Sartoris Speak

On ol’ V-Day Eve, the Valentine’s Day bashing has already started. Numerous posts reading something along the lines of “Valentine’s Day sucks!” “Happy Singles Awareness Day!” “I’m sooooo jealous of people in relationships…” have littered my Facebook News Feed.

I find the negativity surrounding the day quite silly. I just unearthed some really amazing 90s valentines left over from when I was in elementary school and I am ecstatic about it. I’m talking Barbie, Star Wars, The Ninja Turtles, The Flinstones - the list goes on. It made me chuckle thinking about how much fun V-Day used to be when we were kids.

It didn’t matter if we had a boyfriend or girlfriend - everyone ate candy and got some serious sugar rushes. We all gave out hand-made and store-bought valentines to our friends and family. I usually wore heart-themed things to school and rocked red and pink hair-bows like a Valentine’s Day queen.

But as we grew up, the need to be paired off on the infamous day of love became more pressing. Hearts Day commercials target people in relationships, making us singles feel out of the loop. We see super-mega-giant-humongo teddy bears and think of how it would feel taking a nap on its large plush belly. We watch a man slip a beautiful new necklace onto a woman’s neck and see her face light up - questioning what man does that anymore. Flowers are half-off; chocolates are half-off and this year, Snuggies are half-off. (Which made me contemplate buying them all and sending them to myself…) All of these material things play into the shallow hype of being in a relationship on Valentine’s Day and don’t focus on what’s important in a relationship. These commercials suggest that everyone should be dating, and if you’re not, you’re totally missing out on the best day ever; you’re missing out on love and chocolates and flowers and giant teddy bears. While this may seem like a slow and harmless creation of self-loathing among singles, it’s implying that being single isn’t OK - which isn’t OK.

Your relationship status doesn’t define you, as much as V-Day ads would like to tell you otherwise. It’s important to keep your head above water when swimming in the sea of red and pink heart-shaped balloons. Being single is just fine and I don’t feel the need to go boyfriend or husband hunting. It’s important to get my me time in. It’s what keeps me sane. Writing, crafting, and shopping are things I like to do for myself, and often times by myself, and I make no apologies for that.

Now, I will say this: Enjoying singledom doesn’t mean I’m anti-relationship. When the right thing presents itself at the right time with the right person, I’m on it. But until then, it’s me myself and I and I’m enjoying every second.

It’s clear that this holiday serves no real purposes other than giving couples the opportunity to dote on each other just a little extra and giving the economy a shot of adrenaline in February. Valentine’s Day may be a made-up Hallmark holiday to make jewelry stores and that life-size teddy bear company more money all the while making singles left out, but why not enjoy it?

Buy your friend a flower and candy bar or dig up some old Ninja Turtles Valentines, have a laugh and pass them out to strangers. Hell, get yourself a Valentine’s day gift - I did. bell hooks’ “All About Love” came in the mail for me today and I just ordered “Communion.”

Make your Valentine’s Day focus on the love you have in your life - not the love you haven’t found yet.

And I have a lot of love in my life. I’ve got my friends and my family. I’ve got my cat, Jasmine, who I’ve had since I was seven. I’ve got some amazing jobs and hobbies that I love dearly and a whole hell of a lot of vintage Pyrex.

So, I don’t think the single me is going to miss out on anything tomorrow.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

I went to Books-A-Million looking for an Anne Taintor calendar today, which they didn’t have. That didn’t bother me too much — I can’t find it anywhere and it’s like a billion dollars online.

Anyways, I was curious and had some time to kill so I decided to look for any of Jessica Valenti’s books because I’ve read so much about her on the feminist community on Tumblr. Couldn’t find a one. So I asked for some help.

I approached the man at the counter and told him I needed help finding a book. He asked me which one.

I said “It’s by Jessica Valenti — a feminist author.”

“OK…” he said. He looked uncomfortable.

“It’s called Full-Frontal Feminism,” I said.

He told me he’d look it up to see if he had it in the store as soon as the computer was free. But he may as well have said, “We don’t serve your kind here.”

I stood there for a couple moments, arms crossed, wearing my crop-top and short shorts feeling totally judged. I was at a book store where knowledge and literature should be completely accessible without any kind of awkward feeling.

When the computer was free, he looked it up. They didn’t have it.

“We don’t have it in store,” he said. “I’d have to order it for you.”

“No that’s OK,” I said, smiling. “I’ll look online — thanks.”

And I left.

Feminism is clearly a four-letter word these days.

