I'm no stranger to a good snarky rant about all things sugary, religious, heartwarming, and just below the lacy surface completely and totally sexist bullshit. It's no secret that my homeland of Salt Lake City is not the world's leading champion of gender equality. At best it's a modern Jane Austen novel, trying to make the best match with the most handsome return missionary before we're old maids.
Speaking of Jane Austen, do yourself a favor and NEVER WATCH THIS.
At worst, you're seeing the 2011 version of this:
Nowhere is this more palpably obvious than in the touching (nauseating) poem I first saw framed on a friend's wall many years ago. It wasn't the first time I've seen it, and unfortunately, many more little girls are going to be decorating their rooms with this (and those marvelous Mormonads!) for generations to come.
Meet My Three White Dresses! The rallying cry to be all that you can be! To know that you as a girl are unique, dynamic, able to do anything you want with your life!
Just kidding. It's about getting married and having babies.
My mom bought me a white dress, Not red or pink or blue. She said it was a special dress Like very other few.
There has been just one before, A dress now put away. That I wore sometime ago upon my blessing day. As a little baby clothed in my first white dress, My dad held me in his arms, there to name and bless. So pure and clean was I just then, With time to grow and learn About the Father's plan for me. My glory I must earn.
Now I've reached the age to judge the wrong road from the right, And I am here to be baptized in this dress of white. So once again I'm free from sin, The path is clear to me. I'll grasp the road and hold on tight, I vow with certainty.
Just as mud would stain my dress, Sin would stain my soul. The key is to repent or bleach, For whiteness is my goal.
And if I try my very best, Then richly blessed I'll be, Wearing inside God's holy house White dress number three.
So today I make this pledge: I'll strive to choose the right, Through this sacred baptism ordinance In my second dress of white.
Am I opposed to marriage? No. Do I hate children? No. Well, only when they make that horrible screaming sound while I'm trying to concentrate on something important like buying things I don't need at Target or have the sheer bad luck of being dragged by their idiot parents to the movie theatre to see such family classics as Your Highness. or Jurassic Park. No, not joking. I witnessed both of these events, and I'm sure they took some interesting information to Kindergarten with them the next day.
Three important milestones in a woman's life? Sure. I can't help but notice there's no picture of a college graduation cap in this sort of artwork. I don't see a white lab coat, or doctor's scrubs, or a military dress uniform, or even a sports uniform. Feminine, sweet, dresses. All white. White symbolizes purity, but it's also blank. Every woman has three. White. Blank. Dresses. None of these "accomplishments" involve a brain, or a set of skills, or a personal goal or individual, all about you dream. Because if you don't have these three dresses in your metaphorical closet, you've missed something. None of these celebrate an obstacle you've overcome, an opponent you faced down, a mountain you climbed. They represent you doing exactly the same things as every other good little girl at the exact right moments. Born + baptized + married = your legacy.
What if one of those dresses isn't in the closet? Does that make you...less? Again, I am a huge fan of marriage when people are truly in love and when the time is right. Go marriage, as I always say! (I don't actually say that.) Marriage doesn't mean you can't do any other career-minded thing you as a woman want to do. And most men (hopefully) aren't going to steal your shoes the minute you cross the threshold and lock you in the kitchen. There are as many fantastic gents in this world as there are dames. I have the privilege of attending three weddings this summer and they're each and every one a fantastic, mad, marvelous idea. But what if, by Three White Dresses logic, what if you're not ready to get married, or if you've never met the right man...does that mean, as the song suggests, you didn't "try really hard" enough to get married?
But why address these issues? Here, whilst I take a few minutes to stretch my legs, burn some bras, and stomp around in mannish shoes bossing people around until they turn gay, take a look at some of the people on the other side of the issue. THREE WHITE DRESS FANS, ASSEMBLE!
Okay, back story: Two years ago I innocently brought my Mother to Disneyland on the day commonly known as Bats Day. I thought she'd be horrified. Instead, she spent the day delightedly pointing out the different types of strange people. Statements abounded such as
A) Hey, look at that grandma goth!
