On Saturday night my friend April hosted a Passion Party.  For those of you unfamiliar with the phenomenon, a passion party is essentially a tupperwear party but with dildos and massage oil.

A woman who hosts these parties in the evenings came over to April’s around 7:30 p.m. to set up, and presented all of the different lotions and massage oils and candles and vibrators and “g spot enhancers” that she brought with her.  It was fun, as we basically hung out and drank wine and ate good food and got to see all of this stuff – including a glow in the dark dildo that suctions to the wall/tub/coffee table (my personal favorite, if only for its comedic value).  At the end of the presentation, she set up in another room and each of us went to see her individually to order whatever we wanted.  While the party itself was fun, I didn’t go overboard on ordering (and while we were under no obligation to buy anything, there obviously was pressure to buy at least something to make this woman’s time at April’s worth her while).  The stuff was expensive and I realized, after talking to a friend there about it, there’s really no guarantee that these products are any good.  I mean, there’s no ‘brand name’ to rely on and the list of ingredients didn’t really instill any confidence in each product’s ability not to make me break out in hives or get some kind of equally unpleasant reaction.  Particularly for those lotions and elixirs meant to be applied inside your body.  Yikes.  So I stuck with those products that aren’t in liquid or lotion form and that aren’t meant to end up nestled somewhere between my ovaries.

After the presentation the sales rep/Passion Party woman told us about all of the perks we’d get if we hosted our own party – perks for a total party order above a particular price point; perks for orders made after the party was over; perks for the number of orders made…the list was lengthy.  April was given a small red satin and black lace bag (for her ‘purchases’) that looked like a boustier as a gift for hosting the party.  Once the rep left we tried to think of ways to alter it so that April’s puppy could wear it (no, that’s not a euphemism for anything, we were really trying to put it on the dog).  The whole thing was really interesting.  While I likely would never host one of these things myself, nor would I really be jumping at the bit to go to one again, it was interesting to watch the whole thing unfold: the odd dynamic that is created when a stranger has to find some quick way of relating to a room full of women she has just met in an effort to make them all feel comfortable enough to buy a rotating vibrator with a face on it, or a vagina-shaped masturbation sleeve for ‘her man’.  And, on that note, the ‘masturbation sleeve‘ – which looked like one of those water-filled sausage things you often find at gag gift stores – was $35 fucking bucks, plus shipping and tax!  Yeah, it may be “modeled after a real vagina!” but guess what?  I have my very own and it doesn’t cost anything.

These parties, it seems, could serve a really good purpose (if I may over-analyze for a bit) – it makes the discussion of issues that are normally made to seem taboo for some women a lot easier and open.  You can ask questions and read about products you may never heard of before, all designed with the intentions of giving you pleasure.  The focus of the party was not (save for the overpriced ’sleeve’ and one or two other items) on how to make sex better for your partner, but how to make it better for you (or how to make pleasing him/her better for you – hence the “Tasty Tease” cream stuff you coat your mouth with to make giving a blow job taste like eating a really big candy cane…or to make oral sex taste like eating a mint sundae).  It was also nice to see that the rep didn’t assume she was talking to a room of straight women (although she was, but she never assumed that).  So many other venues for the public discussion of sex (I’m looking at you, Cosmo) are structured around ways in which you can please him (women pleasing men specifically and exclusively), and this Passion Party focus is refreshing.  That said, even with all of the empowerment and focus on my sexual well being, I’m not sure I want to rub some mysterious cream (whose ingredients include, according to a friend of mine who was there, known carcinogens) on my bits.  To each her own.

So I might be out of the loop on this, but I just read about this new show called “I Want To Save Your Life” wherein a creepy white dude follows “fat” women around, spies on them, and eventually confronts them in an ‘intervention’-style manner to tell them: “I’m Charles Stuart Platkin, and I want to save your life.”  After which I suppose he gets them to change into a t-shirt that reads “I’m a Fat Fuck” and makes them run around with leg weights and do chin ups in a montage set to the Rocky theme music.

Christ on a motherfucking diet, yo.  What the hell is this?!  I mean, I will admit that I enjoy watching Biggest Loser (partly becuase it reminds me of that episode of 3rd Rock From the Sun where John Lithgow’s character signs up for a Weight Watchers-style group called “Fat Losers,” which inevitably ends in him crying out with glee, “I’m a fat loser!”).  I like watching X-Weighted.  I enjoy those shows where people sign up to get their asses kicked and they show exercise montages and makeover reveals and elated crying and team challenges.  But, this new show seems, to me, to be entirely different.  Mostly in that this is a show wherein women are spied on, secretly videotaped (and don’t get $5000 and Stacey and Clinton’s coveted guidance for a week), and eventually ambushed by some scary white guy whose ‘help’ they did not ask for.

I would argue that this show takes fat shaming to a whole new, disturbing level.  These women (from what I can only assume from the trailer) haven’t asked for this help, and having someone pull a fat-intervention on you is much different than, say, telling someone she needs to lose the Crocs and Christmas Sweaters.  For women, body image and maintenance are issues intrinsically linked to shame, humiliation, inadequacy, and being able to successfully attract men.  This man, who stalks women, is essentially telling them ‘you’re failing at being a successful female,’ ‘your body disgusts us,’ and ‘you’re doing it wrong.’

Now, I may be particularly sensitive to this issue, being one who has struggled with body issues my whole life (and will continue to, I imagine, for the forseeable future).  That said, I’m not disgusted with myself, I don’t feel terrible about the way I look (most days!), and I’m generally confident in myself.  But that’s not to say that I’m not entirely familiar with the ways in which fat women are made to feel inadequate and invisible, or somehow broken/in need of repair/in need of saving by patriarchy (that inavoidable structure in which we all live).  This show just serves to perpetuate these notions in the most blatant, disrespectful, ignorant way.

