No, really. All I want is to give a guy rapey thoughts about me in a Thor costume.

So today, Marvel entertainment is having a big sale on Amazon. Awesome, right? They’ve got toys and action figures and clothes for all.

Except when you click on women’s clothing, this is what you get.

Two suitcases, a pair of heels (for some reason I still don’t get) and five sexy superheros costumes. Five. And only one of them is for a female character (that’d be the last one: sexy lab girl, Gwen).

And the girls section? All costumes. For Black Widow, Spider Girl, and some of the male heroes (which are just boys’ costumes put in the girls’ category). Yeah, skin tight faux-leather catsuits for your five year old. Try sending her to school in that.

When sexism and misogyny in marketing and consumerism are discussed, this is exactly the kind of bullshit which exemplifies targeted anti-woman marketing. I don’t usually get on a gender podium, but this bothers the shit out of me. In an age where Marvel, a multi-billion dollar company who could hire whoever they want, market themselves however they want, who has fostered the development of amazing female characters in its films and comics, chooses to have the only available products on the number one online marketplace be tight-bodiced, short-skirted (likely poorly constructed) costumes of its male superheroes, it is literally screaming: WE DON’T WANT WOMEN IN OUR CLUB UNLESS THEY’RE SEX OBJECTS.

It may seem petty on a surface level, but what companies make commercially available to consumers has a direct effect on how that demographic is perceived. If you don’t make it, if you won’t sell it, we can’t buy it. So you use the excuse that girls don’t buy superhero merchandise unless its this incredibly sexist bullshit. That, in itself, is incredibly sexist bullshit.

Don’t tell me a Gamora or Nebula tee won’t sell when you won’t make one to test that theory.

Don’t tell people a Black Widow movie won’t make money when you won’t try making any female-led superhero film (since Elektra *weeps*), and when your Black Widow actress had a hit film this summer that basically involved her running around and being badass to a terrible hole-filled plot. People still came and it was pretty bad. Imagine if it were really good.

Don’t hide behind suits and corporate hullabaloo when it comes to shilling out merchandise. You want to know what consumers want? Try ASKING THEM. Try LISTENING TO THEM. Try NOT PURPOSELY ALIENATING AT LEAST 50% OF YOUR POTENTIAL BUYERS BECAUSE THEY DON’T HAVE PENISES.

50 Shades of No Way in Hell

There's a trailer out for that movie now... that movie based on a series of atrociously written books with derivative Twilight-esque plot which has done more for the bondage sex toy industry than any other piece of pop culture in years, while simultaneously flaunting a horribly abusive relationship as healthy, sexy, and desirable.
So yeah, I'm biased. There was a part of me, however, my own masochistic-for-terrible-things side if you will, which thought that maybe, someday, I'd sit myself down and watch this atrocity. Once it's out on streaming/DVD of course, where the drinks are plenty, the pause button at the ready for vomit-inducing moments, and there is a decided lack of horny housewives surrounding me. Then I saw Jamie Dornan in The Fall.
For those unaware, The Fall is a Netflix series starring Gillian Anderson as a detective who comes to Belfast from England to run an internal/external investigation on the police force and, particularly, a murder inquiry regarding a young woman. The one young woman turns into several by the end of the series, all fitting a distinct aesthetic the killer finds appealing. That killer is Jamie Dornan, and in a rare turn for what could be an extended storyline for a basic procedural, it isn't just the view of the cops we get. We see the killer in his everyday life, as a grief counselor for parents of children who have died in tragic circumstances. We see him at home with his wife, a nurse, and young son and (quite possibly burgeoning psychopathic) daughter. We see him running, stalking, breaking into victims homes, fantasizing about them, and you know, eventually killing them. We see the aftermath; we see his family and his marriage crumbling. We see him nearly kill the babysitter when she finds a token from one of his kills (and her skin-crawling attraction to him even after this incident). We see him wink knowingly at his creepy daughter when she asks if they're driving past a murder scene. We see him as a fully fledged person, and as a killer. It's unsettling to say the least and genuinely terrifying at times. And it is masterfully done. This is all eerily similar to the kind of guy Christian Grey would be in real life (sans the obscene amount of money) as opposed to the demented fairy tale version that appears in print and, likely, on screen.
The first look we have of Jamie Dornan as Christian Grey in the trailer holds that same intensity and predatory look he gets when he's getting ready to murder women -- women who look eerily like the "50 Shades" girl, Ana.

