Kiss My Tiara Part 15

Members from the NRA don't get caught up trying to prove to the rest of the world that they're not just gun nuts. They focus fervently on what's in their best interest, then lobby for it like maniacs. By doing so, they've remained one of the most powerful interest groups in America.

We SmartMouth G.o.ddesses would be smart to follow suit. Promote, vote, and lobby for our own best interests-unwaveringly, and without apologies.

10. Why should the drag queens have all the fun? There's no better form of subversion than irreverence with b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Humor is-and must always be-our ultimate power tool, our primo weapon of choice. There's no quicker death knell for us progressive prima donnas than taking ourselves or the world too seriously. Quite frankly, if we don't see the brilliant silliness of it, or the comedy in our own existence, we're really not fit to defend or rule anything. Activist Emma Goldman once said, "If you can't dance to it, it's not my revolution." Well, the same is true for any "revolution" where we can't vamp it up, camp it up, parody, satirize, mock, rag, lampoon, goof, howl, hoot, cackle, chuckle, chortle, giggle, guffaw, shriek, play a kazoo, slap our knees, get hysterical, or laugh our a.s.ses off, either.

Besides, when author Margaret Atwood polled men about what they fear most from women, the men replied, "That they'll laugh at us." If that doesn't make it crystal clear what our strategy should be toward the patriarchs, frankly, I don't know what does.

Conclusion So Who Ever Said We Were

Supposed to Be Happy?

It's always something.

-GILDA RADNER In 1998, a woman named Danielle Crittenden wrote a book, What Our Mothers Didn't Tell Us: Why Happiness Eludes the Modern Woman. Its premise? That women today are "more miserable and insecure, more thwarted and obsessed with men, than the most depressed, lithium-popping suburban housewives of the 1950s."

Crittenden, who herself was never a fifties housewife, bases her claim on the fact that women's magazines-which, as we know, have absolutely no commercial agenda whatsoever-depict women as more desperate and confused now than twenty years ago.

Why does Crittenden believe women today are more "desperate and confused"? Because in our heart of hearts, she says, most young women really want to be wives and mothers more than anything-but "feminists" have convinced us to deny this.

If we get married and have children in our early twenties, stay home to raise them, then launch careers when we're middle-aged, Crittenden a.s.serts, we'll be far happier than the Baby Boomers. These women, she argues, are bitter and miserable because feminists told them to have careers first, then families, in a way that goes against female "nature" and "biology."

An eye roll, please.

Okay, let's ignore a few things for a moment.

Let's ignore that a 1999 poll of such Baby Boomers by Redbook magazine found that women today "report an enormous contentment" and say their lives are "getting better all the time."

Let's ignore that divorce rates are higher for those who marry young.

Let's ignore that most mothers today, no matter what their age, have to work (the average income for an American family is a whopping thirty-nine thousand dollars).

Let's even ignore that we gals have brains as well as wombs-and, last time I checked, brains were a part of female "nature" and "biology," too.

And since we SmartMouth G.o.ddesses are a generous sort, let's even a.s.sume that, for those of us who know for certain by age twenty-two that we want kids more than anything, there are plenty of mature twenty-two-year-old men ready, willing, and able to single-handedly support us for the next fifteen years.

Even if we perform all these stunning contortions of logic, Crittenden's argument still falls flat. Why?

Because it a.s.sumed there's a special reason why "happiness eludes the modern woman" in the first place.

Excuse me, but people have been miserable and neurotic since time immemorial. Who told Crittenden that we modern gals are supposed to be exempt?

Throughout history, our species has been a bunch of kvetching, existentially insecure, anxious, semipsychotic pains in the a.s.s. We've suffered from something known as "the human condition," which is sort of like a global, eternal form of PMS.

And why shouldn't we? We're the only species that can comprehend its own mortality and yet do absolutely nothing to change it. I mean, talk about a cosmic joke where we're the punch line.

The human condition means that, like any other animal, we worry about survival issues, such as getting enough food, until the moment when we get enough food-at which point, unlike any other animal, we immediately start worrying about stuff like "good cholesterol" and whether Corn Bugles are better than Fritos.

The human condition means that once we stop worrying about getting raped and pillaged by marauders, we start worrying about stuff like 401(k) plans and male-pattern baldness.

The human condition means that, if we're not trapped suburban housewives addicted to lithium in the 1950s, we're neurotic career girls popping Prozac in the 2000s.

In other words, as Gilda Radner's brilliant Sat.u.r.day Night Live philosopher Rosanne Rosannadanna used to say: "It's always something."

We gals are smart to acknowledge this. The fact that we're human predisposes us to a certain amount of angst. This is a given. As my mother always told me: "You make your choice, you pay your price. Everyone."

My dentist recently engaged me in a big discussion of feminism. Actually, who are we kidding here? She talked, I drooled. I was a captive audience in that d.a.m.n chair.

