thoughts while watching black devil doll

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See what I did there? Yeah, that’s because I didn’t watch it.

This week in the ts/en/yisy/ssv* movie club, it was Andrew’s turn to pick. We went with the inimitable Black Devil Doll.

As much as I would like to say that one of us said ‘no dear god no!’, that didn’t happen. It pretty much went like this.

Andrew: Sorry for the delay. I’m drawing a blank on picking a new one. “Black Devil Doll” piqued my interest, but I’m not sure how everyone feels about blaxploitation movies.

Sam: i forgot to add, what does everybody think about limiting it to instant netflix movies?  it seems when we rely on physical copies, something always turns foul.

Andrew: That may be a bit restrictive (I only say this because Black Devil Doll is not a watch instantly movie and I just read a review that makes me want to watch and write about it).

Sam: well let’s roll with digital video disc technology this round then, and watch us some devil doll!

Andrew: Post a week from monday, 1/25? Or can we get this done for the coming monday, 1/18?

Sam: im gonna say the 25th, because i’m not an ambitious man.  anyone want to test my laziness?

Emma: No way on the 18th- birthday celebrations galore.

There you go. Given every opportunity to say ‘hmmm, maybe we should skip the blaxploitation’ Sam and I both just rolled with it.

Then Jason watched it. He was on the email string above, but didn’t participate, and he was the first to receive the now infamous digital video disc from Netflix.

He may actually be quitting movie club. That’s how bad it was.

I sent mine back unwatched based on the strength of his reaction, but Sam and Andrew decided to power through.

Apparently the devil doll hates women, and the person who made the movie hates women and black people, and everyone hates Patrick Dempsey.

Hating Patrick Dempsey is like hating puppies and rainbows. And unicorns. And puppies romping with unicorns in a meadow under a rainbow. And me. Hating Patrick Dempsey is like hating me.

We’re so embarrassed right now. My only saving grace is that through sheer forgetfulness, I forgot to post that this was our pick and therefore (dear god I hope) none of you watched it. If you did, my most sincerest of apologies. We are not into hate, as a movie club or as individuals, and if you watched it because we picked it we owe you BIG time. I will blog on the topic of your choice as a reward. Heck, we all will. All four of us (assuming Jason starts talking to us again). Just let us know.

To quote Sam: please don’t watch this movie.

Emmanation rating: dear god please do not watch this movie.

*If you can think of a fantastic anagram that uses those letters for us to use as a movie club name, you will be forever loved.

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talkies

If this proves to be a good idea, I’m going to start uploading a Sunday Talky in place of my previous Sunday Best posts.  If it proves to be a bad idea, I… won’t.

Also, do I really smack my lips like that when I talk, or is that a function of being videotaped? I’m hoping for the latter.

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Filed under sunday talky, they let me on skates?

trust women

It’s the anniversary of Roe vs. Wade, and Blog for Choice asks “what does trust women mean to you”?

I am pro-choice. I’m not going to try to explain why or tell you that you have to be pro-choice too, but I think ‘trust women’ and the statement it can be rolled up into – ‘trust individuals’ – is a good one. Trust people to make their own choices. To do what is right for them. Personally, abortion would not be right for me. I crossed that line sometime during or immediately following college. If I had a baby now, it wouldn’t be ideal, but I would make it work and I have no doubt I would love him or her with my entire being.

And you know what? If my 19 year old self had had an abortion, my current self would have been proud of her for that. Because I trust her.

On a semi-related note, a late-30-something coworker came into my office yesterday and waved his hands in the air and said “I love my son. I love my dead, gay, son“.  And left. He doesn’t have a son, dead, gay, or otherwise, in case you were wondering. My office is so weird.

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boobies

Warning: family members and coworkers (particularly those of the non-utero-American variety) might want to skip this post. Dad, I am specifically talking to you and I am not kidding.