This is my plea to women everywhere: If you still think the idea of Christian Grey is sexy and desirable, if you think having your own uncertainty ignored in favor of a man taking control of you and 'teaching' you to be his object is a positive portrayal of relationships, even if you just think the idea of a little bondage and fetishism in a mainstream movie is naughty in a good way, before you see 50 Shades of Grey, or pick up one of those books again, watch The Fall. Really watch it. Pay attention to how this man acts in public and in private. You may still see something appealing in Christian Grey afterwards, but hopefully at least some part of your brain will register the difference between poorly- written fantasy and a more grounded portrayal of what control-hungry men are really like.

Dracu-ugh (Episode 1)

Alright. Now that I’ve sobered up from downing an entire bottle of wine in the span of an hour during the initial broadcast of the Dracula premiere, let’s get a bit more specific as to the reasons which caused me to consume an absurd amount of alcohol in such a short time frame.

We open with a couple of dudes seemingly Indiana Jones-ing their way into a crypt in Romania in 1881. As any logical person knows, things entombed in crypts this difficult to get to (and with bodies in caskets that have spikes driven through them) were buried so that no one would open them. People in vampire stories -- not logical. Also, not reliable as business partners as it’s only a moment until one of them is getting their throat slashed to awaken our Big Bad Vampire Daddy, and we have the first misinterpretation of a quote from the book, “The blood is the life.”

Cue transformation of stabnated corpse into Bloodface Rhys-Meyers… which quickly cuts to bathing, shirtless, dripping, sexy JRM surrounded by candles and by this point I assume the creators are hoping the female viewership just gave up caring about anything else other than gazing at tasty manflesh. His dressing is filmed like a Jaguar commercial -- close-up highlighted body parts and tailoring.

 

 

 

Finally the costume porn spell is broken by Dracula speaking to Renfield, presumably acting as a creepy voyeur butler to this costume erotica. (Also, I’m only going to say this once: changing up Renfield’s race to still make him Dracula’s bitch is not culturally inclusive. It is straight up racist.) Dracula casually asks Renfield if all his guests will be photographed on entrance as requested, as though we’re supposed to think that’s deviant yet acceptably weird. It’s not. It’s creepy -- and not in an ‘I vahnt to suck their blood’ way. In a ‘I’m planning who to systematically destroy based on their appearance -- kind of like Hitler’ way. There is a talk of a demonstration, then a casual jab at 1896 Americana as Renfield exits and Dracula ‘eases’ into his slightly Southern, slightly Midwest, slightly off American accent and introduces himself to… himself, as Alexander Grayson.

Cue carriages, grandeur, and ballroom dancing as we’re introduced to the young trio of Mina, Jonathan, and Lucy. Neither girl is wearing a dress even remotely era-appropriate and obviously designed to make them stand out. Lucy is immediately set up as vain, petty, flippant, condescending, and man-crazy. So there’s an immediate character assassination (and I think at this point I finished my second glass of wine).*

Jonathan and Mina express their disdain to each other at being brought to a fancy event where the likes of a journalist and scientist-in-training aren’t likely to find anything in common with the obscenely rich. Especially since the rich in this time period have more propriety than to kiss their not-yet-fiancees in public.

And yet, don’t think that Jonathan and Mina’s poo-poo-ing of the grandeur is only middle-class jealousy. The wealthy aristocracy, business barons, and their nose-up ladies are all a-chatter about how obscene this very American display of wealth is. They’re even surprised so many have come to this ridiculously decadent event… except it’s 1896 in London and at this point the city may as well have been renamed Decadence Central.

