Thing of the Day: Hooking Up

In response to "No Hooking Up, No Sex for Some Co-Eds"

Disclaimer: I do not mean to attack Frannie Boyle’s personal choices, simply her choice and means of publicizing them.

That being said… (has anyone seen the Curb Your Enthusiasm episode where Larry David asserts that any time someone begins a sentence with “that being said”, what will follow will likely insult, upset, or judge you? It’s true), I am disappointed and confused with Frannie Boyle’s CNN piece on her decision to refrain from “the hook up culture at Vanderbilt.” Had Ms. Boyle chosen to express these choices to a few dear friends, or on her personal blog, or perhaps in her opinion column in the Hustler, I would respect and in some way admire them and leave them to exist in a realm different than mine. Boyle, however, has chosen to share this resolution with millions on CNN.com. Leaving me to ask—why?

CNN.com is not your sealed-with-a-kiss-heart-with-a-key diary, and I do not know why their reporters deemed the decisions of one Vanderbilt student’s love life (or lack thereof) news-worthy for millions of Americans. True, as far as new sources go, CNN.com tends to be trashy and emotional, which is why readers frequently do not know how many civilians have died in Iraq but do have access to really cute videos of army wives and husbands reuniting (note to those recovering from the “casual hook up” or “friends with benefit” encounter gone awry—watching these and crying into Ben and Jerry’s—the FroYo kind offered by the Munchi Mart, you mustn’t let yourself go entirely—can be very therapeutic), but nonetheless, my first question is: how did this piece go beyond the realm of the Hustler? Who does Frannie Boyle known at CNN.com that publicized this story to the point where my mom can awkwardly call me and say, “Honey? Are you friends with this girl?...ah, I thought you might not be.” And I know this is a lot to ask after this article, but whoever they are, can they possibly get me a job?

Newsworthiness and favors aside (but seriously…call me if they can), Ms. Boyle’s argument against hooking up, casual sexual encounters, and in some perverse and rather inexplicable link, day fratting (side note: I do take personal offense to Ms. Boyle’s arguments against day fratting and am moderately angry that when I hear the words “afternoon delight” I will no longer think of the charming and entertaining Will Ferrell film Anchorman but of her judgmental viewpoints against it) is faulty in several ways. Although she claims she abstains from any sort of non-committal sex because she “respects herself,” what Boyle is actually doing is disrespecting almost a century’s worth of feminist and women’s rights movements. In the 1960’s and 70’s, women practically begged for access to casual sex. They did not want to be virgins, sweethearts, or housewives, rather, they wished to claim full right of their sexuality and exercise it fully to their desire without criticism. If Boyle had kept her decision to abstain to herself or discussed it with some friends, I would not believe that she was in violation of what this movement had achieved for women. However, she chooses to not only share with millions but does so in a matter that makes those women who participate in non-committal sexual encounters seem morally and intellectually inferior to her. In saying that she “respects herself” by abstinence she implies that those who do participate in the behaviors she has left behind are not respecting themselves. And what do we call a woman who does not respect herself? A fool? A floozy? A slut? Ms. Boyle perpetuates this type of naming and stereotyping by identifying herself as the pure outsider.

A woman’s sexual choices, serious or casual, few or far between, are not to be publicized, discussed, and studied from sociological and cultural perspectives. They are her own. To criticize them is to take a dozen steps back from the heights of equality we aspire to. Furthermore, the “Bring Back Dating Facebook group cited in the article is inherently anti-feminist. “At least take her out on a date before trying to get her into bed,” the group’s motto reads. Umm…in our fight for rights and representation, didn’t we claim that we were equal to men in every way? Do we see men begging to be “taken out to dinner” before we make our moves? No, because that would inspire never-ending mockery on their fraternity list serves and rapid loss of male friends. But also, no, because if a man wants to be taken out to dinner, he will tell his woman. Not the world. In an unrelated but equally important note, claiming that Boyle has lost “male friends that don’t understand my decision …but they were probably never really my friends anyway,” makes the males that engage in casual sexual behavior seem as inferior as the females. And no, they were probably never your friends anyway. When you flaunt a BORN AGAIN VIRGIN stamp across your forehead, chances are, your f*ck buddies will likely stop calling.

And finally—what was it that happened to Ms. Boyle that so enforced this vendetta against “hooking up?” “After consuming large quantities of alcohol before a party, her night would sometimes end in making out with a stranger or acquaintance,” reads the article. After a year of this, she quits cold turkey. Honey. The best way to get over a particularly insensitive fratstar who you found locked in the tender embraces of your sorority sister at the last “GI Joes and Barbie Hoes” party is to blatantly ignore him, make a point of having a great time without him, and go home laughing when he texts you “Long time no see…where are you?” at 2:30AM (You are happily in bed with Bagel Bites and a Diet Coke, thank you). No reason to give up altogether. After all, in the wise words of the Gawker rebuttal “Warning: Celibacy Can Be Hazardous To Your Health,” Brian Moylan writes: “College is a fantasy world. It is a wonderful dream universe where children get to party their way to a degree, get graded on an easy curve, survive on meal plans made entirely of fast food, and live in comfy dorms way nicer than anything they'll be able to afford once they graduate and enter the stagnant job market. Trying to get them to give up the sexiest part of their extracurricular activities is just making it worse.”

