As a white, middle-class, American girl, I grew up in privilege compared to the majority of girls in our world. Even so, I remember being told by an advisor that I should take statistics instead of calculus because “math is hard for girls.” I remember being questioned incessantly by the long-married girls my age in a Turkish town; they were highly suspicious of my intelligence for remaining unmarried and traveling by myself at 22. I remember the story my mother told me of how her highschool guidance counselor refused to submit her application to Stanford because attendance at a university like that would diminish her prospects for a good husband and happy life. I remember how the visiting Econ professor in college would only take questions from the raised hands belonging to men. I share these moments with you not to equate my condition with that of others but rather to connect the dots along of spectrum of experience, to form a thread of compassion and commitment. I have a privileged life. Girls everywhere deserve the same. And eventually, hopefully, being a girl – anywhere – won’t have any strings attached. The world will be that much more amazing for it.

I believe in the Girl Effect.

• 1 more year of primary school boosts a girl’s eventual wages 10-20%; a year of secondary school boosts it 15-25%.
• women reinvest 90% of their income into their families; men reinvest 30-40% of their income into their families.
• of the approximately 130 million youths not in school, 70% are girls.
• 1 in 7 girls in developing countries marries before age 15.
• 75% of those aged 15-24 living with HIV in Africa are girls.

These sobering statistics, and more, can be found at GirlEffect.org.

by Tom Munro via Vogue Spain

A number of girlfriends of mine have recently done boudoir shoots. The concept and impetus is the same, in my view – to celebrate female power and beauty. It’s about flirtation and fun, not about the size of one’s butt.

by Tom Munro for Spanish Vogue August 2011

What a great gift it is to embrace and celebrate that naughty and sexy side that so often must remain behind closed doors, or in the closet, or stuffed down so deep in women’s souls that they are afraid to even acknowledge its existence. It’s a gift to ourselves more than to anyone else we permit to see the images.

by Tom Munro for Vogue Espana

So, brava to Katie Holmes. And bravo to Tom Munro, the photographer who captured these inspired pictures.

Oh, and yes I WANT THAT EYE MASK!

Would you do a shoot like this if you could?

I was molested when I was eight years old, maybe nine. My memory is fuzzy like that. What I do recall is that he was fourteen and lived next door. He “taught” me how to French kiss and played “Doctor” with me behind the locked door of his basement bedroom. I told my parents in a vague way. They mentioned something to his parents. I think he got grounded. I, on the other hand, no longer felt safe.

I couldn’t articulate that loss of safety at eight, nor at eighteen. For years, I told the broad strokes of the events as a joke, not acknowledging the damage.

There were other violations, too. Some remain shadowed, articulated in my mind and body as simple, overwhelming distrust of particular men – family friends, family members – with whom I crossed paths as a child. The ones that happened to me as a adult are more distinct, and more complicated.

I’ve gravitated toward violence, you see. Not because I’ve wanted it, per se, but because it made it so much easier to be outside my self.

Now, I’m not saying that rough sex is bad. In theory, I think it can be a lot of fun – in a loving relationship, where trust is a component. I’ve never had it that way. My experiences with extremely aggressive sex have always required two very different components: 1) substantial amounts of alcohol, and 2) a stranger – either in physical identity or emotional availability.

Almost all the adult violations I’ve experienced were acted out with my permission.

That’s the fucked up, bizarre reality I’m currently processing and setting about to change.

I only very recently realized that, during most of my adult relationships, whenever I’ve said yes, I’ve actually meant NO and whenever I’ve said no, I’ve actually meant YES. Not in EVERY SINGLE instance, but far too many times for my peace of mind.

(And guys think they have a handle on the caliber of mind fucks and mixed signals they get from women… Ha!)

Before I go on, I must pause to say please, please, PLEASE do not interpret what I’m saying as illicit approval of men ignoring women when they say “no.” IT IS NOT. I’m simply revealing part of a dynamic I’ve discovered in my PERSONAL behavior that may resonate with some folks.

So let me explain (and here’s where it’s gonna get kinda graphic)…

I’ve said “yes” to a lot of behavior with which I really wasn’t okay, in the given circumstances. Or, actually, I’ve said “SURE,” to a lot of men. Not all the scenarios involved aggressive sex, but I meant NO each time.

SURE to him sneaking me into a hotel room.

SURE to him masturbating on my face.

SURE to him grabbing my crotch in front of a group of friends.

SURE to him using that belt on me but not letting me use it on him.

SURE to him being married.

