Wherein I Muse on Living

I've been thinking the past couple weeks.

That sounds ominous, but instead open yourself to that sentence and realize the infinite possibilities in it. "Thinking". "Weeks". Thinking isn't bad or a scary thing, especially when you are confronted with yourself.

I sat down and examined my life, and once all the tears were siphoned away, I could think clearly and decisively again. And oh, it was a relief! I haven't been this clear and true for a while now. I can see forever now and I know who I am, and who better to see you than yourself?

I'd lost faith. Not in others, but in life and in myself. I couldn't see me and who I was, clouded by doubt and confusion and fear, and so I forgot about living. I tried to focus on the trappings instead of the goal, and as a result I lost my footing.

Because I was so fearful, I forgot that life is the goal. I forgot about happiness, and how I am the only person who can find that for myself. I forgot that life is happiness, every day, and small things are what's important. Steps, Dominique, you take steps forward, and sometimes they're huge and sometimes they're tiny but no matter what, as long as you can find happiness in the day, you will breathe, and as long as you're breathing, it's still salvageable. I lost sight in that for a while, but now I can see it as clearly as I can see the words appearing on my screen.

Do you know how good it feels, to look at the sky and see something new every day? To wake up and find yourself doing something important and fun? To settle in at the end of the day with lamplight and music and maybe a glass of wine, knitting an intricate pattern that leaves your mind room to wander with no fear? I feel so brand new, but also so familiar, and most of all I'm unafraid of tomorrow. It's all a new day to me, a new start, and I have no regrets from now on.

Most of all, I've learned about unconditional love - for life, for others, and for myself. Love is what's important. There will always be room for it, and as long as there is love in my life I know I'll be wonderful. Love is always waiting for everyone, and I've opened myself up to it. I'd forgotten, but no more. Every day will be a story of love and happiness and life for me, because I'm writing it and that's what is important.

So: love, happiness, life. Sometimes you have to go through the worst in order to find all those things. I'm lucky that I found them again. Don't lose them.

Why Animals Mean So Much More to Me Than, Say, Michael Vick's Career

"I swear, y'all care more about animals than you do people."

This is the common response I've seen to Michael Vick's situation. In fact, it's the common response to anything wherein animal abuse is brought up, and as happens with most casual brush-off responses to any kind of abuse, it inspires an almost inarticulate rage in me.

It's widely known that animal abuse is unacceptable. Torturing animals is one of three early signs that many serial killers display in childhood (the others being obsession with fire and wetting the bed until a late age). Local news programs have whole segments devoted to animal abuse and showing the victims, burned and discolored and blinded, with their bruises and cuts and sad, limpid eyes. We don't think that it's okay to kick your dog around, but when it comes to the person being punished, nobody seems to think it should be that bad, except for those wackos who "care more about animals than people".

I acknowledge that I'm harder on animal abusers than most. On that note, I am harder on any kind of abuser - child, sexual, elderly, domestic - as to me, abuse of power is something unforgivable. I don't think that there is anything wrong with this line of thinking.

Why? you may ask, or maybe you'd make some comment to the effect of how people must not mean all that much to me, or maybe I'm a crazy cat lady and I'll end up sad and alone in life with my sixty-three cats. This, I assure you, is not the case, and I'll thank you kindly not to tell me how I'll end up in life or what I'm like because if you're condemning me for condemning animal abuse, I don't have much respect for your opinions anyway.

Because, you see, abusing an animal - any animal - is taking the trust that a domestic animal, who has been bred to trust and crave human companionship, places in you; the devotion and love that they automatically give you; taking your role as the sole provider for a domesticated animal in a world civilized by humans; and shattering it so you can prove your dominion, something you never needed to prove anyway.

You are the caregiver of a much smaller creature who cannot do a quarter of the damage you can. You are the provider. You feed, bathe, care for, and protect this creature, who implicitly trusts you. And you take advantage of that implicit trust so you can... what? Kick your dog around? Set your cat on fire? Have people bet on dogfights?

Unforgivable.

And why? So you can feel powerful? Get some extra money? Is there ever an excuse for abuse, any kind, at all?

An animal can not fight back. It can try to defend itself, but as previously mentioned, it cannot fight you back as an equal. You have the upper hand at all times.

Again: unforgivable.

Someone who abuses their animals... well, they're despicable. Abusing the trust of something that gives you untold devotion for simply feeding it? Disgusting. Not so elevated after all, as we humans profess ourselves to be.

Now do you see why I don't care about Michael Vick ever playing again, and if it were up to me he wouldn't?

Walking in My Shoes (another retro post)

So after all that's happened recently, I think I should put up another Retro Post for Justice. This one gives a tiny tiny glimpse into my and many other women's everyday lives. No joke, no bullshit - just straight up trying to make you listen. Don't get defensive or butthurt about it, because I'm not putting you on the defensive here. All I'm trying to do is speak my story that gets brushed off by people who think that sexism isn't a problem or their problem any more. I hope I show you that that's not the case by a long shot.

--

Here are some things that the average woman can look forward to experiencing in her lifetime (conjectured from a lot of experience and storytime with women I know):

• Catcalls from guys in cars when you wear a miniskirt.


• Catcalls from guys in cars when you wear jeans and a T-shirt.


• Catcalls from guys in cars when you wear anything at all, really, and happen to be walking to the library/grocery store/bus stop/anywhere at all.


• At least one guy at the bar who doesn’t understand “no”. "C'mon, please, it won’t hurt, just a few more drinks, you’d really like me.” No, because I certainly don’t like you now, so why should my opinion change in five minutes?


• Men staring at your boobs and not at your face constantly.


• Unlimited unsolicited comments about the size/shape of your breasts and/or ass from guys. Any guys. They might be your friends, they might not be. And it will be said to your face.


• That “friendly” hand on your ass from your friendly neighborhood creep.


• Some dude who doesn’t understand boundaries and insists on putting his hands all over you when you’re like, “Um, who the hell are you?” Mostly found at clubs, but can also be friends of a friend, someone you’ve barely met, or some dude in a crowded public space.


• Being told you’re a frigid prude with a repressed sexuality because you don’t like unsolicited comments and/or gropage.


• Being told you’re a cocktease because you are “dressed for it” and you don’t want unsolicited comments and/or gropage.


• That really creepy guy who doesn’t understand why you don’t want to let him touch you and freaks you out really badly.


• Telling a police officer that a man is not leaving you alone and you’re a little scared now and being told that he has more important things to deal with than your standards for men.


• Hearing this statement: “I bet if Johnny Depp were the one asking random girls to fuck him in the parking lot of a university campus, those girls who were saying ‘eww’ to the regular guy would jump all over him!” Uh, no, I would still be scared and I would still tell the cops and hope to god they listen to me.


• Getting scared because some guy is getting really angry that you aren’t saying “yes, please grope and fuck me now”.


• Having a man take you out on a date and paying for dinner, then letting you know that you owe him sex because he paid. (Newsflash: I don’t owe you anything, asswipe.)


• Being told by a lot of men (not all, but a lot) that all of the above is “a compliment, jeez, can’t you just take a compliment and move on?”

Ever since I was fourteen, I have known all of this and more. I have been called a fine piece of ass (by people who didn’t know me or who had just been introduced to me), a tease, a slut, a whore, a frigid bitch, and numerous other epithets. At fifteen a friend that I had just really got to know dubbed my breasts “boobles” because they were too small for his taste, and I got that nearly every single day of my sophomore year of high school. I have not yet made a trip to the library that hasn’t had a truck full of thirtysomething year old men honking and whistling at me involved. Guys have called me names and more for saying, “Sorry, but no thanks.” I have been felt up at clubs too often for me to list. And on one memorable occasion, I was pushed into doing something that ended in a paralyzed Dominique frozen next to the window of a car, getting fondled by a skeevy, sketchy guy that scared the crap out of me, and my friends knew about it, and they didn’t do a damn thing to help me. That guy robbed me of my feeling of security. He stole my assumption that if I said no, he would stop. And he took away the idea that if I spoke up, my then-best friend would help me.

I know that my experiences pale in comparison to some, and I know that they also exceed what some others have experienced. This does not make them any less true. I’m not exaggerating any of this. In fact, I’ve downplayed a lot of it.

Since I was a little girl, I’ve learned that I am a sex object. Whether I want to be or not, men will see my body as something they have a right to. Not all men, and I am grateful for that every day. But because of those men that do act like they can do whatever they want with my body and if I argue back I should be put in my place, I assume the worst when in a teetering situation. I will immediately go on my guard when put in these situations because I have seen it happen before, time and time again. So no, I do not hate men. Not at all. But I have to be cautious and careful because I never know which guy isn’t going to understand a polite “no” and keep pushing; I don’t know if the guy that keeps pushing will start getting angry with me; and I have no idea what a man that’s angry at me for denying him something he’s always been taught he had a right to will do.

