Category: Feminist Fun

I haven’t posted this week yet because there has been a lot of decision making with GAF’s amazing tiny team to reach our full potential. These decisions will eventually lead to some major changes.

I’m just going to list them out because then they’re less scary and easier to swallow:

Girls Aren’t Funny is transitioning to an online magazine

I started this as a blog a little over two months ago while I was traveling. It was my dream for it to become a submission-based blog, but I soon recognized this won’t work. As a personal blog, it makes it difficult for those who want to submit to fit into a brand that is literally all about me. It is important to me this becomes a platform for funny women and am so excited for this shift in format.

Think The New Yorker’s Humor section meets The Onion meets feminists meets my parents for their blessing meets something new and sparkly (but with fewer sparkles)

We are still brainstorming how Girls Aren’t Funny will look and feel, but I guarantee if you’ve been following along with me on here you will enjoy the relaunch of GAF. It’ll be a whole lot more of this from many other women.

We are currently crafting submission guidelines but reach out anyways

As always, if you are interested in showcasing your work on a platform dedicated to hilarious ladies then please use our email gaf.submissions@gmail.com or reach out through our contact form. We are looking for personal essays, satirical articles, fiction, nonfiction, cartoons, however you want to express your sense of humor. Write about the female experience, don’t write about it. Write about politics, or don’t. Write about sexual escapades, write about your long wait til marriage, write about being asexual. I literally wrote an essay about a door at Starbucks that created a coffee traffic jam.

If you are an illustrator please reach out to us

We have a great photographer on our team, but we’d like to explore the possibility of adding an illustrator to our mix to create creative featured images for the essay and articles. If you are interested in the position, the contact page is your friend.

If you are interested at all in joining GAF’s master team

We are a small team trying to birth a major project. If our work interests you and you think you have some special skill or superpower we NEED you. If you do not identify as a woman that is more than OK. We already have a boy on our team that ripped up the metaphorical ‘no boys allowed’ sign so that’s the end of that. Contact page, contact page, contact page!

News on the podcast

For those of you who have been following my random updates about this illusive podcast. Big news! As a team, we decided to grow the podcast as a separate project. We are now officially the ‘Not Your Typical Feminist Podcast’ podcast. Our web developer is busy at work building the new website as well as recreating Girls Aren’t Funny. This was decided because the goal of GAF and NYTFP overlap, but are still different. NYTFP will focus on inclusion in the feminist space. GAF still holds the mission of dismantling the stigma that girls aren’t funny. So many acronyms!

Lots of love to all of you who are here

I’m so grateful for every single person who took the time to read my blog. Of course, I will still be contributing to Girls Aren’t Funny in its future form, but it will obviously be different. No more casual posts about my itchy nipples (we’ll see). I will continue to post in this blog until we are ready to roll over officially. There will be a warning before things launch.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU! 

 That is all.

Thanks to Jennifer Lawrence, I have a job! Hence why I tried to recreate an image of her on the red carpet. #tribute (Woah, I accidentally made a Hunger Games reference. Wouldn’t be the first time. )

Soon I will be taking my fancy writing skills to work with small business owners to create their content. My best friend’s older sister owns an agency and one of her clients requested a writer who is both professional but also has some spunk. The client literally asked for a Jennifer Lawrence (a tall order) and she thought of me! Oh, the honor!

Thanks, Jen! You’ll never know your part in me landing this great job. Or your part in inspiring many of my haircuts. I’m still iffy on the bangs though. Don’t worry, Jen, we’ll talk about that later.

The best part: It’s all online. That reminds me, I need to go buy some new PJs for work. (Get it? Because I would normally need to buy business clothes?) Oh my gosh, I am too pumped. #digitalnative (Another Hunger Games reference if you squint).

Also, I wish I was a love child between Jennifer Lawrence and Emma Stone. Except it would be too weird because I’m incredibly attracted to both of them.

Also, I have way too much time on my hands and decided to put together proof that I may be the love child of these beloved actresses. I don’t think I’ve done anything so creepy in my life. Thank god I have a job now, amirite?

Side note: While I research for the Girls Aren’t Funny podcast I have been reading a lot of feminist literature. A lot of badass women out there covering some rage-inducing social phenomenon. Fun stuff!

I think I may start a GAF book club soon. At the very least I’ll be posting what I’ve been reading and the thoughts/emotions/bodily fluids that come with it.

I just finished Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture, a collection of essays edited and introduced by Roxane Gay, and let me tell you it was an emotional rollercoaster making my way to the last page.

More on that soon.

Xoxo,

Funny Girl

I just want you all to know how much time and creative effort went into this featured image. Look at this collage! Let me break it down for you because I know it’s a lot to take in all at once.