SURE to him not using a condom.

SURE to him leaving bruises on my breasts that took weeks to disappear.

The list of “sures” is seemingly endless. Thirty years worth of yes meaning no.

I’ve said “NO,” too.

NO to him saying I’m beautiful. Whatever.

NO to him immediately responding to a voicemail. Don’t you have a life?

NO to him asking me what feels good. I don’t know.

NO to him asking me what I want. What do YOU want?

NO to him wanting to be with me. How dare you invade my space!

My thinking (if you wanna call it that) has gone something along the lines of, “If I say YES to this, I’ll die.”

Because YES – a real YES – means vulnerability. It means connection. It means I’ve got to BE THERE, IN THE MOMENT…

Aw, HELL no!

Give me that out-of-body experience. That’s safe. I’ve got control over that. He can’t hurt me. He can’t break my trust. He can’t betray me.

Because I’ve already betrayed myself.

Which doesn’t really matter because at least I’m safe.

HUH?

Yep, it’s taken me all this time to get the following epiphany: my brain comes up with some COCKAMAMIE theorems.

I’m ready to rewrite them.

I’m on the road to a place – just around the corner, please – where yes means YES and no means NO. It feels like I’m about halfway there. I’m no longer a child. I know what I want, need and deserve. I have tools by which to stay SAFE, by which to reconstruct boundaries and rebuild my self.

That’s one of the perks of adulthood.

Now my wish is that anyone – everyone, actually, woman or man – who lives with a similar misalignment of word and definition finds the courage and support to heal.

Be kind. Be honest. Be loving. Be loved.

1. Visiting my niece. I adore seeing my brother and sister-in-law as well, but who is kidding who? When there’s an absolutely scrumptious almost 2-year-old running around, everyone else plays second fiddle. It’s just the way of the world. We all accept that resistance is futile. She’s talking up a storm, in a delightful mix of English and Spanish. And she slays me. With a smile, a look, a shy pose. I am a slave for her attention and affection. Thank goodness she doesn’t quite know the extent of her power over me.
   

   Sofia on a September Day

2. Seeing proof of love. Two very dear friends of mine got married this month, in a gorgeous ceremony. She looked stunning. He looked gallant. The setting was glamourous. The flowers were magnificent. The dinner was delicious. What was most remarkable about this very In Style-worthy wedding, however, was the almost tangible aura of love that hovered over the entire evening. Not just between the bride and groom. Every single couple at the event exuded happy romance – and it was mostly couples, which precludes me from having the next memorable moment of the month be of me shagging some hot friend of the family in an inappropriate location while the happy couple cut the cake. Oddly striking. All the love, that is. Not the missed sex. That seems to be par for the course at the moment, thanks for asking. But the love. So many seemingly healthy relationships in one room. Completely disconcerting. And delightful.
   

   Golden Kisses Love Heart by lynda_luv/Flickr

3. Nathan Fillion. The Fall TV Season is upon us, and I will hold off commenting about everything else on the airwaves until a later date, but I must take this opportunity to celebrate the return of Castle and, more importantly, the smokin’, charmin’ and amusin’ package that is Nathan Fillion. I must admit I was skeptical about him when he first entered my (at the time) college dorm lounge during the late lunch hour, however many years ago. But he won me over when he turned all SciFi cowboy for Joss Whedon, and I now have carved out a permanent little place in my cold, cold heart and reserved it for all things NF. After all, there is nothing sexier than a man who makes me laugh, and who can laugh at himself. Who cares if it’s scripted.
   

   Copyright of Unidentified Funding Network/Studio

   Yum, right?

What excitement did September hold for you? I certainly hope it was pleasurable as well. Do tell!

Hidden

There is a famous Anais Nin quote that states, “…And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” You will find it scrawled in many yearbooks, inserted at the base of many emails and posted to many refrigerator doors. And then we all ignore the gentle reminder to allow ourselves to step out into the light, to reveal our true selves, to end the child’s game of hide and seek with that which makes us happy.

How many hours have we all spent in the closet? What? You thought it was reserved just for those persecuted for their sexual preferences? Hell, no. Now, I am not trivializing how devastating that particular reason must be for communing with the coat hangers. I’m simply saying that there’s room in there for anyone who is not showing his or her authentic self to the world. it takes a lot of courage to step into the light, whether it be to proclaim your love for someone who sports the same genitalia as you or your decision to pursue music over math or your obsession with accounting.

