know what’s sort of funny? My boyfriend’s dog (which is basically my dog as well), Crosby, has kennel cough. Poor little dear. So ridiculous really, but I suppose that that is just the way things always are.

Love the door knob, poor paint job and all.

Fragrances, notecards, Kidrobot, and a good luck charm. Btw, the lucite box is from cb2, retails for about $20 and I want 6 more.

A few of some of my precious shoes…

Too many scarves. Unhung pictures. My favorite gladiator sandals from H&M.

Me in my new, huge, fabulous mirror from Ikea. Dare you to find a better one for under $100.

Another Kidrobot (I’m obsessed), my lone Marc Jacobs python platform, some books – sci.fi. mostly.

Last but not least: the Panda trash can from the Container Store. Money well spent.

I would love to show you my new couch, but unfortunately, we were sent a blue one when we ordered brown so that (and perhaps bits and pieces of the rest of the place) will have to come later on.