Now do you understand why I think this hurts more than it helps, and why I think it doesn’t help at all?

Why I'm a Feminist (that's right, Virginia, I'm a feminist)

Just so you know, I'm tired.

I'm tired of being told, "Well, if you wear shorts, what do you expect, Dominique?"

I'm tired of being told, "That's the way men are, and if you don't like it cover up."

I'm tired of being told, "Men are stupid, but we just have to live with it."

I'm tired of being told, "That's life."

Really? No.

My friend Errol had a note today on Facebook talking about how girls that bitch and moan about getting stared at by guys or catcalls and whistles walking down the street really secretly want it, and hey, they're the ones dressing that way, so maybe if they stopped they wouldn't get all that crap! But since we know they really want it, they won't, and so dudes, feel free to stare!

Words like "advertising" and "teases" were thrown around in the comments.

Jacob held up a little and got hella criticized. And then I swooped in like the wrath of an avenging deity.

Here's a sampling of my comments and some responses at which point I started writing this post:


Dominique: We're gonna take this point. by. point.

I get catcalls no matter what I'm wearing, be it shorts, tank top, jeans, t-shirt, hoodie... if I walk down the street, chances are some dipshit in a truck is going to honk at me. Yes, Virginia, there is such a thing as sexism, and it is alive and kicking.

I. don't. give. a. fuck. if I am wearing a v-neck or a turtleneck; if I am trying to carry on a conversation with you and you are ogling me, there will be hell to pay. And there frequently is, because guess what? No matter what I wear, when I wear it, I will still get told things like, "nice ass, sweetheart," or, "ooh, girl's got some legs on her." Right now? I'm wearing shorts. Short shorts, to be exact. And I wear them because they are comfy and it's hot outside, not because I'm trying to validate myself through how many men give me unwanted and intrusive stares.

Because that's what it's about. Women do not get appreciative once-overs; we get leers. We don't get glances; we get long hard stares. We hear, "I want a piece of that ass," which is looooovely because it lets us know that that's all we are. If I'm with Jacob and I catch a girl checking him out, it's whatever because I know it's nothing. But if we were out and he saw a guy staring, you'd better believe there'd be shit going down - because *it's not the same*. And I wish it was, and it should be innocent, yes, *but it isn't*, and pretending like it is is bullshit, plain and simple.

(Oh yeah, and my chest does get ogled if I'm wearing a turtleneck, just for context.)

So if I say, "I wish guys would stop checking me out," I mean it, because it's not about the way I dress; it's about the assumption that my body is always there to look at, to touch, to check out, whatever. It isn't. It's mine. And maybe I like my v-necks and my short shorts, without having a man tell me, "baby you lookin' good today." We fix that idea, and I promise we will fix the complaints.

Oh, and I've been called a tease more times than I can remember. yyyyeah.

Errol: no one understands the mind of the Man that oogles girls....I have maybe seen 3 girls in my life time that I would STARE the hell down and NONE of them went to U0fA...lol..

Dominique: PS. If anyone wants to see about how it's not about covering up? Go study Iranian women's lives. Watch them in their chadors and then try and tell me it's about "covering up your assets".

[To Errol:] you poor poor misunderstood man. Try mansplaining to me again, and maybe I'll get it this time.

Errol: different culture

Dominique: Doesn't matter. Same idea, same complex.

Errol: its America, its just the way it is, Certain Men are gonna stare u down no matter what...Others wont pay u attention. IDK Y. We should do a Case study though

No, different Culture different Idea.

Dominique: ...and I'm supposed to accept it and change the way I feel comfortable because of it? No.

http://deepad.livejournal.com/18056.html
for an actual Indian woman's account (yeah, I know, not Iranian, but I love this post). Look, the idea is, in case you didn't catch it the first time: men and women are taught from a very young age that women's bodies belong to men. Boys can look aaaall they want and girls are told to either a.) put up with it, or b.) cover up. Boys aren't told to stop. They aren't told that's intrusive and makes the girl uncomfortable. They're taught it's acceptable. Covering up doesn't help one damn bit, because it doesn't matter what I wear, what deepad (linked) wears, what any woman wears - there will always be men leering and honking and catcalling. I could wear a parka and snow pants and still get whistles. Covering up or changing is not the point.

Errol: well the note doesnt apply to you, but it u dont have to change anything, your no more likely to be ok with men looking at you funny than, Men not doing it and everybody in the world speaking the same language.

And men are told to stop, U talk as if men are raised to be rude. I wasnt taught that and neither was a majority of my friends.

its just life.

Dominique: I'd just like to be something other than my body parts, that's all.

If that's life, then I want something more. I'd rather fight an uphill fight than give up early and let myself be shoved in a tiny corner.


...and then I stared at my computer.

What is wrong with this world, that I have to argue for my freedom to wear the clothes that I like and feel comfortable in? Why are people (usually men) so utterly dismissive of my opinion about these things, despite the cold hard fact that I live this every single day of my life? Why is it that when I dissent, when I stand up and call out loudly that this is wrong, I get shrugged off and ignored?

God, that's even worse than arguing back. Because if you argue back, you're acknowledging me as an equal. You're saying that I have a point worth arguing. This way? It's trying to make me feel silly and unimportant, like I'm making a mountain out of a molehill.

I'm not.

And you know how I know this? Because it happens to me every time I bring it up. I get shrugged off, gently moved aside, and told, "Well, that's life."

I said it before, and I'll say it again: If that's life, then I want something more. I'd rather fight an uphill fight than give up early and let myself be shoved in a tiny corner. It bears repeating, because it's true. I'd rather spend my whole life fighting this kind of bias and mentality than accepting it and having to cage myself and everything I stand for. Can't do it, ladies and gentlemen.

So you know what? I'm a feminist. That's right. And it's my soapbox issue. And if you fuck with me on it, be prepared to be met with plenty of evidence, anecdotes, and just plain facts. I know what I'm talking about. I live this every day. Boys, this is my life, and if you can't accept that or refuse to believe me, then sit the fuck down and shut up, because you clearly don't know what you're talking about or who you're talking to. I'm done with being told to cover up. I'm done with being told to stay quiet. I'm done with being ignored. If you can't deal with my voice, then get the fuck out of my way, because I'm not shutting up for you.

I'm not shutting up for anyone any more.

The Laid-back Twinkly Music Extravaganza!

Today is beautiful outside in Tuscaloosa. I swear, the sun is out in the clear blue sky and the trees are shining green and everything is just so lush and I'm not even sneezing at it all. It's like magic, really.

So let me take a little time before I go right back out there to drop some music recs your way. It's been a while since I made a playlist for you anyway.

