Cougar Pause

A quick note of actual personal opinion. I was driving home today, wondering about the extent of the damages in the opening rounds of NCAA basketball conference championships today, pondering the immediate and abysmal loss by Wake Forest, when I heard the local radio station advertising a March "Cougar Madness" tournament. Women can send in pictures of themselves being couga-riffic and be entered in the bracketology of cougars. Should they advance to the final round and win (based on picture only), they also win a new car. When they did one of these contests before for guys, you know what was "madness?" Mustaches. The male equivalent of this was mustache growing. Which, to my knowledge, does not carry one specific set of stereotyped associations with it. Depends on the type of 'stache. Cougars? Not so. That's very specific.

Now, the cougar phenomenon is a fairly recent one by popular culture standards, with it taking, I'd say, what, three to four years for the use of the term cougar to describe older women hunting younger men to become so universally understood that it could become the name and premise of a popular television show on a major network? My issue with it is hm...how do I say... its popular use in culture as a term that is not inherently offensive, stereotypical, and indicative of still entrenched gender/power/sexuality/money stereotyping and perceptions. Guess what laaaadies? Cougar is pretty insulting! Um, a premise and notion fully embraced and exploited by the SNL skit "The Cougar Den."

Here's what 93.1 Jack FM's website gave as a definition of a cougar, thanks to Urban Dictionary:

Cougar-Coo-garr- Noun. A 35+ year old female who is on the “hunt” for a much younger, energetic, willing-to-do-anything male. The cougar can frequently be seen in a padded bra, cleavage exposed, propped up against a swanky bar in South Bay (or other cities)waiting, watching, calculating; gearing up to sink her claws into an innocent young and strapping buck who happens to cross her path. “Man is cougar’s number one prey”

First of all - 35!?!!!?!!!! Wowsers! This entry MUST have been written by a 17 year old because, folks! 35 is not. that. old. Secondly, note that the description of the woman is inherently insulting in its insinuation that women in question are both lying in wait to attack (physically and violently - with their sexual desire) young men, and are desperately exploiting their bodies' sexuality to do so. Please note that this is not an endearing term! It makes women animals. And desperate hags. In one fell swoop! Women who OBVIOUSLY are too old to have sexual desire that's valid directed toward younger men are DESPERATELY waiting and slinking across bars and clubs trying to ATTACK men. This is not a positive view of women! Anyone?

Aside - Appropriate uses of "cougar"
1. Distinguish the awesomeness of John Mellencamp in relation to other people from Indiana named John. He rocks harder. Long after the thrill of livin' is gone.
2. To name a fine member of the Mercury family of automobiles. I remember these from my childhood. The Cougars and the Sables. (BOTH ANIMALS). Sleek, sophisticated, and a lot of burgundy interiors.

The presumption of the term cougar is NOT that women can date, bed, attract, marry younger men and do it with finesse, ease, and the same careless abandon as some men who prefer younger women. Those men, by the way, are called "heroes," and "good catches," and "yacht owners." But does anyone say, oh they are some desperate old men getting hair plugs and fake tans and wearing really tight graphic tee shirts to try to bang unsuspecting much younger women who won't see them coming? No. The implication in most cases THERE is also that the young women are either stupid or golddiggers who are fine with the age and beauty imbalance because they enjoy the financial perks of their older, caretaking bang partners. Does anyone ever say hey, those young men are golddiggers, gettin' with cougars like that? No, not to my knowledge. More like, ohhhh he got CLAWED by that cougar. And God forbid a younger man might actually be ATTRACTED to an older woman!!!! WHAT?!?! Impossible! The inherent presumption is that an older woman could only attract and retain a younger man by sexuality tricks and essentially, entrapment. Like bears get entrapped. Yep. Hunting snares and attacks on younger, unsuspecting men who get fooled by their cleavage into thinking they're of a socially acceptable age.