Renfield appears on the stairs to introduce the master of Carfax Manor (I hear the creators giggling at their clever book insert), mister Alexander Grayson. While everyone may think he’s an eccentric American making an obscene display of his wealth, that won’t stop them from clapping enthusiastically at his appearance. He saunters down some stairs, takes a cocktail, and then sees Mina. And the world around him disappears. And Mina senses it, too. And I sense a sudden urge to violently hurl my laptop out the window. There’s a flashback or flashforward or insight into their mind-melding or some ridiculous overly-romantic bullshit sequence of them cuddling and caressing in bed before we’re snapped back to the now, and I’m about to snap some writer’s neck.

We mangle Dracula’s initial greeting to ‘fit’ a roomful of people, and yet when his little moment is done, he goes back to staring at Mina. Like no one’s going to notice that. Oh, but wait. Lucy does. And so does Jonathan. And so does Mina. But does Alexula stop there? Nope, he saunters right over to Renfield and demands he find out everything about her and Jonathan.

Alexula’s first official introduction is to a woman named Jayne Weatherby, whose hair color is impossibly blonde, and eyebrows impossibly shaped. With her is her ‘friend’ Herr Kruger, who Alexula basically insults as a mask to hide that he probably hates continental Europeans with Germanic last names for reasons only someone who knows about vampire lore would gather.

Alexula then makes directly for some imperialist business-lords who chair a company he would like to obtain patents from. Stunned by his blatant talk of business in front of women, Alexula is shot down and his American status insulted. They leave him and we get the first shot of Alexula’s “I’m going to slaughter some bitches tonight” face.

Jonathan’s been observing this little moment and strolls up to offer Alexula some advice and dirt on the insulting lord, and is then joined by Mina. Alexula introduces himself to Jonathan, who introduces Alexula to Mina who is now gaping at Alexula like most female reporters currently gape at Tom Hiddleston (which I would, too, in their position). 

Mina apologizes for her behaviour by starting to say she thinks they’ve met before, but Alexula finishes that thought for her. Which is, you know, a pretty creepy thing to hear from a guy you’re just meeting even if he does look like JRM. Renfield cockblocks further interaction (as I have a feeling will become habit with him) by telling his master “It’s time.”

Somehow in the ninety seconds that have elapsed, Renfield has found out Jonathan’s name, job, leading traits, and boxing schedule for the month, as well as Mina’s name, lineage, degree program, favorite color, and status as a Byron fangirl.

A dramatic boom enters the music, as does OMG BEN MILES ILY SO MUCH! (I’m sorry, but I tend to fangirl horribly over any cast member from Coupling). 

He and his immaculately coiffed hair observe the same lords and ladies Alexula did, but before we can find out any more about him, Renfield announces it is time for the demonstration. He then saunters down to Jonathan and while initially chiding him for being a member of the press at a strictly no-press event, he quickly recovers by offering him an exclusive interview with Alexula, tomorrow, at the house, alone, no garlic necklaces allowed.

Now it’s time for the demonstration as Alexula hands out lightbulbs during a speech about the dark ages, war, and how not-evolved we still are, but may be with the help of his new invention -- magnetic power that can provide wireless electricity. Somewhere deep beneath the manor (one assumes), stage one is begun with lots of shouting men and steam and levers being thrown (because that’s how you dramatic science). The business-lords, now joined by Patrick Maitland (I’m sorry, but that’s what you get when you’re Ben Miles), are instantly concerned for their petroleum interests, but Patrick tells them not to worry. Meanwhile, nothing is happening yet, so to stage two we must go. More steam, more yelling, more levers. Then, like magic, Mina’s light bulb alights first. Then another, then another, then the room. Alexula gives his best maniacal laugh, but everyone is so awed by the lights that apparently I’m the only one who notices how creepy and over-the-top his reaction is. However, after a few seconds, things start to go wrong downstairs. Sparks are flying, men are getting zapped from a Tesla-coil-esque machine, and demented doubles of Hugh Jackman start appearing. The foreman requests to cut the power, but Alexula, through Renfield, demands a few more seconds to revel. So a couple more explosions happen and the coolant expels itself all over until the foreman does the intelligent thing and shuts everything off.

