“I had to realize that the male idea of successful love is to get a woman into a state of secure dependency which the male can renew by a touch or a pat or a gesture now and then while he reserves his major attention for his work in the world or the contemplation of the various forms of surrogate combat men find so transfixing. I had to realize that female-style love is servile and petitionary and moves in the direction of greater and greater displays of servility whose object is to elicit from the male partner a surplus — the word was emphasized in some way — of face-to-face attention. So on the distaff side the object is to reduce the quantity of servile display needed to keep the pacified state between the mates in being. Equilibrium or perfect mating will come when the male is convinced he is giving less than he feels is really required to maintain dependency and the woman feels she is getting more from him than her servile displays should merit.” — Norman Rush, Mating
Before I got married, everyone told me that life after marriage would be different. I thought that they meant that my relationship with Caleb would achieve more gravity. The vow is binding, and thus, the commitment to each other becomes an even deeper partnership.
I was wrong.
What changes in a marriage is the power dynamic between men and women. When we go away for the weekend now, as a couple, to stay with other couple friends, I spend my time in the kitchen helping the females prepare food and clean the house, and Caleb sits out on the porch or in front of the television with the other men, drinking beer and occasionally grilling.
This is the way it is.
"Get up," I hiss to Caleb, pinching his arm. "Get in the kitchen right now and empty the dishwasher to help us."
He does, and the other men do not follow, because unlike the women, they do not feel any guilt seeing other people do work in the kitchen — work for them — and doing nothing to help. I feel guilty. I am a woman. “I’m sorry,” I say when I see another women cooking. “Can I do anything to help?”
"Can you give me $100 to leave for food?" I ask Caleb, and he takes out his wallet. His role is to give me money, and mine is to not make a scene in front of other people.
1. My sister and I have had at least 10 20-second catch-up phone conversations since these.
2. She is driving herself to the Berkshires, so if I were you, I would postpone your Labor Day plans until she kills someone else.
I only have a few minutes to write, because I need to finish this fucking book, which is actually beginning to feel like a sinking ship into which I need to pour all of my time to save, but from what? There are no stakes. I love doing it. Loving is enough, although I wouldn’t mind making some money to buy a nice fall sweater.
I think I might start writing in run on sentences for a bit after reading a James Wood review on James Kelman, who seems fucking fantastic. James Wood is fucking fantastic as well, am I wrong? He’s the book critic for the New Yorker. I used to love Anthony Lane and David Denby because I used to go see more movies. Now, I read more books, because books are almost the same price as movies, and you can bring them to the park with you in the summertime or on the subway.
One place I do watch films is on planes, because is there else to do? Reading on planes gives me headaches, a bit, although I do that as well. I try to never waste any of my time, not even when I’m on a plane, not unless I’m watching the Real Housewives, so usually, on planes, I watch old movies. I want to edu-macate myself about old movies.
I really should be doing other things, but I’m going to start my morning by doing a fashion analysis of of the 2014 Emmy Awards because I can’t help myself.
Last night, looking at the red carpet round-up on the New York Times website, I was struck by the diversity of female body types and ethnicities in our television shows, and it made me proud to be an American. And then I was like, is the New York Times fooling me by cleverly organizing this thing? And then I was like, “Oh wait, the only reason for this is because of the women playing prisoners on Orange is the New Black.”
I guess I’ll start with the pretty.
I basically always think that January Jones looks the prettiest, first of all because she is the prettiest, and second of all because she always wears something interesting without looking like a lunatic. Like on someone else, this dress might look like a magician’s cape, but on her, it looks like an elegant 1950’s ballgown.
I take serious issue with her hair, however. Why get those bangs? They look like straw. Or like Harry Dunne on Dumb & Dumber.
Whatever she still looked fabulous.
People in the know will immediately recognize that what Clare Danes is wearing is a version of Kim Kardashian’s Givenchy wedding dress. Seriously. This is a version of it in red with way, way too many jeweled details. Why is the belt plain in the front and jeweled in the back? I don’t get it.
It looks like something my sister made with a glue gun and then tried to stick to a leather bag.
Everyone seems to love Christina Hendrick’s dress but I think she looks like a wet cocker spaniel wearing a pet costume. No offense.
There is a Ukranian baby inside of Haley Panettierre.