We Dem Boyz

If anything, working closely with the finest of California’s politicians has taught me this: laziness and political power are intrinsically bound. I am not convinced that legislation is as powerful or influential as the Power Suit Gang (PSG for short) makes it out to be, but I am convinced of this: under the guise of political fervor, laziness is masked by the facade of business. No, I am not a fan of Jerry Brown after working in close proximity with him for the past two months (mainly because the golden bear outside his office door is basically Armageddon for germaphobes, and how does he not have time to disinfect Golden Bear, really) and no, I did not channel my inner Nancy Pelosi and don a red power suit and nude pumps; I donned thrifted Dress Barn/ J. Crew and nude pumps – a young Nancy Pelosi with a passion for fashion. The relationship between political power and laziness is this: as a California legislator, you hide beneath the cloak of a $90,000 annual salary (+ political bribes, etc.). You vote “aye” on all bills, regardless of whether or not you have been briefed on the bill, and if you vote “nay,” prepare to passionately address a disinterested, murmuring legislature. So, in the spirit of California’s finest lawmakers, I will present my political takeaway/apolitical manifesto in the form of a BuzzFeed article, where laziness and creative coercion meet poetic prose and periodic profanity.

1. Everyone looks like Nancy Pelosi, but no one is ACTUALLY Nancy Pelosi. This is both shocking and disappointing, and I am still deciding whether or not I am okay with it.

2. Power suits are a real thing. If you do not wear a power suit, you are nobody. If you do wear a power suit, you are still nobody but you look like somebody.

3. You can’t walk into Jerry Brown’s office and demand to speak to him just because you have a press pass administered by his office. He is far too busy proposing a water bond that includes digging twin tunnels under the delta. But he’s an environmentalist at heart, obvi.

4. There will be one bangin’ hot Adam Levine lookalike legislator in the Assembly, and you WILL reposition yourself on the legislative floor in order to keep an eye on him.

5. You enter committee hearing rooms with a flourish because, feminism.

6. You understand that your political viability is based primarily on the status of your legs, and you use this as fodder for your feminist anti-shaving campaign (it’s patriarchal, and no one ever uses the right amount of shave gel; the can either gives you a mustard seed or Niagara Falls and you have absolutely NO CONTROL over it).

7. Being hit on by male politicians is par for the course, because the exchange rate for sexual favors is at an all-time high. But you are seriously NOT down.

8. All summer, the news board will say, “Sally – women and politics,” for you are the designated feminist journalist and it’s really quite fab.

9. Your editors let you do whatever you want, because they are afraid of being labeled as sexists if they reject your story ideas.

10. You will be told, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like a portrait” while waiting to conduct your first interview, and you will take that the right way, because how freaking cute IS that.

11. You will be cat-called daily, and immediately begin to mentally man-hate afresh (as if you were not already doing that).

12. Often, it is hard to remember that you are a reporter and not a protestor. If it weren’t for my nude pumps, I would have been occupying Capitol lawn with the hippies. They were flawlessly broke and impassioned, and I forgot that I was supposed to be writing an intellectual story about them, when, really, political hippies are always the voice of reason.

13. Sergeants-at-arms will not take your crap. Even the hot ones. They will also not accept your credentials, and basically tell you that you’re not legit. But you are legit. YOU are LEGIT.

14. You will be biased, even when you are supposed to be fair and balanced.

15. You will pretend that you are writing for the Associated Press.

16. You are not writing for the Associated Press; you are writing for Capitol Weekly. No one knows what that is, so you have to constantly explain how provocative and cutting-edge it is.

17. Your first published story will be a feminist rant in disguise, and somewhere you know that Tina Fey is smiling in approval and telling you to stuff your face with Cheddar Bay Biscuits to celebrate.

18. You will be told that gender had nothing to do with Meg Whitman’s bid for Governor. This will inspire you to write your feminist mentor a sassy manifesto, asking if she knew that sometimes, gender has nothing to do with politics.

19. Sixty-year-old white men know EVERYTHING.

20. You will report your little face off and make no money, but the lyric, “Michelle Obama, purse so heavy gettin’ Oprah dollars” will truly resonate with you.

21. Writing in hipster coffee shops will expose you to both the world of hot baristas and the glory of vegan muffins.

22. Vegan muffins will become your life.

23. You will sell your soul for a single-origin cappuccino every day around 3:00 PM.

24. When you start to miss everyone and everything, you will write letters by candlelight, wholly convinced that you are, indeed, Jane Eyre/Elizabeth Bennet/Mary Crawley.