Alexula soothes the disappointed crowd by making a horrible pun with a long pause. He makes a beeline back to Mina but Lucy thrusts her hand out and introduces herself before he can flirt. Alexula chats to each of them in turn, and pretty much leaves them all enthralled. Jonathan notes that he seems quite taken with Mina, and Lucy is quick to second his assessment, while still being petty and insulting. Then she’s off for cordials. (Seriously, can we please stop making Lucy into a petulant debutante?)

The mysterious Lady Jayne slinks around a corner behind Dracula and comments on his extraordinary display, and his immediate retort is that he didn’t hear her approach -- and yet I heard the distinct sound of a heel hitting stone, so Alexula’s obviously deaf, as are the sound mixers. They walk, they insult-flirt, she invites him to the opera so he can get into her box… yes, really. Did I mention this woman is wearing a feathered choker? She departs and we get Alexula’s “I think I’ll sex that one before I kill her” face.

The ball ends with vague threats from one of the business-lords, and if you didn’t see the blinking ‘dead meat’ sign over his head, the music and Alexula’s expression should have clued you in.

Jonathan is typing with his photo of Mina beside his typewriter. His accented-roomie schools him to ask for Mina’s hand before someone else does, which segues directly into Mina and Lucy’s slumber party where Lucy is taunting Mina about the weirdo American leering at her, and yet seems to hold him in a better light than Jonathan whose biggest character flaw is being ‘boring.’ (And I want to cry with rage.) Mina begs Lucy to talk about something other than her dislike of Jonathan. Then there’s a random ‘whooshing’ sound that apparently all of London hears, except the drunk soon-to-be-dead lord, who gets yanked away from his doorstep and whose arterial spray splashes artfully on his numbered pillar.

Alexula justifies to Renfield ripping the man apart basically because he was rude (I think we just found Hannibal’s bff) as Renfield tosses the lord’s photo into the fireplace. Now we’re on to discussing Alexula’s plans to destroy the corrupt and powerful and entitled Order of the Dragon. The crux of it is they’re an elitist war council that murders, pillages, rapes, degrades in the name of… we’re not really told. Basically Alexula is planning a holy war against a group that engages in their own nebulous holy war. It’s really convoluted because it tries to both entangle itself with the actual Order of the Dragon while muddling everything that had to do with the actual Order’s real purpose -- especially the fact that the main inspiration for Dracula was a member of this Order, as were other members of his family. And let’s not forget the burning of peasants flashback. Alexula’s big plan however, is to stop their reign by directing the future of world power from petroleum to magnetic, and, you know, killing every member he can sink his fangs into.

At this point I’m drunk, angry, frustrated, and wondering how such perfect portraits of every person entering that party were taken.

It’s a foggy night in London town, and the dead lord’s house is being broken into by the Herr and his neck checked for signs of bite marks. Rather than make a thorough home exam, Kruger cuts off the lord’s head, carries it in a hatbox through town, and drops it off to Lady Jayne. Because obviously no one’s opening that man’s coffin again and won’t notice his head’s gone…

Lady Jayne brings the head to Patrick, all stuffed with garlic, onions, and sage, ready for roasting on a spit. There’s talk of the last time a vampire ravaged London and they had to cover it up -- 1888, which, for those not in the know, they illuminate us was the year of Jack the Ripper. Yup. The Ripper was a vampire. Because THAT’S original…

They decide to put Kruger on patrol to watch over the other business-council-lords, so long as, Patrick stipulates, no one knows he’s around -- because unexpected Germans make Brits nervous for some reason… (too soon?) And the official explanation for ‘unexplained’ death? Dog attack.

We enter a classroom where students are learning science via reading the tabloids. Mina covers for her male chatterboxes to their professor for reasons I don’t pretend to understand.

Meanwhile, Jonathan is waiting for Alexula and opens a giant shutter where sunlight then streams in. Alexula arrives and Jonathan extends a hand to shake, directly into the beam of light. Alexula hesitates, then gives a firm shake and gestures Jonathan to a chair. Alexula turns away to get a drink, and we see his hand is burnt. (At this point I am a) infuriated that Dracula is not sun-resistant and b) questioning his rationale in picking the house, room, and time of day to meet Jonathan knowing full well he could burst into flame.)

