The Decider

Dreamy came over a couple of nights ago to check out my new place. He felt bad about not being able to help me move, so he asked if he could help me put together my new futon, and he also brought over a movie for us to watch. I was tired, though, and I suggested we put off work on the futon until the weekend and go straight to the movie.

"You're the boss," Dreamy replied. "Whatever you want to do is fine."

"Really?? I'm the boss?" I asked, half-jokingly.

"Of course," Dreamy said. "You're the woman, so you make the decisions. That's how it is. That's how it always has been."

It's nice to be the Decider, and frankly, that's how I think things should be. That's certainly the way it is in my family, and I was glad to note that Dreamy, too, believes that women should make the decisions. Not always, of course, but usually in a couple there is one person who makes more of the decisions than the other person -- kind of like a benevolent dictator.

This reminded me of a long-ago conversation with my Italian ex, l'Artista. We were in Maine, making plans with my parents for some getaway -- possibly a sailing trip, or a drive up the coast, or some such outing. In any case, we were trying to ascertain what my parents' plans were, and l'Artista suggested we discuss it with my dad.

"Hmm, interesting strategy," I said. "We could certainly do that. I'm not sure we'll get much information, though."

L'Artista, unlike Dreamy, did not come from a culture where women are the deciders. "What do you mean, we won't get much information?" he asked confusedly. "Where else would we go to find out what your parents' plans are?"

"Well, my mom would be the one to ask if we really want to get answers," I explained. "Let's try Dad, though. I've never tried before."

We went and talked to Dad, and he said exactly what I thought he'd say: "I'm not sure. Ask your mom what she thinks." Dad is really not the Decider. I don't think he wants to be the Decider; he'd much rather leave the decisions up to Mom. The whole process, however, was a bit mystifying to l'Artista.

So in my role as the Decider, I told Dreamy I didn't want to work on the futon, and I'd rather wait and do it on the weekend. Then he asked what other decisions I wanted to make, and I told him that I also want us to go to Ikea this weekend. Not very creative, I know, but I didn't realize until then that I was the Decider. I'll have to do some more thinking about it.

Automobile Antics

Despite my protestations of being a capable adult who can do things like file my taxes and pay my bills, I have to admit to being a bit of a car ditz. And yes, I am sending my tax documents to La Moustache to file them, but not because I can't do it! I simply choose not to because Moustache did work in my name in '09 (visa restrictions), and I think he should deal with the headache of figuring it out.

Lately it seems like it is one thing after another with my car. It started shortly after I officially became a Masshole, registering my car in the Bay State and even putting the dreaded MA license plates on my car. Was it punishment for becoming a Masshole? Perhaps. I had absent-mindedly noticed a few times as I got into my car that it was foggy inside, and wondered idly about it. Then, one day during the epic rains we had in mid-March, I heard a distinct sloshing sound as I pulled up to my afternoon job at School #2. I looked down just in time to see a wave of water swoosh from the passenger side in front toward the back of the car.

The rains finally let up a couple of days later, and I spent an hour or so sopping up the pond until most of it was gone. I cracked the windows and waited patiently for the rest to dry up, hoping that my problem would disappear.

This did not turn out to be the case. Instead, my car problems took an unexpected turn one day the following week when I visited the Harpoon Brewery for a beer tasting. They sell growlers, solid 64-ounce jugs that they fill up with beer, and my friends and I eagerly bought several of them. One friend had biked over to the brewery, so we loaded up my trunk with her growlers and mine, four in total.


As I drove home, I heard an ominous cracking sound, then thought I detected the delicious smell of fresh-out-of-the-growler beer. I hoped against hope that I was imagining things, but this did not turn out to be the case: when I got home, I discovered that I had lost one beer growler and one cider growler, leaving me with one remaining growler of each and my pond with a compelling new odor.

The next morning, I was driving my friends to the airport early, then staying at their house for a few days. I packed the remaining two growlers into the car so that I could enjoy the one while housesitting and drop off the other after my trip to the airport. This time, I was much more careful with the deceptively robust-looking bottles: I wedged one into the floor of the backseat, and kept the second one next to me up front. Sadly, the cap broke off Cider #2 despite my precautions. As I drove the last leg of the way to drop off the final growler, I held it in my lap, praying nothing would happen.

The last growler did make it, but less than a week later the monsoons began again, and the depth of the pond again began to increase. I wish I could say that I've found a solution to this problem, but sadly that is not the case, and frankly the beer smell does not seem to be going away either. Most of the time I don't mind it and even enjoy it a little bit, but if I ever get pulled over I doubt the cop will be impressed.

Then today as I rushed out of the parking lot of School #1 headed toward School #2, my car began beeping with an urgency that surprised me. I looked down, and saw to my horror that the oil light had flashed on. This prompted vague recollections of instructions I received from La Moustache prior to my departure: something about when I should get the oil changed, as well as information about the plug being broken, necessitating a vacuum oil-removal technique. I briefly contemplated my options, wondering whether I should try to find a service station, pull over and call for help, or just drive and pray.

The light flashed off a moment later, and I breathed a sigh of relief and continued on my way. After completing my 11-hour workday, I set off in search of a service station. The only one I could find open was manned by an elderly Greek man who was in the midst of a major repair job and told me he couldn't help me today, but I could come back tomorrow. I explained my predicament and he promised to check my oil. “Pop dee hood, please!” he called to me. “Ummm... how do I do that again?” I replied, wishing for the millionth time I had pain more attention to all the attempts anyone has ever made to teach me anything about cars. He laughed, waved me out of the car and popped it for me.

