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… about this, did you?
It’s being talked about all over the place (NYT, for example), and I’m sure you’ve all seen it already, but if you haven’t, it’s Dating a Banker Anonymous. My first two thoughts when a friend pointed me towards it?
Bonfire of the Vanities (Tom Wolfe, very amusing) and the fair-weather wife, and The Razor’s Edge (Maugham, much adored) and, well, the not-so-fair-weather, but certainly bitchy wife. And that about sums up the DABA blog. I think that some of it’s in jest (we live in hope, don’t we?), but other posts obviously aren’t. A particularly hilarious quote?
I’ve seen some negative responses to your blog and I think they’re all transparent douche-bags.
The irony should be obvious when it comes from a blog written for and by women more interested in bottle service and Manolos than anything else.
My mother’s response was the best of all, I think:
Oh my God…just imagine what it must be like to be sooooo vacuous!! We can only dream of such emptiness – thank God! I did a book proposal review for [a university press] last week and took payment in Feminist texts instead of money.
There are some things in life that money can’t buy. The hilarity of the DABA blog and the responses from actual grown-up women are some of those things!
Yet still, one has to ask: What is the world coming to???
Society does seem obsessed with them, when we stop to think about it. If this title caught your eye, then consider yourself part of society, and ask yourself why while reading this excellent article over at The F-Word, which I wholeheartedly recommend to everyone. Bold and wonderfully open, it can’t help but be a little troubling as well, particularly this paragraph, which I present to you now, teaser-style (somewhat ironically, given that it’s about breasts…):
Nowadays things are much better. I’ve got better at dressing to make my breasts look smaller (not that I should have to, although I would choose to anyway), and looking older means that I get less unwanted attention (not that I should have received unwanted attention when I was younger either, and not that I am exactly geriatric at 25). I no longer feel like a sex object every waking moment. I no longer hate my breasts and I no longer feel that they’re unwanted appendages. I would definitely like them to be smaller and I won’t pretend otherwise, but they feel like part of me, rather than the disembodied udders that they used to feel like. I’m still not happy though. Why should I ever have felt that way? Why should I have had to have struggled so hard to be respected and taken seriously?
My Spanish class, in the interest of tracing Spanish modernity into the now (or close enough), watched Todo sobre mi madre. If you haven’t seen it, it’s a wonderful film, and I love Almodóvar. But that is not where I’m going with this (although maybe I will make a post later about such things!)
Instead, we had the following interesting exchange in class:
Girl: But, I don’t understand how he could have gotten the nun pregnant while dressed as a woman.
Professor: (after a classroom-wide pause) Well, how one’s dressed is probably the least important thing when one’s having sex.
Now, I think it’s probable that, as we were talking in Spanish, she simply lacked the words to say what she actually wanted to say. On the other hand, such a literalist interpretation of performativity is certainly something I’ve never thought of before (at least as-relates to the actual physical world, rather than to fictional narratives).
(And I asked the professor later; apparently there is no word for ‘performativity’ in Spanish that isn’t considered a barbarous Anglicism, and he was criticised for trying to create one in an article he wrote. Languages are definitely tricky but fascinating.)