So you know how in basketball games people hold up a sign that has the letter ‘D’ on it and then a sign with a fence painted on it when they’re encouraging defense? Or a real fence if you’re that die-hard about your imagery.

Well because I went to a self-defense class I made a pictogram of myself, the letter ‘D’ with a bunch of ‘D’s’ in it (get it? D, as in dick? But I wasn’t going to be crass and use real dicks so I used images of classy dildos, then I went down a rabbit hole of paying for stock photo images of dildos and I thought to myself this can’t be a good use of my time) and then a picture of a fence. 

You’re so welcome. 

“OK, are you the bad guy or am I the bad guy this time?” I asked the 38-year-old man breathing heavily in front of me.

“I don’t mind fighting you off,” he said with a shrug.

“Personally, I prefer being the strangler,” I said.

This all sounds very sexual. Let me explain.

This past Saturday I went to my first self-defense class and it was awesome. I have now perfected my ability to strangle people. My throat is sore and my wrist is bruised from being dragged up and down the mat, but I think I can successfully whoop some ass if needed.

Well, we didn’t really learn how to whoop ass, just protect ours. Hence, the self-defense.

This is when I left the story to go make a collage of myself and dildos. This was explained earlier so stop judging me, Samantha! She’s my imaginary frenemy who plays the mean cheerleader in my dreams. She’s very effective at motivating myself.

I am really good at staying on track with this post.

ANYWAYS (she says with a heavy sigh and an eye roll) I had wanted to take a self-defense class for years but never got around to it.

I had this small fear (that was actually a very large fear fueled by Law & Order SVU) that I would be attacked and all I would think about while it was happening was “if only I had taken that self-defense class before this”.

Kinda like how I keep carrying this fear that I’ll suddenly need health insurance really badly and I’ll wish that I had it like right now. Like right now. *cough, cough* Literally, cough, cough. Someone give me drugs.

So I finally signed up and went. I already feel immensely better having some go-to techniques in case someone lunges at me.

I have had my own experiences with aggressive men in the past ranging from frustrating to scary to traumatic so it is a great relief to have that small amount of knowledge.

Unfortunately, today while I was at the gym I had an uncomfortable experience with a man who thought it would be funny to follow me around and get as close as possible to me while making eye contact.

Eventually, he cornered me in a less populated area of the gym and I darted around him while he was momentarily distracted. I immediately left the gym.

My initial feeling was shame and then guilt for feeling ashamed. I spend so much of my free time researching women’s issues and the moment I am confronted with a bully I ran away.

I don’t know if it was the right thing to do. Maybe I shouldn’t have left and confronted him or gone to the front desk. I was torn between the feminist and traditional lessons I’ve been taught.

Do I stand up for myself because I am a strong and independent woman?

Or do I ask for help because the person behind the front desk happens to be a man and maybe this man will listen to another man?

Do I leave because I know whatever I say to this creep will not change him?

Do I stay to make a point that he can’t intimidate me?

Because he did intimidate me. He made me feel small and aware of my body in a place where I was trying to take care of it.

The self-defense class taught me how to get out of a stranglehold and how to remove my arm from various tight grips, but it did not teach me how to defend myself from people like him.

The cat-callers, the wolf-whistlers, the gawkers, the ones who don’t touch but want to.

It is disappointing. And yes, I make dildo-based collages, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to feel safe at my local gym.

Xoxo,

Funny Girl

 

This picture is a representation of the lightbulb moment I had when I thought of the idea for this project, except instead of it going off above my head I kinda had to slam myself into it. METAPHORSSSS!

Whether you believe me or not, every day when I make a decision I anxiously go through a checklist of whether this will affect my fellow woman.

“I really like these shorts but they’re a little short and I don’t want people to think I’m slutting it up.”

“Wear these shorts so little girls can too!”

“That makes me uncomfortable.” 

“Forget the haters! They have no right to comment on how you dress!

“Then again you are walking into a stereotype about college girls.”

“You’re not even a college student anymore!” 

“Do you even want these shorts anymore?”

“No, but not because society talked me out of it!”

“Yeah! Tell yourself that!”

And that’s just a conversation I have in my head about shorts! That doesn’t even begin to cover big decisions like career moves, marriage, motherhood, etc.

Then I looked up the book The Feminine Mystique and guess what, it’s over 50 years old! I need something a little more updated that can help me navigate the challenges of womanhood.

This lead to the realization that I have no idea what I’m doing (big shock) but that I have skills I paid a lot of money to fine tune in the form of a journalism degree. Therefore I plan on interviewing and researching as much as I can about making the common and not-so-common decisions that ping-pong you back and forth between traditional and feminist values.

After reading an inspirational book by Elizabeth Gilbert (no, it wasn’t Eat, Pray, Love! She’s written other books! Leave me alone) I gathered the courage to jump into this project.