Ok, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way – I think my boobs are shrinking. I don’t know how it’s happening, but I’m pretty sure it is. I’m thinking about this because of a post on Shapely Prose yesterday called ‘of boobages’. How can you NOT read it, with a title like that? It’s a frank discussion of breast size written by a woman whose boobs apparently grow and shrink with the seasons, her hormones, and perhaps what she ate for breakfast.

This one time, before I met the boy, I took Shovonda shopping with me for a cute shirt to wear on a summertime date.

I ended up with something like this.

While I was trying it on, Shovonda said ‘that will be PERFECT with a better bra’.

‘What’s wrong with my bra?’ I was wearing a version of the same damn bra I wear every day.

‘Well…’ Here she looked at me like I she was about to revoke my status as a woman – ‘it’s not, you know, doing anything for you’.

Basically something like this, except instead of paying Gap $32 for one, I buy a two pack from the girls section of Target for $7.99. Yeah, you're jealous.

I started looking into bras that would… ahem… do something for me. There are choices, but they all made me feel like an idiot, so I haven’t bought one yet.

This one gives you TWO extra cup sizes. That's the difference between oranges and grapefruits, people.

Please be aware that these pictures are representative of what you get when you search for ‘wireless cotton bra’ vs. ‘padded bra’. Apparently us wireless cotton girls don’t need wind tousled hair and leopard print fabric.

Volcanista, the blogger that wrote the above mentioned post, has been in my shoes. She’s also, apparently, been in the shoes I’d be in if I bought the above bra.

It was very easy to notice changes in how I was treated between month A [A cup bra] and month C [C cup bra]…But what caught me even more by surprise was how much friendlier people were — men and women, friends and colleagues and strangers. Most of those people probably were not even particularly interested in sleeping with me or deliberately hitting on me (hard to believe, I know!). They were just… nicer. I didn’t have to wear anything especially revealing for that to be true, either. Bigger breasts just meant better treatment in general, and while some men were creepy and deliberate about it (see above), for most people it seemed to be unconscious. We are heavily socially conditioned to react favorably to breasts.

I have no idea if that’s true. Also yesterday (which was apparently a boobieful day), I wore a tank top under a cardigan to work. The tank top rides about seven fingers below my collar bone. One of my coworkers came in and raised his eyebrow eeeever so slightly, clearly indicating that he thought it was something of a risqué choice.

My first thought was to leap to my defense by saying ‘but my boobs are SMALL!’ Fortunately I didn’t, because on the scale of professionalism that’s about a negative 4 (where 0 is saying ‘fuck’ at work (which I do all the time)). But it’s true. If my girls were a C, I would never in a million years have worn a shirt that low cut.

So. On to a deep analysis of my breast size.

  • Pro: A lot of the fashion choices that I make, I am able to make because of my size. I can sub unlined tank tops for bras, I can expose a wider expanse of the skin on my chest because of my reduced non-existent cleavage, and I can work out in my day-to-day bras in a pinch. I’m comfortable with how my breasts look on my body, which is also not gigantic.
  • Con: My friends with more generously endowed breasts are objects of fantasy (I know this because apparently having little boobs makes men think I’m practically packing a penis and would therefore love to hear about how much they want to motorboat that girl down the hall). They’re frequently construed as more feminine, and sexier in the way that the leopard print bra girl is sexier. More looks on the street kind of sexier. Joan Holloway sexier. Also, based on the research conducted by Volcanista, people are nicer to them. Even people who don’t want to get into their pants.

Balanced. Ish.

BUT NOW THEY’RE SHRINKING.

This is bullshit. Everyone be really nice to me, even with my little boobs. Ok? Promise?

Thanks.