After Alexula casually pushes his chair out of direct sunlight, they have an interesting chat about why Alexula is here and the basic message is that Alexula is claiming to look out for the future of humanity by encouraging scientific developments while acknowledging his lineage as a member of the ‘old world’ privileged class. And while this is totally out of canon character for Dracula, it’s a well crafted moment, and my biggest annoyance was actually that Jonathan’s notes aren’t in shorthand. I don’t give a shit what his personal assessments of Alexula are, as we’ll likely get those when his story is published. I do care that he has journalistic integrity and knows how to properly notate for the time period.

We’re back with Mina at school where she’s meeting her professor in his very dark office. She’s concerned about being able to become her prof’s research assistant after exams. She’s by far the most intelligent in class, but she sucks at hands-on surgical work because cutting people makes her squeamish. So we’ve built Mina up as incredibly bright and engaging in a professional course not afforded to 95% of women at this point in time… only to strip all that away in saying that she’s a great scholar and bookworm but when she sees blood she practically faints.**

Her professor tells her to suck it up and have confidence while also giving her cryptic advice about the heart never lying. She leaves and goes outside, being passed by her male classmates all saying goodnight as she stands around waiting for who the fuck knows. Apparently we’re not supposed to think this is odd as Alexula creeps around pillars watching her with his coat collar turned up. Yes, really. 

She stands alone, reading a book in the dark as he stalks all around her, disappearing when she finally senses something. Then, a female (apparently a friend) comes up and murmurs something about sorry for being late and they walk off into the dark together. Another woman crosses past them, notices Alexula, and gives him flirty sex eyes. And since he can’t get his rocks off with Mina yet, it’s time for a quick fondle-bite-kill with this girl.

And now to the opera, where Alexula has donated his box for the evening to Jonathan and Mina (who is dressed like Belle for some reason). Lady Jayne hip-wags to her own box, the opera begins, and look who decided he wanted into her box after all. And look, her box is directly across from where Jonathan and Mina sit. So Alexula can sex up Lady Jane while looking longingly across the opera house at Mina. (And as gorgeous and enchanting as JRM is, the fact that we’re supposed to root for this guy to be with Mina is insulting.)

The Order lords are gossip-bitching about Alexula taking control of their dead buddies assets, though the elder one isn’t terribly concerned. Alexula stalks the younger from the rooftops when suddenly Kruger shoots him in the leg. What ensues is an insanely ridiculous semi-slow-mo fight between the two of them that predictably ends with Kruger suffering from a bad case of katana to jugular. (Yes, Dracula owns, carries, and fights with a katana.) 

Alexula can’t suppress the urge to speechify to him before he dies, though, promising to kill everyone in the Order.

Meanwhile, Lady Jayne twirls katanas of her own in a practice arena complete with punching bags she slices up (which is just a waste of good punching bags), and a caged female vampire. Jayne wants to know who her sire is, but the vamp won’t tell. So Jayne coos all about her known methods of torture to get vampires to talk. The vamp girl is unimpressed and there is a stalemate.

Back at Castle Carfax, Alexula tries to drink away his anger (because that always works), and into the room swans Professor Van Helsing… and this is where I downed the last ¼ bottle of wine. Basically, Dracula is on Van Helsing’s leash, and Van Helsing is the one leading and directing the crusade against the Order because they killed his family. Van Helsing is the brains, Dracula is the brawn. And my desire for vengeance against the creators of this show is almost as strong as theirs against the Order.

So what did I like?

I like the completely fabricated character Ben Miles is playing. Partially for his cool collectedness, and partially because it’s Ben Miles.

I liked the interview scene (aside from aforementioned attention to proper journalism note taking), because even though it takes Dracula in a completely non-canonical direction for why he’s in London, it’s one that does actually make sense in context of the show.

I like most of the cast, even when I can’t stand their character (or what’s being done with their character).