Old dude bags a young chick - hero, and she was looking for that guy anyway.
Old lady bags a young dude - she's so desperate, he must have mommy issues, I bet she's paying his college tuition and trying to recover from a divorce because her husband left her for the aupair in her twenties.

I found the use/misuse/casual embrace of this, to my thinking, insulting term for women by the Jack FM web site to be particularly telling. They have their own list of members of the cougar hall of fame. Yes, Demi Moore is on there, and Madonna too. They like 'em young. But then Marisa Tomei is on there apparently for being hot and over the age of 35. So it's not because she's an attractive woman who is over the age of 30 that you like her, it's because she's still sexual in any way over the age of 30, which must be an anomaly in the larger scope of the female population? Great. The most hilarious to me? Catherine Zeta F-ing Jones! Folks, she is MARRIED TO A DUDE WHO IS WAY OLDER! If anything, Michael Douglas is the cougar! She's just a very attractive woman over the age of 30! Her husband is not called desperate hunter of an unsuspecting, willing to do anything younger woman. He's called a very lucky man. A hero even. Because wow. Hasn't he achieved in finding someone THAT hot?
Yes.

I tried to watch the show Cougar Town because it's creator gave us Scrubs, a show full of quirky fun that I love and enjoy in all its syndicated glory, and even in its new iteration, Scrubs the Med School years (which I compare to A Different World from Cosby, which brings us back to Marisa Tomei), as the characters frequently say what they're thinking, even if it's not quite appropriate. Cougar Town - I couldn't get through it! Courtney Cox's character was caught early in the morning by another neighbor (formerly the powerhouse power-bitch on Scrubs - an entitled rich bitch who used and abused men and owned it without any neuroses about if she should, could, or had the right to - a great character written for her by her husband...Bill Lawrence who also created Cougar Town) while outside too early in the morning to be awake, so the neighbor knew she had to have been getting busy with that young hottie she bagged, but also inquired about her makeup being so perfect so early. Cox's character described waking up super early so she could put on full makeup so that the young guy would never know that she looked like hell, and old hell at that, early in the morning. Totally hysterical LAAADY time in commiserating on the need to perform TRICKS to ensure physical attractiveness to maintain sexual success with younger men. And obsession with appearance, and neurotic mania, and just a great, wonderful, shrill conception of women as they age.

Didn't Oil of Olay used to say grow old gracefully as their ad campaign? Sure, they were advertising avoiding wrinkles, but at least they were advocating the reality of aging. And grace. The term cougar removes all the grace from women and replaces intelligence with desperation, lust, over-the-top sexuality and cunning to target that which would be unattainable without these - sexual interest from any man not as senior as his lover.

A depressing outlook!
I take pause with these paws.

The Penalty Lap!

Hey guys! Did you notice I missed yesterday's post? I say that to the larger world of unlikely stoic readership, but realize that for many - nahhh, it was no big deal. It was for me though, as it constitutes a break in the Lent pact, but one for which I'm willing to take the heat. I will either have to have a day with two posts to make up for this OUTRAGE, or I'll have to go a day longer. Somewhere the penalty lap will be calculated. Much like the winter olympic biathlon - no target can be missed without penalty.

Really, I already believe I've written an aside about my love of the biathlon somewhere in days past, but here I go again. Combining guns and skiing! Amazing! And it involves a penalty lap system and, for my money, most closely resembles a drinking game in its machinations. If you miss a target (after skiing to it with your RIFLE on your back), you have to take a penalty lap. So the sport involves endurance strategy, precision marksmanship from a variety of positions, and sprint skiing, depending on one's aim. What a sport! And I generally hate guns!

Much like those athletes, please know I am aware that at some point, I have to take a lap before moving forward. Publicly acknowledged and intention to pursue action declared.

Why did I fail (totes epic fail callback!), you ask? Drinking on a Tuesday! Behaving like it was Friday! Woo!