Has anyone seen Idiocracy?  It seems like we’re well on our way.

Last night Matt and I went to his buddy’s new apartment to celebrate a friend’s birthday.  After a frustrating game of Careers (why do I suck so badly at that game?!), we left to walk to the LC to pick up a bottle of wine and some booze for tonight.

We were walking back down River Avenue when I was distracted from my delicious muffin (chocolate banana with strawberry filling!  Who knew such a delectable delight even existed?!) by some screaming coming from the other side of the street.  Right in the middle of Osborne Village’s “circle” (where lots of people hang out, and where lots of cops seem to flock), a girl was laying on the boulevard screaming and crying, and a guy was standing over at her yelling at her.  I slowed down and tried to figure out what was going on.  Matt said that he had seen the guy just punch her in the face.  We kept walking, slowly, and watched what ended up being a really brutal beating unfold before us.  The girl got up, screaming, and ran at the guy, trying to hit him.  He wound up and hit her in the face so hard that I could hear it, from across the street.  The girl screamed and grabbed at her face, falling to the ground.  We watched as people walked by without stopping and people on the street corner waiting to cross gazed over at the spectacle as if it were something they were used to.

I had no idea what to do, particularly since a group of people across the street from the fight were mocking the girl as she yelled and cried.  I decided to call the non-emergency police number, and after being on hold for almost five minutes, I got through.  I felt completely useless as the woman on the other end of the line asked what the guy looked like, if the girl needed an ambulance, if they were still there…I didn’t really know.

What are you supposed to do in a situation like that?  I didn’t feel safe stepping in, and nobody around them seemed like they were going to do anything.  How can a girl get the shit kicked out of her by a guy with a squeegie on the corner of River and Osborne at 9:00pm on a Friday night and nobody stop him?  Osborne Village was packed that night, and this girl was screaming loud enough for everyone to hear.  It was horrific.

Situations like this really make me wonder what would happen to me if I were in a similar situation.  Would anybody help me?

I love Halloween. I love dressing up, I love candy, and I love the colour orange. It’s really an ideal holiday. Last October while I was in Montreal, I got to talking with some of my fellow MA colleagues about the ridiculousness of women’s Halloween costumes. Why do so many adult women seem to feel it necessary to adhere to costume companies’ idea of a woman’s costume: the ’sexy’ versions of men’s costumes? I remember walking home from school one night a few days before the 31st and seeing a group of women ahead of me in mini skirts and thigh-high boots. One had a hook, another had cat ears, and the third had a feather duster. Ingenious.

In an attempt to protest (albeit subtly) the sexist nature of women’s costumes, my classmates and I tried to come up with the most inappropriate or absurd ’sexy’ versions of costumes as we could – I think a sexy fetus and some form of sexy vegetable won out in the end. While I didn’t end up covering myself in fishnets and placenta for Halloween that year, it still irked me how even an aspect of society that is seemingly innocent, like dressing up for Halloween, can be made misogynist by the propulsion to dress women up in cleavage-bearing tops and red lipstick. Halloween seems less like a night of scaring away ghouls and more like a demonstration of society’s perception of women: dolls, toys, bodies on display.

A few weeks ago Matt came home with a flyer for a party supply store in Winnipeg that featured the cover headline: “We’re bringing sexy back.” Inside was two pages filled with over 50 different models in women’s Halloween costumes, all of the ’sexy’ variety. Opening that flyer was like staring into the eyes of a panther: terrifyingly awesome. Some of the costumes were so ridiculous that I had to send the flyer to friends in Montreal. Stumped on what to go as this year? How about ’sexy Ghostbuster’? Or ’sexy Shopper’? Or maybe spice things up as ’sexy VIP Valet parker.’ If I saw someone out in one of those costumes I’m not sure whether I would be appalled or laugh hysterically.

Reading Feministing after lunch today brought the following gem to my attention:

Meet Ana Rexia! Not only will this costume serve to mock an illness that has taken the lives of countless women due to unattainable notions of the perfect female body idealized by patriarchal society, but your wearing it will also perpetuate those ideals as you spend the night flaunting yourself for the benefit of the male gaze! Kill two birds with one stone, and look hot doing it.

I went to the site that apparently sells this piece of shit, and found another costume that would make any woman’s family proud:

Who doesn’t want to win a wet t-shirt contest? It’s like the women’s version of the Pulitzer.

As easy as it is to laugh at these appalling costumes, the fact is that someone will buy them, wear them, and fail to see the absolute destruction they are causing to any semblance of respect for women today. While I have no problem with a woman wanting to show off her body because she’s proud of herself, these costumes, it seems, only serve to denigrate women, characterizing them as something other than human.

And this is only one day of the year. Now, does anyone want to suggest that feminism is unnecessary? That men and women are equal?

Think again: Warner Brothers’ head of production, Jeff Robinov, has recently announced that they will no longer be producing any films with women leads. Why? Because the women actors in two recent films (Nicole Kidman in The Invasion and Jodi Foster in The Brave One) that did poorly at the box office are the reason for the films’ failures. If (and I say this knowing it would never happen) the same were said about films with male leads, there would be public outrage at even the thought of ceasing to make films with men in leading roles. The logic that the gender of the lead actor can affect the film’s box office sales is absolutely ridiculous yet, in this case, Robinov’s announcement is hardly news. Where are all the female actors? Why aren’t they speaking up? WHAT IS WRONG WITH EVERYONE?

Perhaps this year I’ll dress up as a sexy Jeff Robinov.