I arrived in Sacramento prepared to declare Political Science as a triple major upon my return to Santa Barbara in the fall. I left Sacramento prepared to remove that declaration. You see, for centuries women have been taught that there is no place for them in politics, and if there is it must be subservient to motherhood and femininity. The few women who have been politically influential have faced patriarchal America, daily aware that if they speak out too much on the behalf of women, they will be denounced as not concerned for the greater good of humanity. I have been told to let go of feminism and become a humanist; I have news for you, patriarchal America. I am a feminist, a humanist, and a freaking bad beezy political journalist, because there was not one day where I felt devoid of gender performance, devoid of womanhood. Gender should not determine public policy, but it does. It affects every aspect of public policy, from those who shape it to those who are shaped by it. An increased female presence in elected office will not fix all of our problems; however, it would cause absolutely no harm. Until a woman’s worth is separated from her status as mother and innate seductress, women will be held back from participating in politics by the high heels that the world of patriarchal politics has forced upon their feet. So, to round out my BuzzFeed style rant, I leave you with this: ask yourself every day where the diversity is as you pass by white male senator after white male senator. Ask yourself why voices are being silenced in halls that celebrate liberty and justice. Until more of the women who are raising the children of the men who are passing laws are involved in politics, America will continue to feel uncomfortable with the idea of a leader having the capacity to produce babies.

I have packed up my thrifted professional wardrobe and moved West. You can find me where the tomatoes grow and the moon is praised. Feminist rants are free and we really ❤ root beer floats.

Goodbye, Edmund G. Brown + non-disinfected Golden Bear of California.

That Big Nut in Mixed Nuts That Nobody Likes

Dear Men of Sacramento,

First of all, welcome to your roast. Settle in. Get comfy. I would like to introduce you to my Birkenstocks, which will stomp all over your leering eyes and wandering grins, to my notebook which will graffiti the code of conduct you have mandated I woman my feminist sailboat by, to the short, messy hair that makes me a little less of a woman to you. I would like to introduce you to my bookshelf full of contemporary women writers: Caitlin Moran, Mindy Kaling, Tina Fey, Susan Faludi. I would like to introduce you to my eyes, that take in every ounce of your judgment, of your objectification, of your condescension. I would like to introduce you to the fact that I stopped keeping track of your sexist advances after I realized that I ran out of fingers and toes.

 

To the man on the corner who realized he had just stepped in a fresh pile of feminist poo:

Do you talk to every woman who walks past you? Do you feel the need to comment on the weather before you undress her with your eyes, then chaotically piece her outfit back together once you realize that she has a force field around her to ward off eyes like yours? You felt the need to say, “It’s a nice day today, isn’t it. You look nice.” I felt the need to sear you with the glare of a womanly bulldog. You looked shocked. Oh, so you can look at a woman all you want, but as soon as a woman looks back at you, daring you to say one more word to her, you step back, appalled? Shocker. You were smart enough to say, “I know you’re mad right now,” before once again repeating, “But you look nice.” Why do you think that women are always looking for male affirmation of their physical appearance? Why did you not stop with “I know you’re mad right now,” instead of (again) reminding me that all you were focused on was my physical body? Why did you not apologize? Why did I not kick you in the nuts? Beware…I am the sole owner of the Nutmobile and all I do is drive around town.

Nutshotting.

All.

Day.

Long.

To the man right past the man on the corner who realized he had just stepped in a fresh pile of feminist poo:

I’m not your “sweetheart.” Thank you for reminding me that my favorite candy rhymes with my least favorite word in the English language. What, should I be grateful to you for confirming that my heart isn’t sour? I’m going to start walking up to men and saying, “Hey, sourheart. Lookin’ goooood,” as I sexily bite my bottom lip. At least that doesn’t rhyme with the best candy EVER. Ever. Evvverrrrr.

To the man at KFC who tried to get in my car:

First of all, ew. Second of all, EW. Third of all, EWWW. Most of all, when I go to KFC, there is absolutely no time for BS. Have you ever TASTED their biscuits? And their buttery spread. That stuff is not even close to being natural, but it is basically like fast-food crack. Because you ran away, I would like to address a few things:

1. A woman sitting in her car checking to make sure the buttery spread is, indeed, in the bag is NOT an invitation for you to interrupt her sacred woman vibe with your man stank.

2. My right door does not open in order to prevent creepos like you from getting in my car and interrupting the consumption of my buttery spread.

3. My right door does not open because my car is liberal, so everything fabulous sits on the left side of the car.

4. If I ever see you again, beware: I will be armed with so much buttery spread, you will cry.

5. You will cry tears of bitter regret, because what is buttery spread without honey.

And I won’t have honey.