At the beginning of the week, my coworkers and I found little cards advertising our employer's mental health services that posed the question, in bold no less, What does it mean to be mentally healthy?

Great question. And the answer? Well that was provided with a checklist that included actual check marks as bullet points (which I apologize for being unable to simulate here).

"Mentally healthy people...

• Feel good about themselves
• Feel comfortable with and relate well to others
• Meet the demands of life with relative success"

Upon reflection, I realized WHOA! I sure don't think I'm checkin' those check boxes in pen. And pencil seems like way too much commitment. Um, could you be more specific about "demands" and "relative"? And when you say "good" does that mean like, absence of flu-like symptoms? Or do you mean able to make it a week at work without having to give oneself a pep talk about not crying at one's desk? Or like, being able to look down when in the shower without giving oneself a pep talk? And when you say "relate" does that mean like, by blood? General success at sharing genetic material with "others"? Because, yep! Yep, I feel comfortable that I do do that. And I would even say I do it well. Being related to other people actually contributes greatly to my "relative success." It's awesome! I'm so related. I've got like, four first cousins and then a bunch of other folks stray down the DNA. Also if "others" involves imaginary conversations I have with either real people I see in the real world, or characters in my imagination, or say, the Microsoft Office helper dog I've named Bobbydog who spends a great deal of time on my desktop (he reads books! he's hilarious!), then yessss. Yes, I relate the hell out of others. All the time.

But with a little more thought and some discussion in my immediate cubicle zone, we determined no, that's probably not what they meant. So when the opportunity to go to an inter-collegiate alumni group event became available to me, I decided to challenge my mental health and go, knowing my preference for my couch and television would really not lead me to more actual "relative success" than it already had. And THAT, is how I ended up drinking drinks on a Tuesday. At cut rate prices. And I even interacted with others! Due in no small part to the drinks! And name tags! Wonder of wonders! I might need to sharpen a pencil to get ready to make a mark next to bullet point two there. Baby steps.

When I got home from this adventure, I decided to make myself a delicious, post-midnight omelet, like ya do. I noticed the piles of mail strewn across the coffee table, left idling near the t.v. remote I usually cradle like a baby. I was reckless with my spatula work, and I didn't care! Those eggs could wait until tomorrow to be scraped from the pan and the stove top. I was going to throw my jeans in a heap with the rest of the clothes I'd been wearing this week - whatever man, I had just related. This mess would be here tomorrow, and that's when I could be a responsible little apartment dweller without anyone knowing the difference.

Well, imagine my dismay when I arrived home today feeling the pain of having slept about three hours less than I normally do on Tuesday nights, having drunk several more cut-rate beers than I normally do on a Tuesday night, just ready to get back on that couch and let that t.v. remote know it had not lost its control over my emotions, and realized the handyman and my building manager had been in my possibly tornado-struck-mess-level apartment to fix a fuse unannounced. Well, they may have literally been walking on egg shells, but at least they didn't have to feel bad adding paint chips to the shitstorm. For several moments, I did not feel good about myself. I did not feel comfortable about how the state of my home had related to others. I did not feel like I'd met the demands of life (surpassing "squalor" in the apt descriptor of your home's cleanliness has to be on a list somewhere, right?) with relative success. And I thought, oh crap, I didn't write either, I have got to clean up my act. But then I got on the couch, and realized I had not the night before and thought eh, no one's perfect? I can relate.

More Orca-stration

Sometimes it's odd how one discussion topic you never think about leads to weeks and weeks and weeks of mentions in passing and general attention to a topic. Such is the case with Sea World. I have not been to a Sea World in my life thus far. I somehow have no interest. I think I remember Sea World in Ohio? Like it was advertised in Ohio? Am I confusing Cedar Point with Sea World? In any event, I did not go. And I remember being stubbornly, and now I feel like almost irrationally opposed to going to Sea World on a college spring break service trip in Florida. We were there working on houses in the last El Nino year I remember as very very rainy. Florida getaway that helps people trip!!! turned into our van full of college dorks who did not either go home or go away with our Greek-affiliated friends to somewhere booze-filled going to KMart and desperately hoping we could find flannel anywhere in Florida in March. I think I paid $2.88 for a flannel shirt. It was on sale, and it was the best $2.88 I'd ever spent at that point, as underdressed and underpacked as we all were.