And this is what it said:

“I’m sure you’ve gotten plenty of grievances along these lines and I know you’ve deleted similar ones from your Facebook page. Your Dr. Pepper 10 commercials are grossly sexist and offensive. This so-called creative marketing strategy is up there with the trashy and chauvinist “Axe” ads that parallel marketing campaigns from sexist eras past. By creating this “manly” persona of a man - one who likes action movies, hates romantic comedies and refuses to drink “lady” drinks - not only are you defining women to be the complete opposite of this character but you’re also creating a tiny box in which men are to fit into. Men that drink Dr. Pepper 10 surely can’t show emotion or fall in love, but they can blow something up, ride shotgun in a Jeep, wear a safari vest and catch bad guys with nets all the while drinking this delicious ten-calorie soda. You’re reinforcing the gender stereotypes we have in society - stereotypes that brilliant activists are fighting to change today. I am repulsed by your insensitivity to this matter and will, from here on out, boycott your soda. You not only owe women a public apology, you owe men one, too.”

Reading Chelsea Handler’s books always puts me in the mood to write. Maybe it’s because I secretly want to be a comedian/writer or at least a comedic writer. (I’m funny dammit!) Or maybe it’s because I openly want to be Chelsea Handler so I can hang out with other funny people and get away with drinking as much as she does. Whatever the reason, I always have an itching to go at my keyboard full-steam-ahead after a chapter in “Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang.”

So here I am.

As I sat in my bathtub book in hand laughing out loud at stories I’ve read countless times, I thought about what makes a good writer.

Sure, you should probably know how to spell. And being able to differentiate a colon and a semi-colon is pretty important. Writing characters is important. But what really makes a good writer?

This may be blasphemy but honestly I hated that crap we had to read in high school. Shakespeare killed me and The Scarlet Letter put made me want to bash my head in. (A book that’s supposedly so full of controversy and scandal thoroughly bored me. And it was a classic example of slut-shaming but let’s not go there. (Cue Olive Penderghast in Easy A.))

Those are books that shaped our literature and I can appreciate that. But it doesn’t mean I liked them. On the real, the books that I like best are mostly done by comedians who write their books themselves.

Russell Brand’s “My Booky Wook” is undoubtedly written by the comedian himself. It’s like he’s talking to you. Granted, it takes a while to get used to the English humor but if you know Brand’s comedy, you know it’s a tad dry.

Chelsea Handler is quite open about not using a ghost writer; although, if she ever did decide to use one, I’d probably do it for free just so I can hang out and drink Belvedere with Chuy. (Seriously, Chelsea. I’ll send you my resume’ and clips.) She admits that writing her books wasn’t easy and that each of them took forever. She was honest and didn’t play the whole “books are easy to write” card. Because they’re not. 

I feel like that’s what I get in her books are what you hear on her show, in her comedy. And you can picture these things happening to her because they just sound like Chelsea.

I guess it would be a little different for me. People don’t know me and I don’t plan on becoming a famous comic in the next couple years so they won’t know if the stories I’ll tell will befit my personality. But I plan on doing just that - writing like I talk, like I laugh and like I cry. I plan on writing like me, no filter.

I went through some of my posts the other day and some of them were great. (My personal favorite is my extended metaphor on the NFL lockout.) Others, less awesome. I think a lot is said about a writer through his or her writing. And I think it’s obvious when said writer is confident - not only in said writer’s writing but also in his or herself. Confident writers can tackle anything and fear no challenge. I came across this quote today:

“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” - Sylvia Plath

I hate to be cocky (Hate is a strong word…) but I know I was destined to write. Things happen to me on a daily basis that I can write about. I get inspired every day to explore a new topic or a new way of thinking or writing and I absolutely love it. I have about half a dozen book ideas swirling around in my head and I’m trying to choose which one I should pursue first.

I’ve been told to “write young” by a silver-haired journalist. So why not live young?

One of my best friend’s, Colleen, said once: “I’m 22 and I’m not going to look like this forever.” I love that attitude.

Obviously it’s important to be career-oriented, responsible and serious about working but there’s also a deep need to live. And I can’t write young without experiencing things young. In the past couple months, I’ve done things I’ve never done before. I’ve really lived quite a bit - more than I have in a long while - and I’ve done it all for myself. That’s the best feeling I’ve ever had.

I owe myself some fun and for that I’m unapologetic. And that makes me a better writer. 

Chances are things that I do in these years will somehow make appearances in my later books. Everyday is a new story and an opportunity for me to tell it.

So my 8-hour shift today will probably merit a story. The concert I went to Friday will pop up in a book somewhere and the drinks I get weekly at DC’s Trivia Night will influence my writing.