To the man who tried to sell me a plastic gold necklace through my car window:

1. I don’t buy things through my car window.

2. I don’t buy PLASTIC things through my car window.

3. Do you think that I “like” necklaces by virtue of being a woman?

4. Don’t gesture to my neck, like it would fit perfectly. Women’s necks are not uniform.

5. You are trying to sell a woman a Plastic. Gold. Necklace. That’s not even sexist. That’s just dumb.

To ALL of the men in 7-Eleven: 

All I wanted was a lemonade slurpie. Liquid nitrogen is much healthier than sexism, so no, I was not looking to get some “action” in a convenience store. I LOCKED MY KEYS IN MY CAR. I was not interested in your wandering eyes as I pretended to be engrossed in choosing the right phone card, I did not look up when you walked by me, got so close I could smell you, and then looked back like you expected your smile to be orgasmic, and why was I not following you. It is really too bad that my keys were locked in my 1998 Camry (which doubles as my Nutmobile, lest you forget) so that I could not properly introduce you to the tools of the Nutshotting trade.

To the man who followed me down every aisle in 7-Eleven:

A woman should never be so fearful of being a woman that her eyes well up with tears. When you came up behind me and asked to see the newspaper, I kindly obliged. I should have asked you your opinion on the recount scandal in the race for state controller in the June primary, but you would have likely taken that as a sign of interest. I didn’t give you any encouragement to ask me how I was, what I was doing, if I wanted you to take me home, if I wanted you to follow me around the store. No mama anywhere taught you that you should approach women because, after all, they are all just sitting there, lusting after complete strangers. YOU taught you that. YOU taught you that a girl who is scared out of her mind is extra vulnerable, and probably needs you to protect her. When did it become okay to skip over the “getting to know you” part and barrel straight towards the “getting to knooooow you” part? Why do we immediately shield our bodies from men like you, hoping that you will leave us alone?

Why do you not leave us alone?

 

I wish that I could keep track of how many instances of sexism every woman on the face of the earth experiences on a daily basis, but I can’t. I can’t, because I can’t even keep track of my own experiences with sexism from the past week alone. I can’t because I have a place to fill, and that would be overstepping my bounds. And I have sandwiches to make.

So, men of Sacramento. There are some good eggs among you, and you yolks will get a chance in the spotlight, I promise. Some men are the bad eggs, but all women are affected by some men.

Watch out for my Nutmobile; I don’t sell ice cream.

 

How to Kill Polar Bears Without Really Trying

I have always wished that I had thought to write Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day before Judith Viorst, because it is the most basic premise for a children’s book ever. There is really no legitimate excuse for me not to have written it. It would be such a kicker to say, “Hey, I wrote Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day,” because you would always have the most eloquent bad days. In all honesty, though, I write my own Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day at least three times a week. Today’s takes place in a Peet’s Coffee during a moment of personal revolt against the independent, hipster coffee shops where I don’t feel welcome as a result of not having a numberless clock tattooed on my forearm.

Sometimes, there is something about my espresso not being single-origin that really turns me on. Usually, I am a patron of quaint coffee establishments where a “single cappuccino” means single-origin, and your cappuccino is $4.86, and all you can see are polar bears starving as glaciers melt, but you calmly sip your cappuccino nonetheless. On certain days, I really just want an industrialized Starbucks latté… which ensures the starvation of Antarctica’s entire polar bear population. Yes, coffee DOES affect polar bears. That’s, like, Rule #1 of life. Obviously.

I resurrected one polar bear cub by getting my cappuccino in a ceramic mug. You know you’re having a mainstream day when you have to ask for a glass mug, rather than your drink automatically being presented in a handcrafted glass from Nepal. Peet’s espresso is definitely not single-origin. BUT THEIR GINGERSNAPS. I quickly forgot about single-origin, because GINGERSNAPS.

To my left was a bodybuilder investing in a nonprofit, to my right was a high school couple talking about Twitter, and I was fed up with society specifically and humanity in general. As I stood up to leave, the lady sitting next to me (who was wearing dark glasses, a hat, black gloves, and was likely hiding from the feds) told me that she liked my bag. Little did she know that my bag contained political bribes and barters, so as to give me the upper-hand in dirty pool political journalism.

“You know,” she said, “I think I could make bags like that. Get myself a sewing machine, and make, like, three a week? Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’ll do. But then, I could also make a set of blouses that you buy together, and then you have, like, three for the office, one for going out, one for casual, you know?”