The Ultra Laid-Back Music Extraordinaire

• Start off with "Bottle It Up" by Sara Bareilles. Pretty mainstream but with enough of her own flavor that it tastes great. Chill and happy, meant for sunny days.
• Now take the energy down a notch with Melody Gardot's "All That I Need is Love". Kinda cynical but idealistic too? You'll get it once you listen. The woman's voice is smooth and husky and lovely. Yes, it's jazz, but people better get off that whole "omg jazz sucks" kick, mostly because it's completely untrue. You ever hear of Miles Davis or John Coltrane? Yeah, that's what I thought.
• Follow that with "Play In Reverse" by Lex Land. Kinda twinkly, but very very pretty. The lyrics are a little sad, but the music is chill. So chill-sad? I don't know. It's a good song about just letting go of an unrequited love.
• Next is "Sugarcane" by honeyhoney. Medium-paced with a kick to it and kinda wistful.
• Moving to slow acoustic wistful with the Fray's song "Unsaid" off their EP Reason. Great song. Perfect acoustic. All acoustic songs should wish to be this one.
• Kicking up the chillax feelings and tempo a notch with "Al Fin" by Florencia Ruiz. It's in Spanish but regardless of language, the song just resonates with closing your eyes and enjoying the breeze and the sun.
• Getting back into mainstream oldness with Anna Nalick and "Breathe (2 AM)". What, you guys didn't love this song? Whatever. I love it, and that's really all that matters. It makes me feel like I'm having an epiphany moment in a movie or a prime-time TV show. Swear, that's what this song is made for.
• Aaand then we have Michael Cera and Ellen Page's version of "Anyone Else But You". Shutup, I love this version. It's all guitars and quiet singing and Michael freaking Cera. ♥ Michael Cera, if you're reading this (yeah right), I am so in love with you it hurts. In every single movie of yours. Ellen Page, if you are reading this (ahahahaha), you are awesome incarnate. Like Kat Dennings and Emma Stone. Those three actresses are like the trifecta of awesome movie hits, trufax.
• Now more upbeat stuff! "Fantasy" by Anya Marina is next. Yeah, I know she didn't like this singer-songwriter album, but it's still one of my favorites. Hell, you could probably listen to this whole album and chill out to it. (I do so frequently, as a matter of fact.) C'mon, Anya, "Sociopath" was genius! It's my theme song, I swear!
• Next stop: Eleni Mandell's "Girls". It's cute and funny and about crushes! This is the song I listen to when I'm wearing pigtails. (...which I'm totally not wearing right now, no way. Yeah. Mm.) I need to get the rest of this album, especially now that I have Bittorrent.
• Quieter and slower to ground you back down is another Lex Land song (shutup, she's great and folky, my favorite two things) called "What I Want from You". Good for rainy days, sunny days, evenings, afternoons, whenever. And the lyrics! Aaaah. Perfect. Yes, I have a Lex Land crush, but then again she is the shiz.
• So after that five minute song, something short and sweet: "The Way I Am" by Ingrid Michaelson. Damn, I love this song. It's adorable. And catchy as all hell, really.
• Now for real twinkly: Snow Patrol actually added a music box to "You Could Be Happy" to give it that sound they needed. This one's kinda sad (okay, more than kinda) but it's so twinkly and chill. And it's quick, so if you must you can skip it.
• Ganking from The Last Kiss's excellent soundtrack: "Paperweight" by Schuyler Fisk and Joshua Radin. I have to be in just the right mood for this song, otherwise I just listen to the previous track (which is "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk (Reprise)" by Rufus Wainwright, an excellent song), but when I am in the mood, this can only be listened to once. It's a moment you can't really reproduce, you know? Putting it on repeat just cheapens it, I think.
• But "New Road" by AM and Meiko can be put on repeat to savor and draw out the moment forever, srsly. It's ridiculous. But so good. And yeah, I enjoy Meiko. Leave me alone.
• We finish our chill time with Yael Naim (aaaaah) and "Far Far". Easily my favorite song on her album, and I think a good ending note. Very fresh and lovely and uplifting.

There. You have yourself your very own Dominique-created playlist for any sunny chill day of relaxing. If anyone likes, I can burn you a copy if you can't find it all for yourself, I just have to fix my CD drive (ahem, Techie Boyfriend...?) - and I do mean anyone from all over the vast internets. So that way there can be no complaining that some of my music is too obscure. If you'd like to hear only the tracks that can be found on Playlist.com, here's the playlist (although I promise, it's much better with all of them together):

Comments? Opinions? Suggestions for another playlist? I really enjoy putting these together, as evidenced by the overdose of playlists on my iTunes, so I hope you enjoy listening to it.

The F-Word (oh-so-retro)

Today's blog is an oldie but goodie. I wrote this about a year ago after a discussion with one of my best friends about feminism and labels. Although I might change a bit of it now (I do self-identify as a feminist now, but I always clarify), the gist still remains my point of view. Yeah, I wish I wasn't all about the F-word too, so to make it up to everyone for the next week I'll write about more generalized topics. Promise.

Enjoy the throwback entry!

--

Today, boys and girls, I'm going to talk about the F-word. That's right: feminism.

I shy away from describing myself as a feminist whenever someone asks me because it's a loaded term. It's not because I don't campaign for equality between the sexes. As a matter of fact, I think sexism is still alive and well in today's society. Why is it that so many female superheroes are sexually degraded as part of their "tragic past" when this is not true of male superheroes, or even that female heroes are killed more brutally than male heroes in comics? Why is it that I can pick up a trillion comics about a stunningly beautiful, smart, goal-oriented woman dating a total drooling nerd, but you can forget ever seeing a comic strip about a sexy slab of manhood seriously falling in love with a geeky girl? Male hourly wages are still higher than female hourly wages – same position, same hours; the male still gets paid a fraction more, which adds up with the hours, letting the male know that he is just that much more important than the female. I think equal treatment in these areas and others are very important, something that is at the core of theoretical feminism. So why on earth do I hesitate to give myself that label?

Nicole and I were discussing this just the other night and why, although we agree that equality is paramount, we veer away from calling ourselves "feminists". Basically, it all boils down to being told what we are able to do as people and as women.

Recently, as most of you know, I've taken up knitting as a hobby with enthusiasm. I love it. And yes, I will be the first to admit I was completely wrong when in high school I made fun of my knitting friends. I rolled my eyes and said I wasn't into all that homey, domestic stuff. Nope, it was academia with the big boys for me at seventeen. I'd rather debate the merits of Satan in Milton's Paradise Lost than knit up a scarf that wouldn't do me much good in South Texas. Well, I'll still gladly tell you why I'd rather listen to Blake's Proverbs of Hell than Paul's Letters, but I just might be clacking my needles trying to finish my latest project at the same time. Why? I enjoy making something. It's not the finished project that I look forward to; it's the looping of the yarn around the needles and the intricate patterns that make me eager to try a new stitch pattern. It keeps me busy and makes for some great presents come baby showers or weddings.

However, knitting is looked down upon in "modern circles". If you casually mention it to your power-suited best friend, she might look at you like you just announced you commune every night with a three-headed Elvis that doubles as the father of your unborn child. "What?" she'll exclaim incredulously. "Why on earth would you want to knit? It’s so old-fashioned and unfeminist." Yet if you told the same friend you'd taken up jujitsu or shooting, chances are you'd receive an approving smile and inquiries as to how you're liking it.

So essentially, a woman taking up traditionally masculine hobbies is "feminist", but a woman trying out traditionally feminine hobbies is "unfeminist" and inherently wrong. Why? Because it's demeaning? I see nothing inherently demeaning about knitting, and in fact some of the strongest women I know love it: my Grandma, my aunt Colleen, my best friend Tifarah, and my sister Crystal. My younger sister's friends see me knitting and exclaim, "That’s so cool, how do you do that?", as if it's some strange mystery that all the cool girls are initiated into to learn how to manipulate yarn with two pointy sticks. When I was their age, I would have rolled my eyes and whispered to my friends about how lame that girl looked with her knitting, just like some old lady, how embarrassing!

Since I was thirteen, I learned what to me is an undeniable truth: everyone has the right to be on the same playing field as everyone else. We should all have equal chances, regardless of gender or race. I should have equal chances of seeing a story about a pretty girl falling for a dorky boy as reading a story about a hunky guy in love with a geeky girl. But I should also be able to do whatever it is I want without anybody dictating what's "right" or "wrong" for me as a woman or as a person. Whether it's something as controversial as sexual prowess or as mundane as knitting, nobody has the right to tell me what I can or should do based on my gender. That was the basis for early feminism: they campaigned for equality and the right to do what they wanted without men dictating the way they lived their lives. Now, I'm sorry to say, we let other women tell us what is acceptable to do, say, or act. That is not what feminism in its core is about. Those women demanded equality with men, not a higher platform. They never said, "We’re better than…" but "We can do that too if we so wish." The point was to say that anybody can do whatsoever they want without anybody saying that it's not appropriate for their gender.

This is why so many women today are afraid of being called feminists. This is the reason why we flinch from it as if it's the vilest of insults. If feminism means acting elitist and snobbish, then I certainly will refuse the label. If it means that I have to only do that which is "acceptable" or only dedicate myself to being better than the men in my life, I can't in good conscience do it. I believe in equality and being able to do the things I like without anyone naysaying me. If this makes me unfeminist, then I will wear that badge proudly. When it comes down to it, I will never be June Cleaver. I am messy and dread cleaning my room (although in public I am tidy out of respect for others). My favorite shoes are my trusty beat-up Vans sneakers. I don't see the point in anything other than wash-and-dry hair. But I also love skirts and heels, knitting any kind of yarn I can get my hands on, and having my doors opened for me.

Conclusion? The things you do don't make you feminist. Wanting to be better than anybody doesn't make you a feminist. Desiring equality and not letting anyone – male or female – tell you what you can and can't do is feminist. And I think it's about time that we started changing our public definition of that loaded word to what it should mean.

"I don't let anyone touch me."