As a final note, I’m just going to keep track of how many people Dracula kills every week -- and what that total is when Mina finally, inevitably, falls for him.

Week one kill count: 3

* No offence to Katie McGrath. I genuinely adore her and really hope her character gets something more to do than is indicated in this episode. But I fear she’ll fall into the same trap set up for Morgana in Merlin (beyond season 3) where she’s written into a corner and has to find her own way in an increasingly poorly written role.

** If this is how you inject feminism into a character you didn’t think was feminist to begin with -- FUCK YOU. Canon Mina may hold to the strict, patriarchal ideals of her time, but she is intelligent, resourceful, brave, strong, compassionate, does not shy away from danger or blood, and is more modern than she would even think to give herself credit for. She also doesn’t fall in love with a mass murderer.

Thursdays: AKA The Uncle Willie Day of the Week

For those unfamiliar with the concept of an 'Uncle Willie Day':  In The Philadelphia Story, boozehound womanizer Uncle Willie wakes with a major sleep-deprived hangover and after several assaults by the farcical goings on utters, "This is one of those days which the pages of history teach us are best spent lying in bed."

I won't go into detail about all the crap leading up to the forthcoming rant, but suffice it to say the universe has been sorely testing the bounds of my patience and sanity today. Moreso than a typical shittastic Thursday. All I wanted was to escape the insanity for a bit and use the last $5 I have until payday to get a tasty sandwich (and then they were out of the usual bread and I had to get a different sandwich...). That's all I wanted. And then...

Open Letter to the Guy Who Has Apparently Never Seen Breasts Before:

Dear Sir,

  While I appreciate the fact that sometimes the wonders of nature appear to us at the least expected times, it is important to remember that people are not beautiful flowers. Your awe at seeing a wondrous sight such as my (fairly-concealed) cleavage is understandable. However, your open mouth and eyes glued to that one section of my body for the entire duration of our interaction is none of the following: flattering, gentlemanly, proper, polite, enticing, sexy, unique, justified, excusable, desirable or acceptable. Your inability to remove your Tex Avery-style bugged out eyes from my breasts while you perform the simple task of handing me my food and saying, "Have a great day," elicits in me only one desire: to punch you in your cock.
  If it had been a glance and a smile, I might have been flattered. I might also have been a bit creeped out, but I wouldn't have this lingering feeling, hours later, that when I stood up as you called my number and your eyes were drawn to one area of my anatomy and never left that this one insignificant body part is all you see. That it may be all ANYONE sees. Believe it or not, I've put up with that type of lingering stare which fails to acknowledge that my form is comprised of anything except breasts since I was twelve. Your behaviour is not new to me. That doesn't make it acceptable, and the repeated experience of it over time does not dull the tumultuous emotions stirred by being seen as a walking pair of tits. 
  We don't know each other. It's not like you're a man I've known for a time who has won a bit of my trust and is allowed to make the occasional boob joke. I have a great rack. I'm not actually shy about it, because it is a nice asset. I wear corsets and tanks and much more revealing shirts than this one, not to garner attention but because they make me look and feel good. Let me repeat: it makes ME feel good. A glance here or there from a stranger isn't terribly untoward. It's the complete disregard for ANYTHING ELSE ABOUT ME which makes me concerned for your education about human anatomy and basic manners.
  We are unlikely to ever meet again, and in this particular instance though you were a good looking young fellow who probably has several positive attributes, our interactions today leave me with a sick feeling and the intense desire to inflict violence other human beings. Why? Because you are a dick-leading, manner-less, ogling douchenozzle with no regard for another person's humanity beyond one physical characteristic. Eat shit, scumbag.

Sincerely,
Me

Boyness

Fear not, this will not be a post about boys in relation to my personal life (nothing to speak of in that area, which is another issue in itself, so we'll just pretend your mind never went there and just get on with our day, shall we? Good.).

