Keeping with the conversation on Feminism...

This makes me so ridiculously happy, even though it is in a country that is not my own.

The F-word

There's been an ongoing discussion over the past couple days, spawned by the lovely Sarah about the big F-word. Feminism.

International Women's Day seems to have gotten more than a few of us thinking about feminism: where it's going, where it's been, and if we agree. I've already blabbered on enough both in Sarah's comments and on the 20-Something Bloggers' discussion board.

To sum things up: yeah, I'm a feminist. I think that all women are, deep down. Feminism, to me, is not about refusing to shave your legs, or burning your bras -- I would fail miserably if that were the case. It's about wanting the best for all women (and even men). It's about standing up and supporting other women around you. It's about the desire not necessarily to be treated exactly the same as men, but to be given the same consideration, respect and opportunity. It's about being able to make your own choices and be confident in those decisions. It's about being able to walk down the street with your head held high because yes, you can do anything you set your mind to.

All this talk about the F-word has taken me back to my undergrad days. I minored in philosophy, because I'm somewhat of a nerd and I found that a lot of my electives quickly became philosophy courses. Those philosophy courses included women's studies and feminist philosophy and both enraged and thrilled me (which is probably why I kept enrolling in them).

One of the best things I took from my first year women's studies course was this poem:

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Maya Angelou

We've heard one too many over-used pick up lines

I haven't been to a bar to shake it like a Polaroid picture in some time. One of the last times I put on the high heels and sauntered out of the house while showing a bit of cleavage to entice the fellows was way back in the summer of 2007 before I realized I had a colossal crush on the Boy.

I remembered this story when my friend and I were contemplating locales for drinks on Friday eve. One of the possibilities (Stir!) used to be Overtime. A bar we discovered that summer because it was a) within stumbling distance of my apartment, and b) a mid-twenties crowd -- we were sick of drunk 18 year olds... a side effect of the low drinking age in Alberta.

You better believed we picked up that night.

We don't do one night stands. We don't do skeezy boys. You can do it, I don't judge, it's just not my style. We had been chatting up cute Maritime boys, recent imports to Alberta. It was a situation Roomie and I remembered all too well. We all giggled together at the fact that their female friend was making out with a really short boy, really hard. And then, when the night was over, Roomie asked Twinsie and I if we wanted them to come back to our place.

Duh, duh, duh.

We tumbled out of the bar, and I collected my flip-flops from underneath the porch of a nearby commercial building -- an act that made the boys' jaws drop in awe. "What? I'm not walking home barefoot, and my feet hurt", I commented while holding up my beautiful houndstooth heels. Apparently they were impressed with my foresight.

We discussed the Maritimes, being new Albertans, and trash-talked how badly we were going to whoop them at boys versus girls Cranium when we got home. Roomie made after-bar snacks, we had a couple more drinks, and laughed until nearly 5 in the morning, when we proceeded to send the boys home with hugs and the exchange of phone numbers.

We hung out with them a few more times, and talked fairly often, later befriending their sweet female friend, who had been too busy making out to play games with us. It was a legendary night, one that would be later be referenced in that time we picked up a girl at the bar. Memories like this one remind me of summer, good friends, and how refreshing it can be to meet those who aren't about hooking up at bars, but who are truly about getting to meet new people.

That, and I miss flip-flop weather. *sigh

I misplaced my creativity. I found it in my bowl.

I just can't seem to get myself motivated these days. Everywhere I turn, I'm bombarded with messages of layoffs, the failing economy, and the messed up things we're doing to the environment. Even the good days are overshadowed by these dark clouds rolling overhead.

While I've been hiding from the world quite effectively in my little love bubble, I'm pretty sure the sickeningly sweet words swirling through my mind are nothing you people need to hear.

I was pretty excited today to get the International Association of Business Communicators' CW magazine delivered to my desk. The front cover urged me to "Get Creative!" and yet, nothing within its pages did the trick. Over and over, articles told me the importance of being creative in this failing economy, the doom and gloom of this economy and attempted to educate me on how to weather the downturn.

I need something to get my creative juices flowing. Maybe some delicious homemade butternut squash soup? I wanted to dive into the blender to devour every last drop.

Butternut Squash Soup
1/2 of a white onion, chopped
4 tablespoons margarine
2 butternut squash (I used 1 squash and 1 sweet potato to change things up)
water and chicken bouillon/chicken stock (enough to make 3-4 cups of chicken stock, but you can use broth if you want to)
1/2 teaspoon dried marjoram
1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
1/8 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper (I was out of this, so I used curry powder. Yum.)
About half a stick of light cream cheese.

1) In a large saucepan, saute onions in margarine until tender.
2) Cut squash in half, put them insides down on a plate with a bit of water, and microwave for 12-15 minutes.
3) While squash is cooking, add water, bouillon, marjoram, black pepper and cayenne to the onions.
4) Take the outsides off the squash when it's cooked. It will be hot, so be careful.
5) Add squash to pot and let the flavours do their little dance.
6) Puree soup and cream cheese in blender (I did half at a time) until smooth.
7) Return to saucepan, heat through (don't boil).
8) Try not to lick to bowl. Who am I kidding? Go for it.

Sparkly!

It's been a while since I've posted here; Google Reader has made it painfully clear how long I've been away. I was in Ontario, celebrating love with my Valentine and having a family meal on Family Day, the first family meal since Christmas break 2007. It was wonderful.

I'm picking up where I left off, with a Monday Memory that flooded back when I opened my Valentine's present.

Don't get me wrong, sparkly things distract me to no end. I used to run into walls because of my sparkly, sequined purple flats. But the thing inside the box that brought the biggest smile to my face on Valentine's Day was not the beautiful, sparkly, heart-shaped, pink and white sapphire necklace The Boy picked out (seriously, he has become a master at jewelry giving), but it was the circular object accompanying that necklace.

It was a pink, sparkly jelly bracelet.

Shortly after The Boy and I started dating, we went to the arcade in West Edmonton Mall. We played silly games for quite some time before cashing in our tokens on some prizes. Mine was a pink, sparkly jelly bracelet, which adorned my wrist for months before it finally broke and fell off.

The fact that The Boy remembered this when it had nearly slipped from my mind completely, and went back to the arcade to play games some afternoon so he could replace my cheap, albeit beloved, bracelet warmed my wee heart. Though I may not wear it every single day non-stop, it serves as a precious reminder of the beginning of our relationship and how far we've come. I love it. And I'm wearing it now.

Heart.