“Why not? Because I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, their smell of beer or fifteen-year-old whiskey. Men who didn’t come to the emergency room with you, men who left on Christmas Eve. Men who slammed the security gates, who made you love them and then changed their minds. Forests of boys, their ragged shrubs full of eyes following you, grabbing your breast, waving their money, eyes already knocking you down, taking what they felt was theirs.

Because I could still see a woman in a red bathrobe crawling in the street. A woman on a roof in the wind, mute and strange. Women with pills, with knives, women dying their hair. Women painting doorknobs with poison for love, making dinners too large to eat, firing into a child’s room at close range. It was a play and I knew how it ended, I didn’t want to audition for any of the roles. It was no game, no casual thrill. It was a three-bullet Russian roulette.”


Say what you will about White Oleander, but it holds so many insights in one bound copy that I don't know how many people have had their world shaken by it. One day I'll go through and create a post full of my favorite quotable excerpts from this book, when I find the time.

So tell me, what do you see when you read this? What picture does it paint, and why, and how? What strings deep in your being does it twang?

I see my home, and how my mother and I sit at the kitchen table, close to the small television in there, so we can watch a movie with the volume low because my father is in the living room sprawled on the couch watching SportsCenter on our big, loud television. I see one of my closest, dearest friends distancing herself from me in high school because I was dating a boy she met once and claimed her stake on. I see Sex and the City and how four women can do nothing but talk about the way men change their lives. I see the desperation of a seventeen year old me because she needs him, she loves him, can't you see, if he'd only come back for longer than a week or so, then he'd love her. I see the way women tailor their lives around the men they love so they can hold on to something solid and safe and strong.

What do you see?

Re: my poetry...

...I'm moving it all.

Yes, again. I know, I can never make up my mind, can I?

Anyway, I want to keep this blog all about my opinions instead of clogging it up with my poetry, so I created another place to keep my poetry out of the way. I = resourceful, no? I'm moving the older poetry over there, so that three-poem post? Will probably be gone in a few minutes after I post them over there.

If you were really stoked about my poetry (why, I will never comprehend, but I can take a compliment), you can find it here:

The Perfect Someone

And that's that! Enjoy, darlings.

Poetry and Dissociating the Work from the Author

(Sorry about the srs bsns title. This post is all srs bsns, though, so it works.)

I was telling Shakira about a poem I'm currently writing or at least have formulating in my brain, but that I'm afraid to publish because it's about sex. Now Dominique, you might ask (but I don't think you would, so I'm asking myself for you), puzzled, you write about sex frequently in your poems (which is very true). Why would you be worried about posting another one?

Well, this one is a lot more explicit. I've written metaphors with sexual undertones, alluded to sex, and in one memorable poem (well, at least to me) actually wrote about what sex felt like with a stranger. But this poem that's hovering in my pencil, more than a little reluctant to be written, is blunt and honest and doesn't muck around with language. As in: really very explicit about sex and the mechanics and all that.

Writing all that isn't really the problem. It's what becomes of posting it and letting the public see it that I'm nervous about.

The problem is that people associate you with your poems. I can't write a poem from a first-person point of view and avoid the personal talk that inevitably ensues. "So... who's it with?" or "Ohh, so this is what y'all's sex life is like," are the comments I dislike, because it brings up such a long, disclaimer-y conversation. I live in constant fear of these comments because I hate trying to explain everything I feel about poetry in one sitting.

For the record: yes, my poetry is based on me, to some extent. But other than that? It's more an amalgamation of experiences - experiences that I've had, experiences I want to have, how I imagine something happening. It's personal, but it's more a glimpse into an emotion than anything else (or at least that's what I'm aiming for, at any rate). I can write about emotions that I haven't felt for years. I can write about dream encounters. That does not reflect what I'm doing/feeling/experiencing right now.

Shakira was actually the one who brought it up like she was reading my mind. "Yeah, but then people will be like, 'Oh, that's how it is, huh?' when they read it," she said. And it's true: when your peers write something and show it to you, you automatically assume that you are being shown their life under the microscope, exactly and precisely preserved the way it actually is. I do the same thing, although I'm fighting it now that I'm on the receiving end of it.

Really, I can't speak for others, but for me? I'd like you to critique the work. Does it flow well? Are the breaks used well? How about the language? Was it awkward? Or the content? Handled well or badly? Is there anything too oblique that I should clarify? Should I stop trying to clarify? These are the things I want y'all to focus on, not who the poem is about.

So my question to you is: is it possible to dissociate the author as an individual person from their work? Do you do it? Is it better or worse to do so? And do we always do it - with famous and undiscovered writers alike - or is it just with our peers that we have this problem? Share, please, because this is something v. important to me as a writer.

Art History = inspiration?

Yeah, I don't know either. But a lot of poetry and haiku gets written during ARH, that's all I know.

In this one, I was playing around with imagery and symbolism, so the title will come after the poem itself.

--

a needle pressed into the pad
ah she says surprised
harder into the skin
prick
prick!
wince
red beads drip downdown her finger
fascinated stare
it won't be so hard the next time.

--

Any guesses?

It's called "Blood Sister".

Now don't you feel silly?

Why I have such a hate-on for Gretchen Wilson and her ilk

First thing: I enjoy country music. Quality country music, of course. Garth Brooks, Lee Ann Womack, Emmylou Harris, Brooks and Dunn, Miranda Lambert, Josh Turner... people who demonstrate actual talent in crafting songs and real music. I catch some teasing from friends about it sometimes, but I do see quality in country music, just like there is quality in any kind of overcommercialized music *coughhiphopcough*

Gretchen Wilson is not quality.

Let's not delude ourselves - nobody ever said she was. But I'll be damned if my ire doesn't pique every single time I hear that "classic" "Redneck Woman". It offends every single sensibility of mine in the lyrics alone.

Because I have such a burning hatred for this song, I'll show you and explain the lines that make me incoherent with rage. Fun!

Well I ain't never
Been the barbie doll type
No I can't swig that sweet champagne
I'd rather drink beer all night

The beginning of the song, ladies and gentlemen. The beginning. And already I want to break her beer bottle and stab her in the eye with it. What she does here is set it up nicely to explain that all women get divvied up into two categories:

1. "Ah don't b'lieve in bein' some uppity girl who cain't take a li'l beer now and again! Hey, wanna arm wrestle?" and
2. "Like, check out my BMW, girrrrrrls! But be careful you don't break a nail! *giggle*"

Seriously, Gretchen, fuck you. Some of us have never been from the country and quite frankly have absolutely no desire to - and are not perfectly-sculpted Barbie dolls that swill champagne. There are myriad other categories that women alone fall under that don't involve those two. How about the woman from the inner city who's worked her whole life to get somewhere? How about the hipster girls at the poetry slam? How about the moshers at the Nine Inch Nails concert? Way to acknowledge any of them - or, even worse, imply that all of those women are "the barbie doll type" simply because they aren't down-home country like you. Let me tell you, if somebody told my friends I was the Barbie-doll type, they'd laugh until the tears were streaming down their faces.

Worse, we're supposed to agree that she's inherently better because she's country. Uh, no, actually. I think I'll pass that one because it is just too easy.

I'll stand barefooted in my own front yard with a baby on my hip

You do that, sweetheart, but others kinda wince at the imagery of a barefoot pregnant woman. It's not like that's inflammatory or sexist at all, nope.

Also, I have nothing against having children, but seriously? Some of us would like to get some education before we go down that long hard road that is parenting. And maybe some of us don't want kids, for whatever reasons. (I know that having children is something I have to think seriously about because depression is hereditary and look at all the problems I've had with it. Not saying I don't want kids, but for anybody with a mental illness, it's something that requires thought.) Not everyone wants to live in a trailer with their infants chucked on their hips. Actually, if you can point out to me anyone who thinks that's desirable or a great goal in life, I'll... well, I'm not actually sure what I'll do. Probably bang my head on my desk repeatedly.

Cause I'm a redneck woman
And I ain't no high class broad

Extra "fuck you" for calling anyone not like you a broad (I hate that term with a passion). And ooh, if they ain't homegrown like me, they must be puttin' on some high-class airs! Not. Reality check, girl: there's a huuuuuuge middle ground between "redneck" and "high-class".

And I keep my Christmas lights on, on my front porch all year long

This is just a personal pet peeve, but that offends my sense of aesthetics. Have some pride in where you live, please.

Victoria's Secret
Well their stuff's real nice
Oh but I can buy the same damn thing on a Wal*Mart shelf half price
And still look sexy
Just as sexy
As those models on TV
No I don't need no designer tag to make my man want me

No, actually, you cannot buy Victoria's Secret-quality at Wal-Mart. And you never will. My Wal-Mart bras have all fallen apart at this point - it's the stuff I got at department stores that's still holding up. And I will be damned if a Wal-Mart bra gives you half the push-up that Vicky's gives me. Also: does Wal-Mart sell that sexy little lingerie hiding in my drawer? I didn't think so. Until they do, I don't take that section seriously.