Let’s call it, “The Modern Feminist Project” or “How to be a feminist in modern society” or even “What the fuck does feminism mean to me, I just want a cheeseburger”. The last one is a little long so we can use an acronym (WTFDFMTMIJWAC). Ah, that’s better.

Basically, I am young and scared but ready to answer the big questions in life. But I’d like a little help. I’m needy like that. So here I turn to all the women I know and don’t know for advice.

As a woman, I want to make decisions, not necessarily as a woman, but as an individual. Sometimes I can feel trapped in the borders of feminism when by definition there should be no borders to our equality.

A woman should be allowed to stay at home with her child or work full time based on her decision without being held accountable for traditional or feminism values.

A woman should not have to cover herself nor be shamed for covering herself. She should dress based on her mood in the morning, her religion, the weather, the trend of the day. Whatever way she comes to these decisions they are hers and hers alone.

Let’s reframe the idea of feminism to what it was originally intended for. The freedom to make decisions based on individual needs and wants, not whoever is yelling at us the loudest. 

All that to say, I am hopefully starting a podcast soon. I am trying to interview as many women as people about topics ranging from liking the color pink to rape culture. Anything from the frivolous to the incredibly serious.

Please reach out to me via comments or through the contact form if you would like to participate in the project. You have something valuable to add. It is common to experience some form of imposter syndrome but I guarantee you I find your opinion important. Your experience is of value to all of us.

Be brave and share it publically or contribute anonymously and we’ll come up with a sexy pseudonym like, “Anonymous Anteater” or “Jenna Jingles” or “Tipsy Tina”. Just message me with your mild amount of interest and we’ll determine a way that works best for you to participate in the conversation.

I am only one woman, with one voice, and I want it to get loud in here.

Also, (and this is the most important thing ever) if you have any brilliant ideas on what to call this podcast please leave your suggestion in the comments. Otherwise, it will be WTFDFMTMIJWAC and no one wants that.

I’ll be posting more information soon.

So I realized after I posted about the nice guy who cut my hair, I realized I was so distracted by the fact that he wasn’t a creep that I almost forgot all the other stuff that happened.

I decided to update the post because after I talked to Nick I realized it was a pretty unusual experience.

When I walked into the salon it was basically empty. The secretary said, “Tom, will cut your hair today” (let’s call him Tom (even though I won’t refer to him by name after this) because pseudonyms are mysterious and mystery is sexy). He walked over and introduced himself. The first thing I noticed were the Satanic stars on his elbows and his shaky hands.

I thought, this could either be a very good haircut or a very bad haircut. You can decide for yourself.

Before I’d arrived I chose a photo to work off of and showed it to him. He said, “Oh I’ll use the razor on you!” and I thought, “He sounds eager”.

I was only asking for an inch or two off but I think he had something entirely else in mind. So while he’s chopping away at my hair with a straight edge razor (like James Bond but less sexy), he’s explaining (mansplaining, cough, cough) how water pollution works, why native Hawaiians are dumb to have chosen to live at the bottom of a volcano and how Californians’ air is filled with snobbery as if snobbery is an element on the periodic table.

All light and occasionally racist small talk. I just sat there and stared at the blade in his hand as he progressively got angrier at the topics he chose.

Then I heard, “Oh god!” from the back of my head. I thought I lost a chunk of myself but luckily it was his finger. He cut himself open on the razor blade.

“Happens all the time!” he said as he ran to the bathroom.

The secretary had left for lunch and I sat there alone twiddling my thumbs with elevator music in the background and constant groaning coming from the bathroom.

He reappeared a few minutes later with his finger wrapped in toilet paper taped with a bandaid.

“Everything’s fine! Happens all the time.”

I don’t think he realized it didn’t make me feel better that this was a constant for him.

Whether he needed stitches or not, he pressed on.

“Let me get a new blade out for you,” he said as we both thought, “Because the other one is covered in blood and now I’m thinking about AIDS unnecessarily.”

His hands were shaking even worse now and the toilet paper was making his finger quite immobile. “Got it!” he said triumphantly as it slipped free, flew into the air and landed on the ground.

We both looked at it. Then looked at each other. “Third times the charm!”.

He got back to my hair and continued chopping. Chatting away about how you could live in Chernobyl if you really wanted to. I won’t knock him for interesting opinions that’s for sure.

He reached around me for the comb but found his hand had gotten stuck in my hair. The thick finger had caught and all he could do was pull my head with him.

I bobbed back and forth in front of the mirror and made eye contact with myself, “Well at least he’s not stroking my hair and calling me precious.” I’m an optimist like that.