B) Hey, look at that baby goth!
C) That dog collar looks uncomfortable!
D) Aren't they hot in all that black?
E) Why is that man wearing a top hat?
Fast forward two years. My mother has planned a birthday/Mother's Day trip entirely based on bringing my Dad to witness this Goth-topia for himself. They're from a small town. They're used to making their own fun. So off we went! And I filmed it.
Extra bonus:
My Dad's legendary WORST BRITISH ACCENT EVER makes several appearances! It's like Steve Irwin meets Monty Python meets a Dickensian chimney sweep. It's pretty ear-gougingly awful. Naturally I encouraged it.
I love me some period dramas, people. That's when my inner drama queen and my fashion whore get together and make sweet sweet lavish imagination babies. My recent fix has been Downton Abbey on PBS.
And because there's one more part of me that I would be happy to add to that baby's genetic makeup, it's that delightful British comedy I love so damn hard.
Hooray for Red Nose Day! Bringing you...
Uptown Downstairs Abbey!
I just imagine myself back in one of these little fashion and fainting couch ensembles and ignore the fact that, seriously, if I had lived in those times, I would be the poor bastard getting slapped in the face by the cook for not cleaning the fireplace right. It could be worse, though. Even the chambermaids are brilliant because the actresses are brilliant. And, hey, look at Kim Catrall, getting her period on!
Okay, that just sounded gross. Plus we all know she's about eighty, so that's scientifically impossible anyway.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go feed my imagination baby some Upstairs, Downstairs.
Money is trying to keep the black man down. I have proof:
THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN! Just ask the fine (fine = delusional and racist) ol' boys over at Dixienet! They took a few hours off from making those silly little ghost costumes to learn how to cobble together a website! Then they decided to make a little rubber stamp of a confederate flag and get all creative with their wrinkled twenty dollar bills. Before spending them on a carton of discount smokes. Because that's just good marketing.
I'm sure when they got done with their little craft project, stamping happily away on whatever change they had in their pockets--I bet doing the pennies was tricky!-- they all sat back, cracked open some beers, sighed happily, and pretended that little flag was fluttering proudly above the real White House. Then they went home to their double-wide trailers just in time to watch their favorite shows. Oops. Guess President Obama has a televised speech tonight. Sorry, buddies.
I take great delight in using this racist money to support the business of a nice Mexican man.
To recap: Meet Crazy Shower. It is made of bits of what I assume is PVC pipe and wood glue. It wants to bathe your nether regions, and it isn't ashamed to shout it loud and proud. In traffic.
I love Crazy Shower Car. Crazy Shower Car is the Sasquatch of North Hollywood. These frantic, traffic-dodging camera phone pictures are my version of the Patterson-Gimlin film. Minus the whole "actually a hoax with a gorilla costume" thing*.
Enough jibber-jabber. On to the Shower!
Shh. I'm sneaking up on it. I have to be cautious. I'm waiting for the time I pounce upon my elusive prey only to find Mr and Mrs Shower surrounded by all their belongings, having lost their home. Not because the Crazy Showers weren't selling, because that would be nuts. No, no, I'm referring to their compulsive need to re-wrap their truck with completely different advertisements every few months. Pimping their ride is what will bankrupt these crazy, showery dreamers, reducing them to a life spent sleeping in the back of their truck on a bed of bidet-parts and burlap sacks. Crying.
This season's theme seems to be Spanish. To lure in the bilingual clients. Yep, the problem with the last banner was too much English.
So remember, kids: Toilet paper leaves you dirty. If by "dirty" you mean "not having lukewarm toilet water blasted at your anus".
In related awesome cars I've seen today news, check out this awesome car what I saw today! If a giant had roller skates, this would be one of them! Hooray!
*Dear baby Zeus and Athena, let Crazy Shower Car have a fake gorilla next time.
I live in Hollywood. I act. I love all things Jane Austen. I live in the most beautiful and profound gutter in the world. It teaches me things about myself every day.
And I am mistaken for or compared to Winona Ryder at least once a week. I am not. I am the Unwinona.