Toward the end of the week, we had the opportunity on our one day off to take a day trip if we wanted to. Orlando was within our sights. We could make it, but no one wanted to spend 90 bucks for 3 hours at Disneyworld. Another idea that was floated to the group was Sea World. Somehow, despite my massive desire for group cohesion, I was nearly violently opposed to driving 3 hours to go to a dolphin and whale show that cost a lot of money. It seemed like a terrible idea and a terrible use of time, particularly since I was enjoying the access we were given to the YMCA (also our overnight home) facilities. They had an outdoor pool in March. To me that seemed way better than watching whales swim. I could swim! For free! (The novelty of swimming has never worn off, really. God bless my grandmother who took her grandchildren to Florida to see Mickey Mouse only to find out that they were as, if not more amused, by the hotel swimming pool. By "they" I mean me). I remember just refusing to cave. Like saying I'd rather just go see Orlando than go see Sea World.
I think that is what we ended up doing, because the needs and wants of our group were so varied at the time. Some people were ready to pay any amount of money for action. Some people had 5 bucks and a free day. Mediation went to the common denominator of "let's just go."

After being enchanted by the vehemence and hmm...almost uncharacteristically fiery debate about Sea World and its merit or lack thereof in the face of the recent killer whale attack that was being broadcast on NPR, I had another Sea World encounter this evening. I was in a locker room (about to go swimming...was not joking about that novelty before) and heard one hm, nine year old girl say to another:
"Guess WHAT." (leaving no room for her friend to not say "what?")
"What?"
"On Friday, I'm going to Sea World."
"You're so lucky!!!"
"I get to leave school early. I have to."
"I wanna go, you're so lucky."

It made me laugh because it really was the most earnest expression of privilege and envy by the young that I'd heard in a while. Totally genuine interest in Sea World's splendor. And its power to be worthy of missing school - the ultimate in childhood value systems.
Despite being quite a bit older, it made me think, really? You're jealous? I can't ever remember wanting to go to Sea World when I was young. Or ever, actually.

But the instinct of sharing good news about getting to do something fun that gets you out of an obligation that's not fun? I don't think that ever goes away.
Really. Think about a meeting ending earlier than expected and sending you home sooner than you thought you'd be going home. Even if only by 15 minutes, it still feels pretty special.
And the next day, you'll probably tell someone. Their response?
"Really? You're so lucky!!!!"

We're all still chasing that whale, wherever it may be.

Some thoughts from today's most popular guy

"The Oscar goes to-"

This phrase will be uttered again and again tonight and that little pause before the envelope is opened will be full of tension and a four- or five- or ten-way split screen of actors doing their best to act like they don't care, don't need it, fully love everyone in their category, or in the case of many women, like they're not about to pass out from hunger while simultaneously worrying if their hair is holding its curl and their tits are holding their perk. But does anyone ever stop to consider the tension and AGONY we, the Oscar statuettes experience? No. Absolutely not.

Being an Oscar statue, sure, it's a glamorous life, but the most glamorous part really happens on one night. Then, after that, there's a far better chance of oblivion and dust-gathering on a bookshelf than you might think. At least the Olympic gold medals get to go to middle school gymnasiums or on the front of Wheaties boxes, but we Oscars are made for one night of glam, and are then left to the whim or mania of whomever might happen to take us home.
The pressure is awful. We're the mail order brides of the entertainment industry! No choice in the rest of our lives, and there's just as much chance will be used to prop up someone's encyclopedia of French film collection as there is we'll be painted green and given any number of undignified appendages by Hollywood eccentrics (read: drug addicts). The last place an Oscar wants to end up is coked up and sunk at the bottom of someone's Oscar celebration pool party in the Hollywood hills. We're heavy, remember. By the time Consuela finds us on Tuesday, we'll be halfway hellbent on mildewing, and given about as much attention as one of the other silver candlesticks or sex toys that our owner has demanded she polish. The rich. The famous. The praised. Gag me.