This is about re-embracing the non-gender-specific empowerment in all of us. (Inspired, partially, by a post yesterday by Luv & Kiwi)

I'm pretty laid back when it comes to fashion. I like to be comfortable. Jeans and tees kind of gal, kicking it in flip-flops or chucks. I do like cute, girly tops, love corsets, and even a good flowy dress or skirt can make me feel like my feminine powers have increased. Yet I experience a different kind of empowerment when I don a pageboy cap, or a snappy vest. Don't even get me started on what kind of empowered mischief I could get up to if I owned a bow tie...

When I get girlied up, even if it's in slacks and a barely-breathable corset with a snazzy necklace that drops down almost into my cleavage, I feel womanly. I feel as though I could walk up to some good-looking bloke, plant one right on his lips, and he'd be dazzled by my awesomeness (rare is the occasion I do something like this, but I FEEL that I could, without consequence). It's a pretty great feeling, don't get me wrong.

However, when I embrace my dapper don side, pulling on the pinstripes, capping my head with a cap, aligning some cute tee or collared shirt with a vest I feel like... like I could take on members of either sex in a bar fight whilst giving redecorating advice to the owner between blows and singing a jaunty tune the whole time. It's like I grew phantom balls that come equipped with a power of fearlessness, attitude, and not giving a toss. All the female insecurities about opinions, looks, emotions, selfish behaviour, stepping out of a comfortable situation... it all just melts away.

Now, I'm not saying I'm trading in my beloved AE jeans or flip-flops or (heavens forbid) corsets for suspenders, ties, vests and a fedora. I wore a skirt and flip flops with the magical hat yesterday, and was comfy and cute all day. Still, it's an interesting realization that a bit of man-flare makes me feel powerful in ways no frilly skirt, deftly-tied scarf, or stiletto heels ever could.

What about y'all? Do you find a difference in how you think and feel when you add a bit of the 'traditionally opposite' sex's garb to your dress?



(It may be a kiss-o-gram outfit, but Amy Pond is totes bad-ass in her collared shirt, tie, and bowler)

Why Are All My Relatives Such... Twats?

Having recently finished Jane Goes Batty (which I may rant/rave about soon), and with the timely-yet-unexpected random inspirational quote from one of my dear friends, I find myself compelled to follow in the footsteps of scholars and fans far more deserved than I to explore the realm of what many consider the anti-Brontë: Jane Austen.
One might surmise that my overall disdain for two-thirds of the Brontë sisters would create an automatic enjoyment of all works Austen. Sorry to disappoint, dear quick-to-judge readers, but I find Miss Jane flawed as well, though admittedly not with the kind of vehement passion I aim at her Byronic successors. Still, on the whole (and though I have not read all their works), I do gain more personal enjoyment and find more intriguing and worthwhile in Jane's writing than in Charlotte's or (*hurk*) Emily's.
The quote which helped spur on this Austen topic quite took me as both accurate and bitingly amusing:
Apparently to have an Austen-esque romance, your family must be filled with twats.
(Texts from my friends are not, I think, like most people's texts... also, at least in my circle, 'twat' seems to be making a much needed comeback.)

While at first glance the assessment holds true to the 'it's funny because it's true' adage, both for works of Austen and those who hunger to emulate her, on reflection it caused pondering of classic feminine literature in general and how applicable this statement may be.
First, with Austen, it rather amuses me that by all accounts her own family was quite stable and satisfactory, if a little wanting for financial stability. Yet the heroines in most of her novels must deal with family (or those who may become family) who exemplify twattiness while on their individual journey to personal (and matrimonial) bliss.
Obviously Lizzie has to put up with not only her own but Darcy's atrocious relations (I'm looking at you, Aunt Lady Catherine de Twatourge). Twatilicous Lydia even ends up marrying a complete asshat, and I still wonder who got the worst end of that deal: her or Wickham. Even the almost nauseatingly perfect Jane and Bingley must contend with Charles' complete twat of a sister. No wonder Caroline so longs to be in Darcy's family -- she and Aunt Twatty would be the Twats of the Town. And in an informal facebook poll, my friends unanimously crowned Mr. Collins as the King Twat of Pride & Prejudice.
Then we have poor Fanny whose own immediate family pawns her off on her rich relatives at an age where her female cousins can be expected to shat on her like their pet puppies do on the front lawn. Then of course we have the Twat Twins who seduce various members of the Bertram family and end up exposing the fact that Edmund and Fanny are about the only respectable people in that circle -- and even they almost get duped and seduced by the Cunty Crawfords (yeah, I said it).
Similar patterns of familial twattery appear in Emma, Sense & Sensibility and (at least the parts I've read) of Northanger Abbey. The only Austen work which I am almost completely unfamiliar with is Persuasion but I would wager the twat theme queefs mightily in that novel as well.