"Women are juggling so much, now," my dentist said. "They're up at 5:30 A.M to get the kids to day care, earn money, do the housework. They're working so hard."

I wanted to rip the paper bib off my chest, spit the little suction tube out of my mouth, and cry, "Women have always worked hard and juggled! It used to be, we were up at five-thirty in the morning to milk the f.u.c.king cows, gather eggs, and help till the land-otherwise, we didn't eat. We worked all day farming, mothering, and running the household. We routinely buried at least half our children and died in childbirth ourselves. And, to top it all off, we had to endure all sorts of humiliation and abuse because we were entirely dependent upon men for survival, social acceptance, protection, and money!"

G.o.ddess only knows where Americans got the c.o.c.kamamie idea that, in the "good old days," women stayed home and "didn't work." The much-mythologized, stay-at-home middle-cla.s.s American housewife of the 1950s existed for maybe twenty-five of the seven thousand years of recorded Western history. I mean, that's hardly a trend, people.

Besides, since when is homemaking not work? Just because an oven is self-cleaning doesn't mean the rest of the house can take care of itself. The whole reason those glorified fifties housewives began celebrating happy hour at 11:00 A.M. was largely because no one was recognizing or legitimizing their contributions to society.

But I didn't say all of this to my dentist. It's amazing how quickly one abandons one's principles when there's a drill in one's mouth.

Look, feminism has given us choices. It's given us more ways to be happy and, yes, more ways to be miserable. But now, at least, we get to choose our destiny a little more. I mean, c'mon! Are we naive enough to think that there's some magic formula, some code-cracking combination of life decisions that will guarantee us nirvana-if only we're smart enough to make the right choices?

In case we are that naive, here's a handy-dandy laundry list of some of our options, complete with upsides and downsides. Out of respect for Danielle Crittenden, I've started with her formula first. Here goes: Formulas for Happiness.

1. Marry & have kids young, stay home, launch career late.

Pros: Makes most of biological clock & stamina. More able to chase toddler through traffic while carrying stroller, diaper bag, breast pump.

Cons: If hubby departs, you might as well be on t.i.tanic. Either way, have fun competing against 21-year-olds for entry-level jobs during menopause.

2. Career first, marriage & kids later.

Pros: Earn own money, acquire stolen office supplies & frequent-flier miles from work. Possibility of Having It All at Once.

Cons: Including nervous breakdown. Kids maybe conceived in petri dish. Stepping on squeaky toys in high heels at age forty-four makes you slowly homicidal.

3. Be trophy wife to really rich guy.

Pros: Don't ever have to worry about money again. Permanent reservations at Le Cirque 2000.

Cons: Requires constant plastic surgery; essentially glorified prost.i.tute.

4. Single-career powerhouse.

Pros: Money, professional fulfillment. When people ask, "Why no kids?" can respond, "Because I'll be hiring yours."

Cons: Stock portfolios can't clean kitchen, perform oral s.e.x.

5. Single mom.

Pros: Get to have family even w/o romantic partner. p.i.s.s off Dan Quayle.

Cons: Harder than it looks on TV. Harder than anything else in world. Fast track to poverty.

6. Be countercultural.

Pros: Live on own terms, buck oppressive system, groovy & interesting clothes & friends.

Cons: How much tofu can person eat? Also, good luck getting health insurance.

7. d.i.n.kS: Dual Income No Kids.

Pros: Can dine at restaurants w/o chicken fingers on menu, travel to Zimbabwe, never have to listen to Barney video.

Cons: Perpetually on defensive. Treated like freaks. Greek chorus asking, "So when are you going to have children?"

Really. I say we Supergirls should just be glad we have the fundamental American freedom to f.u.c.k up our lives entirely on our own terms.

Besides, new studies suggest that genetics are as responsible for a person's level of happiness as anything else. If this is in fact true, then today's miserable Baby Boomer career women would probably have been just as miserable pus.h.i.+ng a baby carriage back in the 1950s. And the June Cleaver prototypes who had o.r.g.a.s.ms over their self-cleaning ovens in 1957 would probably be just as ecstatic over cell phones and corporate careers in the year 2001.

We gals are living during a Golden Age for women right now. Sure, just like any other time in history, ours has its wars, disease, brutality, c.r.a.ppy food, boring jobs, screaming children, loneliness, heartbreak, c.o.c.kroaches, disappointments, fear, annoyances, oppression, and jerks.

Sure, we're required to be courageous and responsible in new ways. But so what? Like we really have anything better to do than grow up and take charge?

We shouldn't let anybody-be it a bunch of neoconservative nincomp.o.o.ps or our own nervous relatives-convince us to look backward through the rosy, sanitized lens of nostalgia. We mustn't live in fear that happiness will elude us if we don't follow a traditional script or play by The Rules.