Because everyone just strips and puts on their “going out” blouse immediately after work…

“And I’m into vegan food. Like, chia seeds and kale and stuff? Did you know that you can make a cookie entirely out of almonds? You just smash the almonds, and that’s your cookie! This coffee and piece of cake cost me SIX BUCKS. I would sell my almond cookies AND coffee AND soup AND maybe some salad for six bucks! Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’d do. You know, if I ever opened a restaurant, everything would be included. You would buy a drink and get everything else for free.”

She continued to rattle off multiple doomed-for-failure entrepreneurial ventures, as if the most difficult part of it all was choosing which venture to get rich off of.

“I was headed over to Bank of America, but I think they’re up to some shady business. They’ve changed my account number THREE TIMES. And geek squad at Best Buy? They don’t know anything. But the geniuses at Apple, they know their s***. The employees don’t know anything, but those guys at the bar? Yeah, yeah, they know EVERYTHING.”

Next, I learned about her daily bike route, the “freakheads” on the road that try to hit her, how old people used to just “sit around and take naps and s***” and how “now they have to exercise.”

After expounding upon such fine topics as bike routes, bank conspiracy theories, and cutting-edge blenders, she moved on to explain how the female anatomy changes with age. I quickly (not quickly) learned that she feels the same way about doctors as she does about banks.

I learned about her menstrual cycles, Kourtney Kardashian’s moving meltdowns, yet another conspiracy theory (this time about organic produce), how she takes taxi cabs everywhere when she’s not biking to Bank of America, and her recommendation for hair styling.

“You remember when Britney Spears had her meltdown? I just shave my head every once in a while because it’s good for your hair. I just wear hats and stuff, you know?”

She leaned in. She leaned in a lot, generally when she wanted to use the f-word…which was frequently. And passionately.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“You see those old ladies behind us? They wear those dark glasses, thinking nobody can see their eyes, but they’re listening. They’re listening to everything I’m saying. Everything.”

“Doctors are quacks now. The drug companies run the med schools, so there is no incentive to be a good doctor. They wanted to amputate both of my legs a few years ago, just because they were lazy!”

Just as I was getting up to leave for the +/- tenth time, she leaned in again.

“Is there a Bank of America around here?”

 

 

Freelance Eyebrow Stylist

In the traditional spirit of feminist resistance, I decided against contributing to the power suit model. The only two female politicians who have wholly endorsed the power suit gimmick are Sarah Palin and Hillary Clinton, and the power suit failed them. The only one who has not been failed by the power suit model of politics is Nancy Pelosi. And she’s not even IN the Capitol anymore, so how could I possibly be influenced by the mythical aura of her power suit?

After being branded the token hippie of the group on the first day, I shaped up right quick. “A-line dresses and pointy flats!” I exclaimed to my mom, as she picked me up on one of the millions of one-way downtown streets. “How am I ever going to be taken seriously if I don’t look like a brash, hard-nosed politician, mama? It’s just not going to happen.” At this point, I forgot that I was a journalist and not a politician. So we bought a pair of pointy black flats, which I promptly returned after rediscovering that traditional dress codes are not really my cup of tea. In addition, they made me feel way too much like Sarah Palin, which is a problem since I don’t support the Soccer Mom Committee of America. Or live in Alaska. Or lose presidential elections.

My first day as an independent, freelance reporter (I added the “freelance” part to my title, because it makes me feel both whimsical and mysterious) I dressed in an A-line, black and white dress and the aforementioned pointy black Sarah Palin flats. During the height of my existential style crisis, I also realized that I would need a professional bag to carry my collection of political bribes and barters in. So, marching in my pointy black flats with my giant tacky/professional bag weighing down my right shoulder, I pressed the cross walk button across from the Capitol and waited.

“Excuse me, miss, could you spare some money to help the homeless?” Every time I turn down someone who is asking for money, I feel like a terrible human being. The only saving grace is that because I am a total white girl, I usually don’t carry too much cash around, and only have my credit card. For Starbucks. And Panera Bread. And froyo.

“I’m sorry, not today,” I replied.

“Okay, have a nice day,” the lady said.

Hurry up and turn, cross walk. I just turned down giving money to the HOMELESS (which makes me an awful person) and now I have to stand next to her for an awkward amount of time?

“Did you get your eyebrows done, hunny, or did you do them yourself?” I looked to my left. Wait. Didn’t you just ask me to donate to the homeless? Have you moved on to bigger and badder tasks, like my eyebrows?

“I did them myself,” I said.