And come on, no man gives a shit about the tags on your bra or lingerie, and saying that they do is stupid. Does anybody here know a man who cares if the bra you have on is xhiliration or Frederick's? But the quality does and should matter. If you can't afford it (god knows I can't), then that's fine, but don't sit there and tell me that it's all the same and nobody gives a damn. Well, I give a damn, because I like my stuff to last a long time. I'd rather buy one bra that'll last for years than a cartful of bras that'll last for six months max. (And if you really need to save, go buy Target or head to the mall and get something from a department store. It's still inexpensive and the quality's better. Maybe not as cheap as Wal-Mart, but when I say cheap, I mean price and quality.)

...and then the rest is mostly a lot of "hell yeah"s, to which I can only say, "woo."

Do you see now why I can't stand this song? I mean, I know I was just fucking around with that last part, but it's the absurd set up that women can either be down-home girls with babies and no education or airheaded bimbos with pneumatic tits and pouty lips. I happen to be a slight, intelligent woman going to college to further myself who loves learning and despises both of those stereotypes, mostly because they simplify women too damn much and partially because both of those types of women don't even care about taking the time to get educated.

Don't believe me?

"In 2007, [Wilson] completed the GED program."

You mean to tell me she had all that time, all that fame and money, and only recently bothered to get her GED? Ridiculous. And don't throw that "she comes from poverty, okay?" excuse at me, because if you want something hard enough, you'll do what it takes. My high school best friend came from poverty and frequently did not have enough money for essential things. There was no way in hell she could pay for college. But she worked hard and did what it took to be able to go. We've since fallen out, but if I'm correct she's still at college, working for her scholarships and loans. Do not tell me that Gretchen Wilson did not have the opportunity to go to a public high school where everything is funded for you and get her high school diploma.

Yes, I am intolerant of those who deliberately pass up education as an option and deride it as something for the elite. Education is for everyone. There is no excuse not to get one. Maybe it's my privilege speaking, but guess what? I went to public school too. I come from a lower-middle-class family who has had to strain and push for every penny we earn. There was no way my family could help me pay for college, and there was no way I could pay on my own. I had to bust my ass for scholarships and ended up landing a sweet one. I know what it's like to have to work hard in order to further myself.

Don't get me wrong. I don't hate this song because of Gretchen Wilson. I hate Gretchen Wilson because this song is a complete insult to any intelligent, thinking woman who uses her brain to do something other than hit the keg with the good ol' boys.

You might think I'm trashy
A little too hard core

Trashy? Yes. As for hardcore... darling, I know high school freshman more hardcore than you'll ever be. You are a woman who thinks "broad" is an acceptable term to call another woman. Any "down-home" thing you do is mostly to get the boys to love you because you aren't like those "sissy girls", undoubtably. There is absolutely nothing hardcore about you. Now go put that GED to some use, for the love of god.

Folgers, just leave the feminism to us. You go ahead and make your coffee.

Ye olde Folgers commercial (or alternatively, Pretty Wife, Icky Coffee)

I know, it's from the 60s, but honestly? This makes me want to break things.

Look, I understand that doing nice things for your husband or boyfriend or whatever is great and the key to a good relationship. I like doing nice things for people in general, so of course I try extra hard for someone that I love. But it's his disdain for her and the way he knocks her down that's so infuriating. "How can such a pretty wife... make such awful coffee?"

Ladies, that's the part where you stick your nose up in the air and say, "Then make it yourself, asswipe. You're the one drinking it."

Also: she's such a pretty wife! Who brings her man coffee! How delightful! Gag. Now I remember why I love actresses like Mae West so much. If everyone in the 60s was like that, I'd feel better about my daydream of living with the Rat Pack.

And all that matters is her coffee? I won't even go into that.

Therefore:

Dear future husband,

I recognize that you may like coffee. I like coffee too. So you see, I can make my coffee. If you don't like mine (why I don't know, as it's perfectly fine), make your own damn coffee. Easy, right?

Love,
Dominique

(That's assuming I make my own coffee and don't buy it at a coffeeshop, what with my penchant for chai lattes. Sheesh.)

Yeah, it's cheap, so yeah, shut up.

Today is Celebrate Your Light Reading Day! Er, well, that's the focus of this post, anyway.

Some backstory: I have a weakness in my character for light, fluffy novels that don't need me to think about them too hard and just let me enjoy the ride. Commonly known as "chick lit", which I'm not sure if I dig, but to me it's all just easy reading. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love me some heavy stuff that challenges my viewpoint on the world and all, but sometimes you just need a palate cleanser. Promise, all of the books on today's post are just that.

To start off: most things by Meg Cabot are recommended highly, except for maybe The Princess Diaries because seriously, that series is overrated. I have the first three and Mia's voice gets annoying fast. I avoid it like the fucking plague. Her other stuff is much more interesting. I bought Avalon High a while back and I love it. It's Arthurian legend 101 in teenagerese. (Teenagerese: the voice and language of the current 14-17 year old set. Can be very enjoyable in moderation. Not to be confused with Juno-speak, which, though similar, is its own category.) Quick, satisfying, and if you love anything related to King Arthur, this is the easy read for you.

Another Meg Cabot book I love love love is The Boy Next Door. Mel's next-door neighbor has fallen into a coma, and walking her Great Dane Paco is interfering with Mel's work! Never fear, her neighbor's nephew, Max Friedlander has gallantly swooped in to take care of the dog and her two cats! But why does he insist that she call him John? And why do none of the rumors of Max Friendlander, Playboy About Town seem to match this laid-back, Grateful Dead-loving man? Prime example of easy romantic read - focus is on the romance, but there's a subplot that's also unfolding; it's charming and quirky and cute, and the romance is absolutely adorable, true to Cabot form. John is all too perfect. I'm just waiting for this to be made into a movie. (I will be first in line to buy tickets.)

Getting away from Meg Cabot, another easy rec is the Georgia Nicolson series by Louise Rennison, starting with Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging. Basically? Follows the life of crazy and wild teenager Georgia and her romantic ups and downs, not to mention her hilariously dysfunctional family. Rennison is a comedy writer, so these books are guaranteed to make you laugh out loud. They do it to me every time, and I've read and reread these books more times than I can count. Also, I can completely understand Georgia. Shaving off the eyebrows? Been there. (Okay, well, it was more like accidentally taking off a quarter of one, but still. You fuck up your eyebrows and trust me, everybody notices.)

On the teen-lit front, I just bought a book called Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty by Jody Gehrman. It's Much Ado About Nothing in teenagerese! I love it!! Considering Much Ado is only my favorite Shakespeare play ever, to see a teen remake of it made me squee out loud in the bookstore. (Yes, I am easily impressed.) So I shelled out the $16 for the hardcover copy and whaddya know? I love it. It's narrated by the Beatrice character, Geena, and oh my god her and Ben's romance is too adorable for words. I can't tell you how freaking cute this book was. See? Easy read, and adorable. Sometimes, it's just what you need. I mean, I could buy something artsy that pushes the limits of what's acceptable in prose and whatnot... but sometimes you just need to read a teen romance. It can't be helped.

To counteract all the teen books on here (what can I say, teen romances are the most adorable), I'll also rec Gods Behaving Badly by Marie Phillips. It's what American Gods would be without the philosophical musings, the implications of what America has become, the meaningfulness, and Neil Gaiman. It's light-hearted and witty, I'll give it that. The Greek gods exist, and they are the only gods, and they are losing their power. Also, Aphrodite is a phone-sex worker. (That's really the only job any of the gods have in the book that's worth mentioning.) It's funny and sarcastic, and if you want to take it seriously (which I don't), I'm sure an argument can be made to the effect of "how would the Greek gods find a niche in today's London?" - but then again, the same sort of thing was covered in American Gods to a much better effect.

Short and short of it? I'll always prefer American Gods, but Gods Behaving Badly kinda fits the myths of the gods' trickeries and capriciousness. I won't get into how the myths are supposed to be parables and not actual true stories of what the gods are like (I promised this would be short), but if you enjoy the Greek myths for entertainment, I think you'll like this. Also, it's really fun to watch Artemis wince every time someone talks about sex.