A few years ago, Barbara Walters had a TV special celebrating-surprise-her TV specials. She did a retrospective of all the big stars she'd interviewed. Sucker that I am for insipid celebrity gossip, I watched the whole thing.

And watching it, I learned something about happiness from Eddie Murphy, of all people.

Walters showed two interviews with him. In the first, Murphy was newly famous; he'd just moved into a mansion and was extremely awkward and defensive.

In the second interview, conducted five years later, he seemed ebullient and joked easily with Walters. "So, Eddie, are you happy now?" she asked him.

Eddie smiled thoughtfully. Sometimes he is and sometimes he isn't, he answered plainly. And I'm paraphrasing a little, but he said, essentially, "Barbara, I used to think that happiness was something you achieved. But now I realize that it's not. It's just something that comes and goes, and comes and goes again, no matter who you are or what you're doing."

This sounds, like, Du-uh. But actually, it's not something we hear very often in our culture these days. Usually, we're constantly being told that there is something terribly and fundamentally wrong with us if we don't look like Cameron Diaz. Or that happiness is a commodity: We'll achieve it if we just buy enough cool stuff. Or we're prescribed "happy pills" like Zoloft. Talk about chemical warfare.

In writing this book, it's been my intention to offer women inspiration, wit, and tools for "intelligent resistance" to all such whacked-out messages. And yet, in doing so, I think it's important to emphasize that there are no easy or foolproof answers. Kierkegaard once said that "anxiety is the dizziness of freedom." Well, with our new freedom, we gals are going to experience both dizziness and anxiety. So be it. We might as well find some way we can enjoy the h.e.l.l out of it, if we can.

Besides, five hundred years ago most women were peasants or slaves and had the status of chattel. A hundred years ago, women couldn't vote, own property, or wear pants. Forty years ago, women could be discriminated against in the workforce and raped by their husbands without recourse. Thirty years ago, we couldn't get legal abortions and got fired for being pregnant.

In comparison, I'd say we chicks today have it pretty easy.

We're in the best position ever to conquer the world, to flourish and prevail. We have the guts, the tools, the vision. We have the brains and the att.i.tude. Some of us even have the clothes. So why look backward or give in to our fears? As my grandma used to say, "The world will be more heartbreaking than you know, and more beautiful than you'll ever imagine."

So let's follow our own path, stand tall, and don't take any s.h.i.+t.

And while we're at it, have a good laugh.

Acknowledgments.

Many people helped shape and inspire this book, yet several were so instrumental I have to single them out for praise, public embarra.s.sment, and my undying grat.i.tude. In a proverbial champagne toast, I raise my gla.s.s to the following: First and foremost, to the Power Babes: my agent, Irene Skolnick, and my editor at Warner Books, Amy Einhorn, for having immediate faith in this project and taking me on in all my hypercaffeinated glory. Kudos, too, to editorial a.s.sistants Sandra Bark and Shannon Beatty.

To my Research G.o.ddess, Allison Kuttner. Without her resourcefulness, I probably would have just made stuff up to suit my purposes, thereby becoming the epitome of the very same stupid and expedient culture I just spent two hundred-plus pages critiquing. Thank you, Allison, for keeping me honest.

To the Nominees for Sainthood: Desa Sealy Ruffin and Bari Handelman actually read through rough drafts of this repeatedly, indulging me to a degree some might consider criminally negligent. Ditto for Stephanie Weiss, who listened to me talk about this book ad nauseam, yet still managed to offer terrific editorial advice. Ditto for Sarah Ferguson (not the d.u.c.h.ess), who literally gave me a hallowed Room of One's Own.

To my Sister-in-Arms, Ophira Edut, who continually serves as inspiration and editrix.

To the Pink Posse, a generous inner circle of smarta.s.s females who regularly laughed with me and let me turn their private lives into object lessons. Major props go to, in alphabetical order: Melinda Anderson, Karen Archia, Laurie Mintzer Edberg, Candy Fletcher, Robin Gellman, Carolyn Hunt, Sara Pines, Hannah Serota-Campbell, Amy Simon, Jennifer Sosin, Cecilie Surasky, and Suzanna Zwerling.

To the Good Guys: Mark Torok and Christopher Campbell, for their unwitting contributions.

To my Supportive Cohorts: Eddy Gattis, Ann Kurzius, Kate Mattos, Connie Morris, David Sheridan, and Jim Whitmire, who helped me clear my decks and carve out the time to write.

To the Great Dane, Pernille Chambliss, who kept me sane while I did this.

To my Fearless Family: G.o.ddess bless (and help) my parents, David and Ellen, who never dissuaded me from speaking my mind and who had the foresight to give me my brother, John Seeger Gilman, who has humored and supported me like no one else.

That is, except for the last-but-not-least person on my list: my strong and stunning partner, Bob Stefanski, who makes everything in this world seem more entertaining and possible. Thank you, Bob, for your love, patience, and endors.e.m.e.nt.

end.