If you don’t live, you won’t be inspired; you won’t know who you are. If you’re not inspired, you won’t write. If you don’t know who you are, you won’t write well.

Living is the key to writing.

You know you’re thinking too much when it takes you 45 minutes to pick out a toy for a benefit concert.

On Friday I went to an awesome concert at an awesome venue: The Venue in Bartow. The cost? A toy to be donated for an underprivileged kid. Easy enough.

So I went to Walmart the other night looking for a toy. I remembered what I played with - I had Barbies and Legos and action figures and board games and PlayDough and Little Tikes - I had everything I ever wanted.

I took a Gender class in college and I absolutely loved it. We wrote papers on the socialization of gender through toys and it was the best thing ever. But it didn’t startle me then as much as it did the other day.

I don’t know if it’s gotten worse, but when I went to Walmart to go pick up a toy - a seemingly less than complicated task - I saw things I really didn’t want to see.

While some Barbies I came across did have jobs, an overwhelming number of them were mothers potty-training their toddlers, or clad in an apron with baking utensils. Or worse - Barbie was wearing a wedding dress. While all of those things are fine and dandy, Barbie needs some other choices! 

Looking on Barbie’s site I saw many more options for Barbie. Dr. Barbie, Pilot Barbie, Computer Engineer Barbie, Race-car Driver Barbie, Architect Barbie, Vet Barbie. Of course these are between mommy and bride Barbies. But there are options.

(So maybe the smart parents that shop at Walmart didn’t get their kids mommy Barbies because they didn’t want them to think they had to just be mommies when they grew up and that’s why they’re still there. I’d like to think that but we are in Polk County, Florida.)

And let’s not even get into the unrealistic body expectations Barbie upholds. OK, let’s - just a little though. Her body measurements and proportions are humanly impossible. How are girls and women supposed to only  see images like Barbies and super models and when their bodies don’t look the same not feel like crap? It took a long time for me to love my body. And it was in part due to the images we see every day that I didn’t love my body sooner. In the past year I lost about 40 lbs. and completely changed my lifestyle along the way. But I’m definitely no Barbie.

On another note, most Barbies are white. What’s up with that? Most people aren’t white. C’mon Mattel.

So it got me thinking about how I grew up.

I loved my Barbies but I really loved their clothes. I had tons and tons of clothes for them, which was probably a foreshadowing to my unyielding addiction to clothing that developed later in life. Also, Ken was pretty much non-existent in my Barbies’ world. His clothes weren’t nearly as cool as Barbie’s. And he just complicated things. I just didn’t have the patience for a man in Barbie’s life, which could have been a foreshadowing to my own independence and career-oriented attitude.

I had lots of pink stuff because I’m a girl and Ronnie had lots of blue stuff because he’s a boy. But I never felt like I had to play with one thing or the other. We had a lot of Little Tikes stuff - we had the house, the jungle gym, the easel and the tool bench. That stuff was awesome. I’d cook a pie in my cottage then hammer something at the tool bench then I’d chew on the paintbrush. I was a strange child.

So I don’t think my toys had a huge impact on shaping me. (Other than the body standards thing but we won’t go into that… Again.) What I mean is Barbie didn’t define who I was going to become or what I was going to do. But I also had a strong female role model in my life - my mom. Mama made a name for herself young at the Boys and Girls Clubs as one of the few female directors. She kicked ass. Oh, and did I mention she kept her name when she got married? She made her career under the same name that got her degree - her own. I’ll always be proud of her for that.

Without my mom’s influence, would I have taken Barbie or my Little Tikes cottage more literally?

Maybe.

But back to the matter at hand.

It took me way too long to pick out a gender-neutral toy. I went back and forth between the rows thinking “Is this for a boy?” or “This one is suggesting the girl should be a housewife.” Forty-five minutes later, I settled on a PlayDough set. It was an ice cream maker thing where kids could make ice cream cones with PlayDough and it was really cool. If it had sit in my car any longer I probably would have opened it and made some PlayDough ice cream. I had something similar when I was young - but mine was a barber shop thing - I could cut PlayDough people’s hair. I liked giving them long blue hair.

But the reason I picked it, along with having really enjoyed my PlayDough barber shop as a child, was because it was the only toy that wasn’t a board game that showed both a boy and a girl on the package playing with and enjoying the toy. Along with not wanting to promote society’s standards on gender roles, I didn’t want to pick between buying for a girl or buying for a boy - I wanted a kid to be happy, not just a girl or not just a boy. And I didn’t want to take the easy way out and just get two toys thus reinforcing societal ideals.