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Filed under it's hard being this beautiful, tellin secrets, turns out I'm a feminist

the tiniest sprinter is a party pooper

tiniest sprinter: so how’s the butt?

emma: achy. i think it’s broken.

tiniest sprinter: whaaa? what does that mean? can you still do stuff? we’re talking tailbone here, right?

emma: yeah. tailbone. i think i broke it because the symptoms of bruising are different. it hurts when i sit on it. but not actually more than when i’m not sitting on it. its hard to explain. but i think it’s broken.

tiniest sprinter: i’ve heard they don’t DO anything for it if it’s broken anyway, though, right?

emma: right. maybe tell me to stop skating. and fuck that shit.

tiniest sprinter: you should have the tailbone removed!

emma: i was talking about that last night. and either get it replaced with titanium so i can mess some girls up. or some floppy polymer so i’m all bendy.

tiniest sprinter: or just removed. i doubt it does anything.

emma: ok but imagine if it was titanium. and i could put thread on there and then get a titanium tail and screw it on and off whenever i wanted.

tiniest sprinter: gross. the tail would come out from between your butt cheeks.

emma: wow you are just a serious party pooper today

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rise up with fists

I think I’m getting weirder in my old age – or if not weirder, crankier. I think I’ve mentioned before that I’m looking forward to being an old lady, as it will allow me to audition for old lady movie rolls and wear and say whatever I want.

Turns out I’m not necessarily waiting for oldness.

After the slumber party on Saturday night, I informed the boy that he’d be taking me to dinner and a movie, with both the restaurant and movie being my choice – unless of course I didn’t feel like making the choice, in which case he had to choose but he had better choose something I would have chosen myself if I’d been able to choose.

The whole movie thing didn’t work out, because Avatar is three freaking hours long. Does the Hollywood industrial complex not appreciate the subtleties of my bladder size? Particularly when, while in birthday princess mode, I insist on having a drink or two beforehand? We skipped it in favor of going round most of our favorite Boulder restaurants and eating whatever I felt like eating at each place.

Which was apparently queso fundido, fried pickles (how have I not eaten fried pickles before? That shit is GENIUS), and coconut carrot soup.

And at every place, I confidently and àpropos of nothing informed our server that it was my birthday. Like an awesome old lady would. It totally earned me a free dessert. When I’m an old lady, my life is going to be nothing but free desserts.

Also, today I’m dressed like a gypsy. Because I felt like it.

Gypsy dressing.

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Filed under I think I'm funny, I'm a cranky brat, it's all about me

you say it's your birthday

Oh wait, that’s me. It’s MY birthday.

I usually drag the celebration out to a week or more, but this year I’ve only managed a couple of days. Saturday I had a birthday princess pajama slumber party complete with a tiara shaped cake, a dozen women in my 700 square foot house, and a drink menu that included champagne, cherry champagne cocktails, lemon drop martinis, and more wine than you can shake a princess wand at.

As you’re no doubt imagining, it pretty much looked like a cross between

This. The one in the middle is clearly me - she even has my hair.

And this.

I made these fantastic women, who had already left the house in pajamas just because I asked them to, play a series of goofy games.

  • Everyone had to pick a PJ name – kind of like a derby name but specific to the slumber party. There were some killers, including Rosey Glow, Pepper, Katie Kakes, and Suga’ Moma. I quite literally withheld drinks until names were chosen – because that’s the kind of hostess I am.
  • I passed around a notebook and a pen and made everyone write either the best thing about their 29th year or what their plan for 29 is, depending on their stage of life. Most memorably, my friends who are less than 29 are apparently going to cure cancer and AIDS in their 29th years – keep an eye out for that, it’s gonna be huge.
  • When I opened my gifts, I told the most embarrassing story I could think of about each person.
  • I made everyone tell their best Emma story. Not a single person reciprocated with an embarrassing story about me, even though one of the stories I’d told involved a roomful of teenage girls sitting around rubbing their eyelids because one my girlfriends-who-shall-remain-nameless told us that’s what a penis felt like.

In summary, the women in my life are fan-fucking-tastic and I am something of a brat when I throw a party.

29 is going to be a very good year.

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