Still, on my brief contemplation of female literature in general, Jane is not exempt from familial twatishness as a plot device. Miss Charlotte created an epic family of twats with the Reeds, and even the boorish Emily ensured her characters would never see happiness due to their über-twat relatives (of which Heathcliff and Catherine both suffer from and then become themselves). Yes, even my Brontë goddess Anne enlisted the family twat device in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (though Gilbert's family of twats pales in comparison to Helen's husband and Lord Twat, Arthur Twatingdon).
While not 'feminine' literature, She Who Has More Money Than Everyone Else In The World Combined (aka Jo Rowling) excels at using FamTwat. Though young adult literature is steeped in twat tea, few families twat it up as well or as much as the Dursleys or the Malfoys (when your parents' names are Lucius and Narcissa, you're pretty much guaranteed a twatty childhood and thus becoming a top class twat yourself).

Obviously this is not a plot epidemic limited to female authors (Shakespeare was king of family twats), but from one little text I find yet another way to examine feminine literature and authors. I know Familial Twats: Exploring Twatticism in Post-Colonial British Female Authors probably won't garner me any academic accolades or grant money, but it is very interesting as a topic and damn fun to write about... or maybe I just like finding new ways to use 'twat.'

Coming Soon:
Coping with Twats Leads to Bliss? -- how the twatty behaviour of literary families correlates to the ultimate happiness of their protagonist relatives.

Important Quotage

As you may soon notice, I am a quote whore.
(My future self just came back through a crack in time and space to tell me that yes, indeed, in the future it has been established across the stars that I have a penchant for quoting -- especially when stuck on my own words and unable to create or express something meaningful... I guess it's old news, then.)

Thus I thought I'd take this opportunity to expound on my choice of header quote for this blog.

I am at a loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything that would be truly disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a man.

The quote is from Anne Bronte, part of the preface to the second edition of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. For those unaware, when the Bronte sisters wrote their novels, they were all published under male pen names. This preface was written in the voice of Acton Bell, wherein 'he' explains some of the reasoning behind characters and events in the book that were seen to be shocking - namely a woman escaping her marriage to an absolute cad to save herself and her son, then trying to make a life for herself in a new town as a single mother. Horrors! (No. Really. To the Victorians that was horrific.) Other insinuations at the time had also been made that Acton and his brothers Currer and Ellis were, in fact, women (and possibly even all the same person). A fact that was never made officially public until after Acton/Anne and Ellis/Emily's deaths. While playfully not acknowledging the accusation of her gender, she points out, more accurately, succinctly and with a smidge of attitude than anyone prior to herself I have seen, that an author's gender should have no bearing on their writing or how it is judged. If a story, characters, and/or writing is good, then it is good no matter who wrote it. Because I love it so much, here is the whole paragraph:

Respecting the author's identity, I would have it to be distinctly understood that Acton Bell is neither Currer nor Ellis Bell, and therefore let not his faults be attributed to them. As to whether the name be real or fictitious, it cannot greatly signify to those who know him only by his works. As little, I should think, can it matter whether the writer so designated is a man, or a woman, as one or two of my critics profess to have discovered. I take the imputation in good part, as a compliment to the just delineation of my female characters; and though I am bound to attribute much of the severity of my censors to this suspicion, I make no effort to refute it, because, in my own mind, I am satisfied that if a book is a good one, it is so whatever the sex of the author may be. All novels are, or should be, written for both men and women to read, and I am at a loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything that would be truly disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a man.

Preach on, dear lady.