So I went with PlayDough.

And that was my thought process in Walmart while I was picking out a toy for a benefit concert.

End scene.

Dear 2011,

This time we’ve spent together has been amazing. You stuck with me through thick and thin - and for that, I’ll always be grateful. You saw me through homework, internships, work and finals - then finally, graduation. You were with me when I moved back home and started my new job. And in the past couple months, you’ve seen me get back to my old independent self - something I never showed 2010 or 2009. But I just feel like we’re drifting apart.

In the beginning it was all smiles and we laughed all the time. But recently your novelty has worn off. I’ve been feeling this way for a while but I’ve been afraid to tell you. But I think you might feel the same way. I just don’t know where the two of us will be in say, 19 days, and I don’t know if I can keep up the charade any longer. We’ve had some good times, some really good times, 2011. But I just can’t do this anymore.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: I feel like if I stayed with you, I’d be living in the past. So, 2011, I’m breaking up with you. I hope you understand.

I’ll love you always,

Katie

I’m feeling a little sassy this evening so I made up my own writing prompt: “Write a fictional short story about witnessing a proposal with your best friend.” Here goes.

Lauren and I have very similar ideals when it comes to a lot of things - including relationships. We’re both very picky when it comes to men and that’s because we hold ourselves in very high esteem. We’re both young, pretty, blonde, independent and single. We know how to have fun and enjoy our lives but we’re both extremely career-oriented. That’s why we get along so well.

I usually visit Lauren once a month for a couple days at a time. She lives in Sarasota and when I have a couple days off in a row, that’s exactly where I go. We have a lot of fun when we’re there. At night, we hit Siesta Key and our favorite bars - Gilligan’s and Beach Club. Our days after a night out usually look like this: we wake up early, eat a bagel or a bean burrito, go shopping, get Cheeburger Cheeburger for lunch, get the car we left on Siesta, (because we’re responsible and we take cabs,) take a nap, take a shower and then we go out again.

It was 10 a.m. after a night out and we were at the mall. We had just gotten out of Forever 21, somehow without spending all of our money, and we saw a crowd. Naturally, we wandered over to the mass of people.

We got close enough and we saw what was going on. A crowd of about 40 or 50 people circled a man down on one knee holding a girl’s hand. This was a scene that neither Lauren nor I had seen in person - only in movies. We were clearly proposal crashing.

“Amanda,” the proposer said as he stared into his girlfriend’s eyes, “in my eighteen years on this earth…”

“Oh God,” I whispered and rolled my eyes.

“I have never met a woman like you,” he said, holding back the tears.

“This is not real life,” Lauren said under her breath.

“These past six months have been the best of my life,” he said.

“Seriously - six months?” Lauren asked quietly. I nudged her, chuckling.

“And I can’t imagine my life without you,” he said. “Will you be my wife?” he finally asked his girlfriend.

“Yes!” the girl said ecstatically as tears streamed down her face. The soon-to-be groom began putting his new fiancé’s ring on her right ring finger.

“Kate,” Lauren whispered. “That’s the wrong hand - he’s putting it on the wrong hand.”

In his defense, it was his left.

“Oh my God you’re right,” I told her. We both started snickering like seventh graders in the back of a classroom - we really tried to stop. Resistance was futile. Like the future bride, tears were running down our faces - just a different kind of tears.

The girl in front of us was videotaping the entire ordeal. She turned around and gave us this look that could have silenced the unruliest of children. She must have been a teacher. Both of us stopped and held our breath for a half second. But in the end, her evil eye only made laugh harder. She scoffed and turned back around.

The groom stood up and swept the girl off her feet. “I love you,” he said as he cradled her. Both of them had the biggest smiles on their faces. He put her back on the ground and they kissed. After the lip-lock, he grabbed her hand and held it up, like she just won a wrestling match. The crowd cheered and clapped for the couple and the girl showed off her new ring on the wrong finger. Friends and family swarmed the couple and the crowd of nosy mall-goers dispersed.

“That was ridiculous.” I said.

“It was ridiculous we couldn’t stop laughing. We’re children,” she said.

“Well at least we’re not children getting married.”

“Good point. Let’s promise to never say yes to a guy who proposes before lunchtime.”

“Done,” I said.

We stopped in the middle of the mall and pinky-promised.

“Do you realize our commentary will probably be on their engagement video?” I asked.

“Yep. We’re ass holes.”

“They’ll appreciate in a year when they get divorced.”

We laughed.

“Did you get that guy’s number from Beach Club last night?” I asked her. “He was cute.”