I have loads more books, because I am a sad, sad woman, but I'm pretty sure you can live off of these. As long as one is discerning about the fluff they read, you can find some damn good fluff out there. See: a lot of stuff they sell in airport terminals. You have no idea, the light fluffy books I find there. Easy read extrordinaire.

So go out, buy yourself a light novel, and then sit back and enjoy not having to think too hard. Everyone deserves a break now and again, right? Ta for now.

We're all Looking for Alaska, anyway

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'”

-Jack Kerouac

I love that quote. I always have. It describes everything I want to be in my life.

Alaska Young is that quote personified. There isn't any way I can describe her that does her any justice except that quote. She defies adjectives.

Looking for Alaska by John Green is like that quote. Miles is quirky in his own subdued, lethargic way, and still normal. He leaves life in Florida where nobody knows him to Culver Creek Boarding School in Alabama (hah, how utterly appropriate), where he rooms with Chip (the Colonel) and befriends Takumi, Lara, and Alaska.

Miles, or Pudge as the Colonel starts calling him ironically, is of course swept off his feet by Alaska. She's in her own league and dimension and mind. She's Edie Sedgwick, just in an Alabama boarding school. She is her own entity. How could she not sweep you off your feet?

The format immediately grabs your attention: there are two parts, Before and After. There is one central part to the book that is both shocking and obvious at the same time. Not hindsight-obvious, but just textbook, no-connotations obvious. And somehow it still shakes your world and starts the roaring in your ears, like every time it's ever happened in real life.

I had this whole post ready revolving around the climax and why it is that things like that always happen, but it really would spoil too much and I can't do that to anybody bothering to read this. So I'll save it for later, when you won't connect it to this book.

In my copy, there's a reading guide in the back. I want to rip it out and tear it to pieces. How can you make some trite reading guide about this book? It's fucking moving. It's honest and real and bewitching and surreal and true. It's like making a reading guide for The Things They Carried so your book club can try to make sense of it. I know, they always do that for books hitting on heavy stuff for teenagers, but that doesn't make it any less cheap and trite. It would be like a reading guide for Speak. Just... unthinkable. Maybe John Green thinks it's okay, but to me it just tries to cheapen the experience I got from this book.

(Yes, I am comparing it to The Things They Carried and Speak. The language is strongly reminiscent of both, but completely different and unique. The themes, though, are closer to the former. Also, both of those books changed my life.)

And you know what? I know he wrote it for high schoolers, but I can't imagine someone my age reading this and not being completely moved by it. Not moved like "oh man, I cried at Where the Red Fern Grows" or something, but... moved. I can't say it any other way. Sometimes there are no words for an experience. Maybe it wouldn't completely change the way my mother sees things or someone her age, but for the large age bracket that is my generation? It more than works.

So in case you didn't get the picture, buy this book. Don't just read it, buy it. It's mind-blowing, which is beautifully rare in young adult novels nowadays. Not a recommendation, an order. Buy it. Read it. And then maybe you'll really understand Jack Kerouac up there and why those people are the only things worth clinging to now.

The Breakup Song Extravaganza

This has been a few days in the making, but now that I'm back in the mood for breakup songs, I can finally write this.

So have you been dumped lately? Good, because if you were the dumper this list is not for you. I mean, I have those songs, but today we don't want to listen to those because here, you are not in control. She just doesn't love you anymore, he needs space, or maybe you just aren't "the one". Maybe you were the one, but they changed their mind. Yeah, life bites like that. Now you're just standing there, feeling like something is crumbling inside of you, wondering why you feel so numb, waiting to get home so you can cry your feelings into a pint of ice cream (regardless of gender). I know Greg Behrendt says to put away that ice cream, but I'll let you have it because I know how that feels and sometimes ice cream and some sad music are just what you need.

If anyone, anyone at all, tells you that you shouldn't have any time to mope, fuck their shit up and go spend a day inside your covers. Everyone, doesn't matter who, needs at least one day to cry and reminisce and sob out loud, "Why me? I thought everything was going so well!" After that one day, though, you get up out of your Bed of Sadness and start living again. Before you ask, no, I have not had my one day yet, and I think it just might be today.

Now that we have that in order, it's time to figure out your Official Breakup Playlist. If you think you don't need this, just try to keep those tears going without some horribly sad fuel and then get back to me. I'm giving you one day, so you better get it all out now so you don't break down in the line at the bank or something.

I know not everyone shares my taste in music, despite the fact that I listen to everything, so these are just my personal recommendations. But lemme tell you, they are tested, tried and true, and they work damn well for all of your broken-up needs.

Now you can listen as you read along!!

• First of all, country music produces some of the saddest music ever. I don't care if you think country music is for hillbillies and rednecks, you cannot deny that their breakup music is moving. Some of it is angry, some of it is refreshing, but most of it is fucking sad. If you want some music that is guaranteed to make you cry, start here.
• On that note, Lee Ann Womack has some great hits. I like "Does My Ring Burn Your Finger", "I May Hate Myself In The Morning", "Someone I Used To Know", "A Little Past Little Rock", "Why They Call It Falling", and "Painless". If you can get her version of "Ashes", DO IT.
• "Miss Me Baby" by Chris Cagle. If you don't have this song, you're missing out on some primo sobbing time. It is perfect.
• "Neon Moon" by Brooks and Dunn is pretty good. Nice and slow, melancholy, kinda depressing. "That Ain't No Way To Go" is great as well.
• "I Can Still Feel You" by Collin Raye. A little upbeat but it works. A song all about how they never go away? How do you not add that?
• I'm a sap, so I have "Tonight I Wanna Cry" by Keith Urban on mine. Slow, sad, all about how you just want to cry because everything is too hard. Sappy, again, but goddamn it gets the job done. DO NOT listen to this song while you're walking around in public. You will break down and have to find a convenient bathroom stall to cry in. Keep it to your room.
• "Bring Me Down" by Miranda Lambert is beautiful and sad. "Sweet like a kiss, sharp like a razor blade, I find you when I'm close to the bottom..." Don't pass this one up.
• However, the ultimate song that I put on repeat is: "Settle for a Slowdown" by Dierks Bentley. Gender doesn't matter here - this song is perfect. They left you and all you want is for them to just show that they just might miss you. All you're asking for is a slowdown. It's depressing and perfect for a sobfest under your covers.
• There are plenty more country songs, but these are just my favorites. Particularly that last one. Trust me, country music is a goldmine of any and all breakup songs that you need.

Moving on past country music....

• You remember how I said "Bouncing Ball" by honeyhoney was that indie song they play after everything's gone to hell and you're watching everyone stumble around all sad and contemplative? Turns out it's great for breakups too.
• "You Could Be Happy" by Snow Patrol. If you don't believe me, listen to it and then come here and tell me it doesn't work. In fact, there's a lot of Snow Patrol songs that are perfect. This one is just my favorite.
• The old-school fave, "Don't Speak" by No Doubt.
• "You Are Goodbye" by Holly Conlan. Folky and acoustic-y.
• "Favorite" by Lex Land works regardless of gender. If you are of the female persuasion, try "As Much As You Lead". It will not disappoint.
• "Lo Imprescindible" by Shakira. You know what, shut up, I freaking love Shakira, and this is a dark song about how important it is for someone to come back. So listen to it and then shut up.
• If you really want to be angry, "You Oughta Know" will always be perfect. Warning: it only really works if you're female.
• "Wreck of the Day" by Anna Nalick will always, always be appropriate.
• "Back at Your Door" by Maroon 5. Also "Goodnight Goodnight", but I'm iffy on that one. The former is great, though.
• "Where I Stood" by Missy Higgins. Shut up, it's good.
• "Clean and Sober" by Anya Marina. Oh my god, this song. It may not make you cry, but it's still got that ring of, "oh my god, this is my life."
• Whatever anyone says, "I Can't Make You Love Me" by Bonnie Raitt is fucking gold. If you know it (and you should), you'll understand. If you don't, what the hell is wrong with you?!
• Carole King's "Will You Love Me Tomorrow?"
• I guarantee that "How to Save a Life" by the Fray will make you cry like a baby. I guarantee.
• "Papercuts" by Gym Class Heroes is good, albeit not for the "I want to sob in my bed like the world is ending" subset.
• For the ladies in the room: "Dumb Girls" by Lucy Woodward is angry and sad and self-deprecating. Listen and enjoy.
• "I'm The Only One" by Melissa Etheridge. This song will never not be perfect. Play it over and over and belt it out from your bed. Not only is it fitting, it is angry and sad! Bonus!
• "Goodbye to You" by Michelle Branch is great if you are super sappy.
• Unknown: "Before the Worst" by the Script. All about how you wish you could go back before everything started fucking up and just stay in that happy place.
• I personally have "Lullaby" by Shawn Mullins and "If It Makes You Happy" by Sheryl Crow on my playlist, but the former is my general depression song and the latter fits the circumstances. Still great songs, though.
• Ooh, try out "Like You, Only Sweeter" by William Tell and then let me know what you think. Nice rebound song.
• "Reason Why" by Rachael Yamagata. Just... listen to it.
• Another one that is actually kind of a happy song but can be corrupted to a sad one given the circumstances: "Universe & U" by KT Tunstall. I have the acoustic version, so bonus!
• "Hopelessly Devoted to You". Yeah I love Grease, shut up. If you can find something even better, show me.
• Oh, I take it back - "Without You" from Rent. Yeah. Try not crying at that song. Or even "I'll Cover You Reprise". Oh my god, that song.