When he checked the oil, it was bone-dry. “Honey!” he said, drawing out the O so it rhymed with phoney, “you can't let that happen! Gotta be careful or it's gonna cost you a whole lotta money.” He sent me on my way with three liters of oil in my engine and brushed off my attempt to pay, no doubt out of pity.

Tomorrow I'm turning over a new leaf in car ownership. I've scrapped my plans to wait until the Brazilian comes back from a trip to Italy to figure out the leak, or to hold a contest and let whoever fixes my pond problem be my new boyfriend. Instead, I'm going to bring my car back to my new Greek friend and have him change the oil, and ask him about ideas for how to deal with the pond. Who knows, I may even invest in an air freshener.

Feminism, Revisited

When I was in the 7th grade, I was a raging feminist. At the time, I had a sweet, somewhat troubled young boyfriend, the Modern Jewish Boy. I adored him, and spent hours on the phone with him voicing my opinions about relations between the sexes (a subject that, at age 13, I felt I understood quite well). This was shortly after the Anita Hill allegations about Clarence Thomas, and I remember venting to him how shocking it was that a man who treated women as Thomas had could be allowed on the Supreme Court. It was also the year that Bill Clinton was elected President, and I became a devoted fan of Hillary. I wished fervently that she could one day, perhaps in 1996, be elected President, and I wrote her a letter to tell her so. On Halloween, I dressed up as Hillary and went trick-or-treating with the MJB and my friend Ms. B, who was dressed as Bill.

Three years later, now age 16, I reunited with the Modern Jewish Boy. During one of our early phone calls, his mom interrupted us to pass along a question through him: was I still a feminist? “No,” I replied, “I'm over that stage.” I cringed inwardly as I recalled those long-ago conversations. “Feminism is not a stage,” his mom told him to tell me in reply.

Despite her advice, I continued to not worry much about sexism or women's rights. I didn't consider myself to be either a feminist or a non-feminist; I believed in women's equality, of course, but I didn't see sexism as a big problem in this country. When my sister became a women's studies major and stopped shaving her legs in college, I scoffed at her and dismissed her views as extremist. I worked as an intern for a while at an African American historical house museum, lived in a largely black neighborhood in Brooklyn, taught a lot of black kids who lived in homeless shelters and whose futures looked pretty bleak, and all of these experiences made me think that racism was a much bigger problem in this day and age than sexism. When my friend Miami Nice announced that she'd be voting for Hillary Clinton in the New York State primary, I tried to dissuade her by telling her that it was more important for our country to have a black president than a woman.

All of this changed for me when I realized with a sickening shock that I spent the past three years living with a man who not only didn't respect me, but didn't respect my gender. In part my ignorance can be attributed to his skill at hiding it, but I have to admit that there were signs; he made disparaging comments about women he knew, mostly about their physical appearance. It's not that I let him get away with it entirely. I called him out on it, and told him it's not okay to talk that way about women (or anyone, but he never commented on men's bodies). But I also glossed it over in my mind, chalking it up to his Europeanness. It sounds so naive now, but it never occurred to me that he actually might think women were lesser than men. There have been times in the past few months when I have used the word “misogynist” to describe Moustache, but this doesn't accurately describe him. He doesn't hate women, he just doesn't accord them the same respect as men. As my awareness has heightened, I've begun to realize that this subtle, insidious sexism is more widespread than I thought.

And perhaps I've even been guilty of it myself. When La Moustache announced that he'd be heading off on his grand tour, my immediate reaction was two-fold. I worried that our relationship was ending and felt heart-broken that he wanted to go on a trip without me. But a series of questions also leaped into my mind: “If Moustache leaves, who will change the oil in my car? Who will wash my laundry? Who will do my taxes? Who will pay for my car insurance?” And I have to admit that this was a big reason why I didn't want him to leave: I didn't want to face the prospect of doing all these tasks myself, and I wasn't sure I could do them (or at least do them as well as he could). I am grateful for this forced reminder that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

La Moustache has many admirers, including friends who know both of us. Some of these people have posted updates from his blog on Facebook, and added their own words of encouragement and support: “Good luck, Moustache! We hope 2010 will be full of adventure and joy for you. You have so many people back home who love you and are thinking of you!' (Please note that La Moustache is not on Facebook, so he has no way to actually read these words.) Upon reflection, I believe that some of these people are clueless, and don't realize how he treated me; perhaps I even gave them the impression that I was fine with his trip as I attempted to walk the fine line between conveying that I am not okay with his actions and being a bitter ex-girlfriend. However, other people know how he treated me, and either don't have a problem with it or think that he was a jerk, but that's not a reason to stop being friends with him. After all, he's famous now, and maybe if they're nice to him he might invite them to join him for part of his epic journey!

I've been nostalgic for Brooklyn lately, and there are a few musicians who remind me of my former home who have been getting frequent play on my ipod, such as Jay Z, “Best I Ever Had” by Drake, and Beyonce. Among these, I'm embarrassed to say, is Chris Brown. As I bought his album I thought to myself, “He's an asshole and I wish I weren't giving him my money, but listening to his music doesn't mean I approve of men who beat up their girlfriends.” In retrospect, I realize that by buying his music and listening to it I am tacitly supporting his behavior in the same way that people who read Moustache's blog and pass it on are supporting his behavior. I can't un-buy it, but I can and will throw it vehemently into my little iTunes trashcan and listen to some Rihanna instead. Us women gotta stick together.