Or even your preference for Toy Poodles over Labrador Retrievers. Although, to be honest, I do have some judgment about that one. There actually may be something wrong with you if you prefer Toy Poodles. Standard Poodles, I get. But Toy ones? Please feel free to help me see the light on that.

Anyway, my point is that it is time to step out of hiding. At least, it is that time for me. The sun is bright. My skin is sensitive. But happiness is so much more expansive, inclusive and healing than fear. It is worth taking the risk.

Welcome to TMI Thursdays! As LiLu always says: Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

I have not forsaken you. I’ve simply jumped over to The Gospel of JP to reveal how I lost of my virginity. Compelling information that you can’t live without, let me tell you! How can you not go check that out? It’s a story chock full of juicy details you never wanted to know, and it’s my first guest blog, so go, go, GO… And then, come back.

Paired Up

It seems to me that everywhere I turn, my friends have paired up – not with each other, but with someone. Everyone is in couplehood. Many are in parenthood. I, however, remain the steadfast single gal. Whether this is by choice or circumstance is a befuddling enough question to support my therapist’s compulsive shopping habit for years, I’m sure. All I know is, I haven’t found the guy for whom I want to sacrifice the joys of singlehood.

I realize I’ve just broken the rules by which our society flourishes with the above statement. After all, marketers have spent millions brainwashing teaching us that happiness is only achievable after a platinum-set, non-conflict diamond and thousands of dollars worth of napkins, flower arrangements and paper products have been ordered (except if you’re gay, of course, in which case you have no right to happiness unless you live in some Hell-baiting place like Massachusetts or Ohio).

Here’s the little secret I’ll share with you, though. Regardless of your gender, sexual preference or age, there are some fantastic perks to being single.

• No one else’s dirty dishes get left in the sink.
• No one steals your pillow or confronts you first thing in the morning with 5-alarm breath.
• The toilet seat is always exactly as you leave it.
• You can spontaneously visit a friend, see a movie or travel to another country without consultation.
• You can experience the titillating pleasure of starting to fall in love all over again.

Middle Man

Maybe it’s time to retire the middle man persona once and for all, let others clean up their own messes and craft a new role for myself. What else, I wonder, is there to play? I hope I have a cool co-star.

Compliments

So, compliment someone today. Just a little smile will do. And next time someone compliments you, say “thank you.” Period.

I was at a gorgeous and great birthday party last night, for a dear friend. It was a very adult soiree, and by adult I mean sophisticated – smart people having interesting conversations while eating gourmet food on breakable dishware and drinking fine wine from real glasses. While looking across the sea of grown-up faces, however, I was struck by the prevalence of a phenomenon that has followed us all from the preschool playground. Girls talk to girls; Boys talk to boys.

Now, to be fair, this gender division was not a constant throughout the evening. The party-goers were a very friendly group of people who genuinely liked each other, so of course there was much mingling. But it cannot be denied that frequently the handfuls of individuals in huddles here or there, discussing this week’s political or sports or pop culture events, were made up of only women or only men.

It got me thinking about the subtle and not so subtle messages we get throughout our lives about the differences between the genders. How is it possible, in 2009, when we have just watched a huge chunk of the barrier between Black and White fall away, that there is still a line between Pink and Blue?

Pink and Blue

Anyone who has ever been in a relationship can confirm that the differences between the sexes are not imagined. But are these differences nurtured in us or are they simply in our nature? Should these differences be celebrated and encouraged or dismissed and denied? Are they good, bad, or irrelevant? And who decided that these differences could be boiled down to a preference for pink or blue? It is a relatively new paradigm. Prior to the 20^th century, conventional wisdom associated pink, as a diluted form of red, with masculinity.

Perhaps my inquiry stems for a personal dislike for the color my gender has been arbitrarily assigned. I am a redhead, you see. And despite John Hughes’ and Molly Ringwald’s attempts to pull one over on the world by postulating that redheads are Pretty In Pink, it is simply not true. So these questions swirl around my head. I have no answers, of course. I’m just asking. But I’m not the only one.

Celine and Her Pink Things

I stumbled across an awesome photographer, JeongMee Yoon, who is exploring the gender-specific color distinctions in an engaging, amusing, and thought-provoking way. Yoon takes portraits of young girls and boys with their respective pink and blue toys.

Ethan and His Blue Things

These photographs reveal not only how very real the phenomenon is, but also hint at how much our consumer-driven economy depends upon this division.

Cotton Candy

So, tell me, what is your favorite color? Will you raise your children color blind? And which cotton candy do you like better – Pink or Blue?