I probably have more, but these are what's on repeat over here in Dom's-heart-is-breaking Land. "The Trouble With Love Is" by Kelly Clarkson is a staple, maybe "Iris" by the Goo Goo Dolls if you're really masochistic, but other than that, this list hits all the basic needs.

WARNING: DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES listen to "your" songs. That is not what we want here. Yes, they'll make you cry, but we want sad songs about what you're going through. Avoid those songs like the plague until you can stomach them again.

You know what? I'll post the playlist.com version of what I could find here, and anything that's not here, you'll have to find elsewhere and verify how amazing it is.

Good luck on your brokenheartedness. I'm getting back to my comfy bed and early weekend before everything gets worse than it already is.

Live from the Student Center Computer Lab!

I was just at the student Starbucks (shut up) listening to a guy play guitar and various percussion instruments live. Yeah, I know, it sounds like a standard coffeehouse staple, but he didn't sound like your standard Starbucks music fare. Probably because he was brought in by our University Programs group, but just stick with me here.

His name is Doug Wood and he spent a lot of time performing on the streets in Boston, making a living off of that, which I have to give him super kudos for because I cannot imagine living like that. Well, I can, but it's mostly influenced by Rent and some other miscellaneous movies about people who play guitar on the streets (like a very specific movie that I'm thinking of but cannot remember the name of it. It had a great soundtrack and was about this Irish guy and a Bulgarian or Romanian or Hungarian woman meeting in Dublin, but the woman had a husband back in the former-Soviet country she was from, but they fell in love anyway, and it's all there in the music, and if you remember what that movie is I will reward you in some way that is yet unspecified. Possibly cookies).

Anyway, back to what I was trying to say. He has the clear markings of "street performer who plays guitar" and it shows, but that's good in my book. He's very chill and makes jokes and slightly self-deprecating. He also has this vague Celtic-y vibe in his music, which would usually scare me away but I rather like it here. It's not all new-agey and overbearing, like other Celtic-types who are all, "I worship the waning and waxing of the moon because the Goddess lives within her and she is the Goddess and we are all one with nature," which gives me the urge to take a bat to someone's head (not in small part because that music also gives me a headache). No, his Celtic-y sound is more like, "I heard this and tried it out, and it worked, but I limited it. Also, wanna grab a coffee later?", which is a lot more inviting and chill. It's a lot easier to handle than "I dance around in my backyard naked chanting poems to the Lady while playing this song". (<----way intimidating and a good way to scare me off of a CD forever) He also has a song he plays called "The George of the Jungle Jam". Seriously. And it's fun and bouncy and has lots of percussion. How can you not like it? Seriously, though, he definitely knows his way around a guitar. He actually tries out a lot of things with it that impresses me because it just sounds so good. I don't know how else to say it without sounding horribly cheesy and cliched, but honestly, the chords were surprising but went well together and if he had just played the guitar, even without all of the excellent percussion he did, I still would have been mighty impressed. As it stands, I am plus-one approving. Here's a clip so you can get a feel for his music:

The only problem I personally have with this kind of music is that, while I love it live, I don't usually buy it because I have little patience with it when I'm listening to recorded music. Yeah, it's picky, but it's just the way I am. I'd have to get used to listening to it recorded before I could buy it or really think about buying it, actually. Nevertheless, I really enjoyed the free coffehouse jam and I'd like to hear more from this artist, so Doug Wood, if you're Googling yourself (like me) and you come across this blog, I was the chick in the back of Starbucks at Alabama knitting and applauding and you were fantab.

Blog-wise: tonight I'll probably post a new blog about breakup music and my selections, because let's face it, everyone needs a breakup playlist on their iPod just in case (look how handy mine came in, after all). Have a good afty and I'll see you tonight.

Snark: Get Off of My Lawn, You Crazy Kids, Or I'll Get the Hose!

David Denby, a critic for The New Yorker, has written a book decrying (what else?) snark, entitled Snark: It's Mean, It's Personal, and It's Ruining Our Conversations. From what I can tell, mostly he confuses actual honest-to-goodness snark with trolling. So well done there, Mr. Denby.

However, since I really don't feel like wasting what precious money I have on a book that will tell me all about how I and my generation are destroying people's conversations and Internet experiences worldwide, I'll let Adam Sternbergh of the New York Magazine tell you what he thinks instead. Magically, and resisting the urge that clearly I cannot, he refrains from any snark on the book whatsoever and engages in a serious and honest tone about defining snark.

Sorry, Mr. Denby - I'll always hold a special place for Fandom Wank in my heart, and no clueless but crotchety author will sway that. I'll get off of your lawn now, there's no need to swing your cane at me so menacingly.

Another reason why I love Katie White

According to Wikipedia, the Ting Tings' song "Impacilla Carpisung" in sung in Simlish.

*worships* Katie, you don't know how absofuckinglutely amazing you are. Rock on.

Grotesque - who is the real monster?

Nowadays, the trend is to write books in which "we", the humans and/or the side that seems sympathetic at first, are the true monsters of society. Damn, we can go back to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and see the beginnings of a whole new theme that would soon be co-opted by a politician talking about the polar ice caps (although I doubt Shelley saw that coming). We are the monsters. Alternatively, it could be that the author is performing a clever shell con on us - while they make much attention in one particular character, it is another one that truly possesses ugliness.

Natsuo Kirino achieves this in her novel Grotesque, but with one major difference: many if not all of the main characters are true monsters.

Grotesque is a novel fascinated with the difference and blurred lines between beauty and ugliness. We are led through most of the book by an unnamed narrator who isn't even referred to by so much as her last name (interesting, especially considering that this was originally written in Japanese). Instead, she is merely, "Yuriko's older sister, " or "Yuriko's sister". She resents it, but believes herself to be better than her sister because Yuriko is a monster.

Yuriko has always been a stunningly beautiful girl. From childhood, when people thought she looked like a doll and she "stirred men's Lolita complex", to youth, where she was admitted to a prestigious high school for girls simply because she was beautiful, she has always possessed this beauty - even as an adult, she is a prostitute and admits that she is a nymphomaniac. She has never seen any reason to help anyone else out because she knows they'll take care of her. As a fading prostitute, she gets business here and there.

Until she is brutally murdered at the age of 37.

Yuriko's older sister isn't sad, surprised, or shaken at all - she hated her sister and envied her all at the same time. She maintains that she always knew Yuriko would get killed like that, so who cares? At the same time, she seems angry at the press for ignoring Yuriko's death. She says bitterly that it's all because Yuriko was only a prostitute - and who cares about another dead hooker? The way she turns from calling Yuriko a monster to sharply berating the newspapers for not talking about Yuriko more startles the reader, but makes us curious. Why is she like this? What did Yuriko do to her?

Kazue Sato is the third girl in the tragedy. She too has become a prostitute - all the more baffling because she is a successful, intelligent business woman working for a prestigious firm in Tokyo. She, like the narrator and Yuriko, attended Q School for Young Women. But where Yuriko naturally became popular because of her incredible looks, the narrator and Kazue were outsiders in an insider's paradise. The narrator brushes it off and says it wasn't worth it (words that are later called into question by the climax of the book), but Kazue was desperate to fit in. She tries everything she thinks of, but is just too normal for these privileged, rich girls.

Of all the characters, I identified with Kazue the best. She really was just a normal girl, growing up in a normal household. Her father doted on her and told her that if she wanted to do something, all she had to do was work hard and try her best. She wrote herself encouraging notes while studying for the Q School entrance exams. She only wanted to fit in and have friends.

The narrator, however, has other plans. Kazue, according to her, clamped onto her and wouldn't let go, so she decided to piss the stars right out of Kazue's eyes. She ridicules her for working hard, makes fun of her efforts and her family, and practically pisses all over Kazue's first crush.