Once he detangled himself with some nice product I was free to go. Literally. My hair was completely lopsided. The front right side was the original length when I walked through the door and the top layers (when did I ask for layers?) was maybe three inches long.

“Asymmetry is in these days,” he said.

I nodded and paid him and then went home delighted that he didn’t sexually harass me that I wrote a post about it and completely neglected to include any of this stuff which just shows how low my standard is for dealing with strange men and my standard for run on sentences.

Today I got my hair cut from a heterosexual, white, male hair dresser. He had ex-girlfriends and worked at a Game Stop and wore graphic tees.

I shamefully assumed he’d say something sexist and I’d have to laugh it off strapped to the chair with scissors in his hand. I waited for the onslaught.

I was surprised when he called my hair cute and that my new hairstyle looked beautiful that it wasn’t cringeworthy.

It’s a hard thing to describe when you can tell the difference between a creep and someone who’s just saying something nice.

In the wake of all the sexual assault scandals being brought to light I keep hearing the same old, “Does that mean I can’t be nice to women anymore?”.

As if it’s that confusing to tell the difference between, “Nice haircut, Susan!” and “Nice tits, Susan!”. Susan may have a nice haircut and nice tits but only one is allowed to be said in an office/walking down the street/at a bar/everyfuckingwhere.

Also, it makes me angry that autocorrect won’t let me type titties without changing it to kitties, ditties, or tithes. I only know what one of those words mean.

When I googled titties just to double check on the spelling because autocorrect has now lowered my confidence in my ability to spell, a subreddit for titties appeared with the catchy tag line:

/r/titties is a place for beautiful titties of all shapes and sizes 🙂 Post great titties for all to enjoy, or better yet, post your own titties!

Well that’s awfully nice of them. I enjoy how they’re asking people who have photos of women in their life (with breasts I assume) to just casually share them with the world. Or better yet, ladies I know you’ve been wondering who to share your classy nudes with. I’ve found the place for you.

Anyway back to the hairdresser. I just want to know if anyone else knows what the hell I’m talking about. There are guys that treat women like they’re individual people because they have had many individual women in their life. He talks to women for his job. Hundreds of women go through his salon chair with their own story.

Compared to the guy who went to an all boys high school and had one girlfriend and watched a lot of porn so he thinks he knows women but he calls you a bitch when you don’t agree with him.

He’s single now if anyone’s looking for a guy who worships his mustang (the car, not the horse) and has a profile picture of him and a woman who works at Hooter’s.

Maybe you’ve met your own version of this guy. Several times. Every day.

There’s technically nothing wrong with this guy. He’s nice to his mom and I’m sure will eventually become a decent person.

Honestly he just hasn’t talked to many women. Not in a sad, “pees in water bottles because he doesn’t want to leave his video game” kinda way.

Maybe I’m just speaking out of my ass*. I’m no sociologist but out of personal experience the more real conversations guys have with women, the more they see them as people. Let me know if you think I’m wrong**.

*I’m not but that would be an amazing skill to have. If you do have this ability please audition for America’s Got Talent immediately.

**Actually don’t because I hate confrontation and would rather watch you try to speak out of your literal ass.

Remind me to read more female literature. Novels with strong female protagonists. Essays about feminism. Biographies about strong women.

But also remind me to watch movies where the women are nothing but caricatures. Not real breathing people. Remind me to watch films where the women are only girlfriends, bodies, sex. Remind me this is how we are seen.

Remind me to notice the prudes and the sluts. Compare them side by side. Notice what makes them different. Remind me I am both a prude and a slut.

Remind me to expand my vocabulary. To look up words in the dictionary. Remind me to buy a dictionary. Remind me to use the right words. The right phrasing and knowledge and language that will allow me to participate in the conversation.

The conversation about my gender. The conversation about the experience of being a woman. Remind me I have something to say.

But also remind me that other women have something to say. Women who aren’t given the time or space to say. What they need to say. Remind me to hear them. Remind me I am them and I am not them. At the same time.

Remind me not to feel trapped in my body. Remind me that I am not my body. I am more than my body. Remind me to respect my body.

Remind me I do not need to be likable. Remind me I do not need to smile more. Remind me that I don’t want you to sit next to me, or I don’t want your drink. Remind me to be honest. Not mean. Sometimes mean. Remind me to be a bitch. A cunt. A twat. A tease.

Remind me that I don’t have to hate men. Remind me of my jealousy. Remind me of my envy. The envy to make mistakes I can’t make. Remind me I am the brother of the prodigal son.

Remind me that my rage is understandable. Remind me that I’m not crazy. Remind me that it is 2018. Remind me again. It is 2018.

Remind me that I am not an imposter. That I do not need a degree in women’s studies. Remind me that all I need is myself. And her. And him. And them. And us.

Remind me we can be better. Together.

Please remind me.