Thing of the Day: The Motherland

I am basically the only first generation immigrant in my circle of friends and aquaintances, and I often forget how absolutely ridiculous the place that my family comes from actually is. My father is from Moscow, which is an awesome metropolitan city that I don't consider too different than New York. Of course, my views are slightly biased given that my only adult trip to Moscow was with a large group of Americans and I spent my time there eating overpriced food and gallivanting among nightclubs and casinos, but nonetheless, I don't think my Moscow upbringing would have been drastically different than my Manhattan one.

My mother, on the other hand, is from Norilsk, the Northernmost city in Siberia. Norilsk was founded for nickel mining in Gulag labor camps and is legitimately only accessable via sled in the winter months. Grandfather Bogo often used such sleds to hunt and catch deer and elk, the antlers of which we have mounted in our den despite numerous allegations from both myself and Sister Bogo that this sort of decor is really creepy and inappropriate in New York City and scares away potential non-immigrant suitors.

Momma Bogo just got back from visiting family in this wonderful place (average temperature, -10 degrees Celcius) and has sent me the above photograph. In addition to frolicking with small baby wolves like it was no big (these small baby wolves inhabit her brothers' back yard...normal), she participated in activities such as cross country ice skiing (I went cross country skiing once and threw down my skiis in a fit of rage and demanded to be carried back to the lodge...I was probably around fourteen), igloo building, and making me really glad that I grew up in a comparatively temporally climated city of tens of millions.

That aside--HOW CUTE ARE THESE CRITTERS?!

Thing of the Day: Sandra Bullock

Normally, I read celebrity gossip for two reasons:

1. Pretty things: Celebrities have really really pretty things and I want them. Often, H&M, Forever 21 and other stores I can afford to shop in make pretty things that look like the things that celebrities have, and I can buy them and be pleased at myself. Additionally, celebrities often hang out at New York venues I have been to, making me feel as if I am sort of one of them.

2. Schadenfreude: A German concept referring to "happiness at the misfortune of others." Beloved musical Avenue Q once said, "Schadenfreude...making me feel glad that I'm not you," and celebrity gossip often makes me feel this way. Who isn't glad to not be Britney Spears, or Heidi Montag, or that chick the Bachelor just picked that everyone hates (one trend I do not keep up with---reality dating shows). Reading celebrity gossip often reaffirms my happiness that I am not a celebrity, especially when really bad things happen to them or their cellulite is photographed. Of course, there are the instances where their 10 million dollar cribs and walk in closets the size of my apartment at school are photographed, and this concept fails.

Nonetheless, I never really think of celebrities as people, or identify with them. Some readers of celebrity gossip have favorite celebs, or one's whos stories they really track, but I don't. I have famous people I love to hate, but that's the closest I come to a favorite. And I never feel particularly bad when anything unfortunate happens to them.

Until now. Sandra Bullock, I want to write you fan mail. I want to send you a large basket of fruit with a card that says MISS CONGENIALITY WAS AWESOME AND SO ARE YOU! I want to hold you in my arms and eat Ben&Jerry's One Sweet Whirled (the actual ice cream, not the frozen yogurt version) and watch romantic comedies (perhaps your own) and tell you that its okay and tht your ex-husband's a cheating Nazi (which, actually, he is). Also, I haven't actually seen it, but everyone I know thinks The Blind Side was really good. And for one born in 1964, which makes you...umm...46(!!!), gurl, you look great.

Thing of the Day: Denial

Dear Vanderbilt,

If you send me another survey asking about my undergraduate experience, another PDF file informing me how many days are left till graduation, another reminder to get my cap and gown, or another prying questionaire about what I am doing after school, I will throw myself from the 9th floor window of my modeled-after-low-income-housing-yet-somehow-the-most-expensive-real-estate-in-Nashville apartment building (How satisified was I with the Office of Residential Education and Housing? Not very satisfied), leaving you with a massive PR crisis regarding why graduating seniors are not only jumping from windows but warning of this on their very public blog and not being stopped.

That being said, if I had the chance to relive my college experience, would I choose Vanderbilt again?

Yes, yes, yes, yes, a million times yes.

Wah.