That story in and of itself is telling. Kazue admits to the narrator that she has a crush on a boy named Takashi Kijima, who spends a lot of time with Yuriko. Since Yuriko is her sister, Kazue begs, couldn't she talk to Yuriko and find out what kind of girl he likes? The narrator senses an opportunity and mines it for all it's worth.

Kazue writes love letter after love letter to Kijima, asking the narrator eagerly to read them first. The narrator laughs at them behind her back, but graciously sends the most fervent ones on to Kijima. She tells a breathless Kazue that Kijima really likes a famous movie star, so he must like skinny girls. Kazue, a veritable twig, immediately frets aloud that she's too fat. The narrator slyly suggests that she cut back on the eating and trim herself up so that Kijima will finally like her - she'll be skinny, after all! Kazue subsequently develops both anorexia and bulimia, a habit that she never finds her way out of.

You see, Kazue is also violently murdered a year after Yuriko. Same way and allegedly the same man.

Kazue's life showed so much promise - so much more than the other two, so her ultimate fall is terrifying. Yuriko knew from an early age that all she wanted was to be desired and to have as much sex as she liked. Her sister was too wrapped up in her maliciousness (her "special talent", as she called it) to even contemplate the word promise. Kazue could have been so much more than what she was, and arguably she would have if only the narrator had not so wholeheartedly crushed and perverted her.

So do I recommend this book? Hell to the yes. Crime noir at its finest, it weaves in the Japanese dynamics between teenage girls, the sexes, and society so acutely it stings to read the brutal honesty in it sometimes. The ending is ambiguous and yet somehow obvious if you read between the lines. It is both beautful and ugly, much like the characters themselves. This is definitely on my new must-read list.

Do you like blues/folk/jazz/indie/all of the above? Then do we have a deal for you!

I bought honeyhoney's debut album (ugh, I can already feel the pretension coating me. "Debut album"? I fucking hate that term. Let's try that again) or rather, their first CD, First Rodeo today. Today was even one of those days that calls for a new album - the sky was clear, the sun was bright, it was brisk and coldish, I was humming tired old songs that I've overplayed horribly but still manage to love... you know those days. So anyway, I'd already seen the "Little Toy Gun" video and played it to unending repeat on iTunes (and somehow it never gets old!) and I felt it was probably time to invest in their CD.

Color me not disappointed. I am developing some serious feelings about this CD, and it's pretty safe to say that they're reciprocated and that I might get a prom date out of it.

So because this is easier, we'll take it track by track and break it down:

"Black Crows": Nice intro to the CD as a whole. The music (Ben Jaffe) is super-jazzy with more defined guitar and drum additions. So kinda jazz-piano-meets-upbeat-folk. The vocals (Suzanne Santo) are amazing. Kinda bluesy on this one, like folk if more folk singers had more power to their voices (I notice that they tend to be lacking on that front).

"Little Toy Gun": Oh, this song. Still my favorite song on the album. Upbeat, fun, and about a girl and her gun. You really can't go wrong with that combination! It's kind of poppy, but pop like the Raconteurs, not pop like Britney. It sounds like something that could infect the radio and nobody would complain.

"Sugarcane": Slower, quieter than the first two songs. The music is still on that folky kick with sharper drums. Suzanne sounds jazzy here. She reminds me of Norah Jones here, but (again) with more power to her voice. Norah's kind of wispy sometimes, but that's never a problem with Suzanne. She also has a lot of emotion in her voice - when she does the fun songs, you can tell she's getting into it, and with the slower ones she pours her heart into her voice.

"Not for Long": Sounds like something off of the Wreckers's CD (remember them? Michelle Branch's new project where she got all countrified?), but with a kick. Bluesy as all hell, it's about moving on and getting over someone. There is an honest-to-god fiddle in this song - not like a country fiddle or an Ocean Avenue fiddle, though, which makes it that much better. Short but sweet.

"Bouncing Ball": This sounds like one of those songs that plays in an indie movie after the main conflict has happened and we're watching a montage of the characters all doing their own thing, just brooding away, and we know that somehow they will all patch this up later. Trufax, guys. I love it and it's perfect to walk home to in the cold as the sun's about to set, but it really is that song. Think Juno where she's having that breakdown in her car after Mark was a douchebag. This song totally could have played there.

"Come On Home": More blues! I kind of love this blues-jazz-folk-indie-pop sound they have going on here. This song is blues/folk if Billie Holiday added her vocals.

"Give Yourself to Me": Got the same kind of upbeat vibe as "Little Toy Gun" with less of the radio-star vibe. It's fun and bouncy as hell, though. I could hear a more standard alternative band do this, but with less of the violin and acoustic guitar. Song is made for mad dancing in your bedroom.

"David": Quiet, quiet, quiet. Another Norah-esque song with that folky kick and rock-ballad drums. I like it and could see this hitting the indie market hard (if it hasn't already, I don't know, I don't keep up with that stuff very well).

"Slow Brains": Kinda sarcastic. More of that kind of Raconteurs sound, like "Steady As She Goes" but a little slower-paced (only a little). I'd describe the genre sound, but I have a feeling you have already guessed it and I hate to be repetitive.

"Under the Willow Tree": V. whimsical and with more of that jazz sound in the vocals. If it was sung against just a jazz piano, it could be sung in a jazz club or something to that effect. As it stands, with the muted piano and drums, it gives it another, somehow more friendly vibe.

" Oh Mama": Final track! Soulful and emotional, set against a piano and the barest hint of drums and an acoustic guitar that starts out way in the background but slowly takes over. She sounds so moving here, almost mournful, but it ends the CD well.

Go listen if you are into that whole indie-blues-folk sound, and even if you aren't, I'll bet you'll like "Little Toy Gun" and the accompanying video (which stars and was directed by Kiefer Sutherland. WTF? Don't worry, Kiefer, you'll always be Jack Bauer to me). If you hate that, well, you have no taste in music or perhaps you just don't want to try anything new, in which case you still suck.

Alright, I've spent too long breaking this down for y'all, and it is off to my normal life. My roommate has vacayed the room because I "type too loudly", apparently (wtf that means, I will probably never know), and my stomach is vying for my attention with loud grumbles like I just called its mother a whore or something. Enjoy your night/day/wherever it is where you are.

Standard introductory post should be here, I presume.

This is all my friend Petite's fault. He was the one who suggested I start a blog to dump all my critiques and reviews of all the things I like into one place because surely, he says, I will be a big hit!

Having been on the intarwebz before (albeit on LiveJournal), I sincerely doubt that, but at least nobody can say I didn't give it a shot.

Standard procedure is to give one's name and such, so here goes: My name is Dominique, but since that seems hard for many people to pronounce, I go by Dom. I'm twenty as of writing this and a something in college. Probably a sophomore. That sounds about right.

I enjoy just about everything, and if I don't it's because I gave it a fair try and discovered that it's really not worth my time. Mostly I try to be open-minded, but not so open-minded that my brain falls out. I like what I like and I'm very vocal about it. What I don't like varies between "It's just not my cup of tea" and "Dear God let me smash it with a hammer". I feel a compulsive need to always be the Deadpan Snarker in any ensemble I'm in. I read a lot and I'm very hands-on. Also, I love TV Tropes and have wasted endless hours (read: days) in that time-sucking void. I'm not complaining or anything, but it takes a lot to get me back out into reality after clicking a link over to there.

As for my more personal life, I have friends, a family, and a boyfriend. Pretty standard, although clearly I prefer them to any other issues. I have a roommate in one of those stereotype dorms, but we eschewed turning our beds into bunk beds and thus turning our room into something out of a summer camp. We live together, but we each have our separate lives and enjoy them quite nicely.

This blog isn't for me to gab away about my personal life, though. That's my business and, quite frankly, none of yours. Seriously, that's what Facebook is for. Here, I'm just going to be reviewing and opinioning all over the place, so if you're looking for some college girl sob story you will be very disappointed in me. I got tired of LiveJournal and talking about my omgsopersonal life. I'd rather talk about stuff here.

So, if it's something I can look at, listen to, taste, touch, or smell, I'll have an opinion on it. What can I say, I'm a girl who knows what she likes and what she doesn't.

That's pretty much it. I hate these types of posts because they always sound so different in my head, and also because it's so tedious talking about myself. Blah blah blah, whatever, on with the good stuff. First review of... something will be forthcoming later in the day, I'm sure.

Also: the blog name comes from a Bitter:Sweet song called Sugar Mama. And before you ask, yes, it is true.