“That’s amazing!” she exclaimed, as if I were Beyoncé and she were Jay-Z, meeting me for the first time and discovering that I had been the lead singer of Destiny’s Child.

“I can’t do mine, because I don’t have any,” she continued.

What do you do when someone tells you she has no eyebrows but you SEE eyebrows on her face?

“You have no eyebrows?” a voice asks behind me, and I turn to see a politician hoping to gain the intersectional vote of women and the homeless.

As the cross walk turned and I was asked to “take a moment to support marriage equality,” I realized that, really, all one needs to make a difference in the world of politics is a bag of bribes and a pair of nicely groomed eyebrows.

Baby Journalist Seeks Political Glory

“Go to the Capitol and report on a Senate bill.” You can just walk into the Capitol? Like, no one will say, “Hey, you can’t just walk into the Capitol!” Are we actually real journalists? Do you even know what’s going on right now? Can we go to that French bakery and study politics instead? Oh my gosh, I think I’m having a panic attack. Can they frisk you? Is that legal? 

Our minds were like a scene from a Thomas the Train Engine book, but without the happy, borderline creepy smiles and clearly delineated train tracks. Our tracks did not rotate smoothly to allow oncoming trains to pass safely; rather, our thoughts viewed such logistics as unnecessary formalities. We might as well have had the overenthusiastic “Hi, My Name Is!” label on our shirts say, “Baby journalist seeks political glory!” Walking past respectable bakery…after respectable bakery…after respectable bakery, we lighted upon a French bakery, that basically looked like every other bakery we had passed. Downtown establishments make up a pyramid of lesser/greater quality sandwich shops with the occasional Thai cuisine on the corner that touts, “People love us on Yelp!” The likely truth is, people probably don’t love them on Yelp! In terms of the downtown sandwich pyramid, a nondescript French bakery is basically like the tie to Justin Timberlake’s suit. Or the suit to Justin Timberlake’s tie. And where does Jay-Z fit in to all of this?

The quaint French bakery that we settled on consisted of black and white decor, brightly colored macaroons, and terribly brassy Disneyland music. People get so excited about macaroons. The two girls behind me practically bowled me over to breathlessly ask how much the macaroons cost. If you dye your food unnatural pastel colors, people will pay a fortune for it. How did macaroons escape the cultural roast of Yellow Dye #4? For some reason, seeing brie on a French menu is a calm reassurance of the bakery’s French authenticity. Caprese is on the same level as brie. So, naturally, I ordered the caprese, and embraced the calmness of its (in)authentic French-ness.

“We need to go,” Jackson said, an hour before we were to be at our committee hearing. “I don’t want to be that guy, guys.” The extent of my journalism career was “When Deven Met Sally” in high school and Katie Couric’s extensive Middle East coverage. I looked down at my beaded sandals and thought, “Katie Couric might wear these on vacation in the Hamptons.” I looked down at my Free People dress from Marshall’s and thought, “Katie Couric would never purchase a Free People dress from Marshall’s.” My fellow amateur journalists all looked the part in button-down shirts and slacks and skirts. Skirts, since the political world does not allow one to be too feminine, but feminine enough to be a turn-on to the political masculine majority.

We walked up the steps of the Capitol, alternating between fits of laughter and feigned seriousness. “Guys, I think that’s Nancy Pelosi,” I whispered excitedly, pointing at the woman in front of us, who was wearing a bright red power suit complemented by a luscious, blonde bob. I saw Nancy Pelosis in the bathroom, as I touched up the red lipstick that I thought made me look patriotic (probably more like a young Mitt Romney supporter), as we rode up the wood-paneled elevator, as we sat in the committee hearing scribbling down things we would never be able to decipher. She was everywhere; thousands of Nancy Pelosi clones – basically the goddess of the State Capitol.

“Do you just walk in there?” Jackson asked, as we stood nervously outside of the committee hearing room. We waited until someone important walked in, and then lunged for the door like a mound of disoriented puppies. “These…are…like…the…nicestchairsIhaveeverseen,” I said, with a gasp. Smooth, creamy, sage green, velvet-covered, handcrafted wooden chairs. We had been instructed to sit along the aisle in order to be in prime position to leap up and conduct earth-shattering interviews.

We did not conduct earth-shattering interviews.

We returned to the writer’s room to learn how to construct a pyramid lead, and to be reprimanded for writing too academically. Baby journalists have to write like babies in order to be taken seriously.

Monday’s political take-out order: 1. Hippies are not allowed in the Capitol, unless disguised in a power suit. 2. A power suit must be navy, and can only be red if you are Nancy Pelosi. 3. You are not Nancy Pelosi.