Thing of the Day: Passover

Even though/especially because my roommate and I failed to go to tonight's Vanderbilt-sponsored seder, I would like to take this time to say that Passover is among my favorite Jewish holidays. I love Seders. In high school, these would involve long, wine-drenched meals at my best friend Rachel's house. Rachel's mother is Jewish and her father is not, and their Haggadah (the text that tells the Passover story and explains the Seder) was deliberately simplified and hand-illustrated with stick figures in order to teach him, (and bad Jews such as myself who learned the story of Passover exclusively from The Prince of Egypt) the stories with minimal complaint.

Last year, Passover fell during a trip to Moscow with my dear friend Stacy, and being a better Jew than I, Stacy rallied the four other celebrators in our tour group and assembled us in a Russian Restaurant that was a bizarre cross between an all-you-can-eat buffet and a Soviet TGIFriday's, where we made the best of it by arranging eggs, herbs, and assorted vegetables on a circular plate and drinking copious amounts of crappy Russian wine. We kept the celebrations pretty discreet, because I'm pretty sure they still hate Jews in the Motherland, but Stacy led some prayers and we felt rather proud of ourselves.

This year, a piling up of midterms exams and general laziness caused me to miss the Seder. I initially tried to claim that my vegetarian-ness would prevent me from eating the traditional foods, but when one thinks about it, that is a lie. The Seder is really as vegetarian as Jewish foods go. And if the Obamas can do it (awww, Barack and Michelle), so can I. In the face of midterms, TiVo, and excessive excuse making, we are going to the Vanderbilt Hillel's celebration tomorrow.

I am hoping that my efforts to keep Passover (that is, refrain from eating breads/bread products) this year will combat the fact that I spent the hours that I was supposed to be at Seder buying children's aquatic toys and warm-weather alcohol for my upcoming beach weekend in Florida.

But for serious, happy holidays and warm wishes to all those celebrating.

Thing of the Day: Chelsea Handler

I have expressed my not-so-secret aspirations to become Chelsea Handler (that is, physically morph into her in every way shape and form possible) both on this blog and in every day life, but after reading her third book, Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang, I have become hellbent on going to a filming of Chelsea Lately, charming her with my own inappropriate humor and affinity towards vodka sodas and television, and becoming Ms. Handler's intern and susequently her second in command for all time.

In Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang, Chelsea takes her 300 pound African driver to Turks & Caicos to find him a lover, adopts a dog with the same nickname as her boyfriend, steals a Cabbage Patch Kid from the neighboring teenage boy in exchange for an innocent game of doctor (here we diverge, Chels--I find Cabbage Patch Kids terrifying and awful dolls for children. They look like Chucky and cause hieghtened levels of teenage pregnancy in kids who grown up thinking that babies come from cabbage patches), and boozes her way through weddings, funerals, meetings, and casual Monday afternoons.

Furthermore, a recent episode of Chelsea Lately has clued me into this gem of a news piece--Zhora, a chimpanzee in zoological captivity in my great communist hometown of Moscow, has been expelled from the zoo and sent to rehab because of his drinking problem. Oh yes--zookeepers decided that Zhora the chimpanzee was consuming too much alcohol, and the alcohol caused him to behave erratic and aggresive. Additionally, he began to fiend for booze to the point where he would harrass innocent zoo-goers sipping on brewskis for sips of their alcohol, and sometimes accompany his liquoring habits with cigarettes.

WHAT? How does a chimp even hold a cigarette, let alone smoke one? Cigarettes are fairly fragile, I always find them irritatingly broken in half and scattering tar and nicotine onto all of the contents of my purse. Chimpanzees have big hairy clumsy hands, and if they get their hands on cigarettes without breaking them, how in the world do they light them?

Food for thought for Chelsea's next book, perhaps. Or mine.

Thing of the Day: Handicapped Restrooms

Up until seeing the episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm where Larry David is berated by a man in a wheelchair by using a handicapped restroom, I hadn't considered that the etiquette on handicapped restrooms is the same as that in say, handicapped parking spots--they are actually reserved only for the use of handicapped people.

I don't know if its because my immigrant parents didn't teach me better (because c'mon, there's no way Communist Russia attended to the public bathroom needs of handicapped people), but when it's available, I always use the handicapped restroom. It's bigger, and usually all the way at the end of the row of stalls and thus tends to have less urine on the seat. Speaking of urine on public restroom seats, I wish germaphobes everywhere would realize that there wouldn't be urine on (female) restroom seats, ever, if they could just stop squatting. It's simply unneccessary and creates a vicious cycle of pee. Sitting directly on the toilet seat is about as unsanitary as sitting on any public seat anywhere ever in a skirt. It is only the back of your thighs that touch toilet, not your genitalia or any somewhat private part. Last time I checked, one can contract no diseases via thigh to thigh contact.

But what do I know? I have full use of all my limbs and have never suffered from seizures or any other handicapping ailment and proudly and exclusively use those massive, sometimes equipped with own sink (!) last stalls.