Which they do!!!!
When you're kiln-molded to have no discernibly functioning lips, do you think anyone wants to hear what you have to say, or if you think Avatar was some derivative morality play, or if you'd rather be melted down for use in the Franklin Mint collectible coin series for purchase by some old lady in South Dakota than go home with Tarantino? Have you seen him when he's "just being himself?" Come on. Yes, I would delight in the chance to be held in Colin Firth's gentlemanly arms, but will I get the chance? Probably not. Much better chance of going home with some weirdo named Eveleengela who finally earned the recognition she deserves for achievement in costuming for her work in some foreign film no one saw. Great. A lifetime of wearing tiny, couture outfits for the amusement of her dinner party guests. I'd love to be a living doll. Sure, that's why I've been working out so much for this physique.

Really. Turn the cameras around, Ryan Seacrest. Great! Eva Mendes looks stunning again? Wow, shocker. Has she DONE ANYTHING OF ARTISTIC MERIT aside from looking orgasmically satisfied in a shampoo commercial lately? Come on. Why is she even here?!? You wanna talk hot bodies? Turn the cameras toward gold. They love us. Do you know how many times I've been described as "statuesque" in my day? Often. Let's just say often. Probably as much as you get compared to Dick Clark. But does anyone give a damn? No. Just some sweaty palms clutching my rock-hard, gilded ass and pumping me above their head like I'm the whistle on their choo-choo train. Guess what? The view from up here? I can see down your dress. Looks like you're giving yourself a little boost in the boobs, huh? Tape much?
You can't tape solid gold. There's nothing to hide.

There's always the tiny hope of going home with a French ingenue and living out your days overlooking the tower from the wide-open perch on her table near the window. There's the lottery-stats hope of going home with Meryl. But most often it's either a spot next to the Yoda gumball machine of the technical merit geeks, or under a hot spotlight next to some other lesser industry awards in the office of someone who spends most of his day on the phone using the F word. Le Sigh. What can I do about it? A life of glamor is, after all, a thing of beauty. There's always a chance to go home with the animators. They seem fun. As long as it's not a writer. Anything but a writer. Gawd! I'd rather be the beer-laden, frootloop soaked, baby-butt-hugged bowl of the Stanley Cup than go home with a writer. Insufferable. Mostly the sobbing. And especially the singing.

Wish me luck tonight. The envelope? Please.

All that crap

Sometimes living in L.A. is hilarious, like when it's raining in a fairly typical rain fashion the day before the Academy Awards. The news of the evening comes on at 11 p.m. as planned, miraculously so, given the inclement weather. The top story? The weather.
It's raining. It's winter. So it's a winter storm.
Rain is on the roads! And the Kodak Theatre, home to the 82nd Annual Academy Awards....NOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo!

The top story's weatherman reveals the rain might stop. Maneuvering away from footage of cars on roads, we go to the graphic display of tomorrow's outlook.
Morning - partially cloudy
61 degree Red carpet
Evening - 20% chance of rain

Red carpet? Is that a time of day now officially? Or is the carpet kept at a constant 61 degree temperature? Either way, it's assumed it is of note to everyone.

Story two - The rain's effects on the Academy Awards.
Cutaway to someone live at the scene, a giant Oscar statue shrouded in protective plastic behind her. Concern on her face? Evident. Pronounced. Gripping.
A lot of preparations have been made for tomorrow...
Will this city survive? And, by associative property, will the rest of the world since they're obviously relying on this epicenter of award action to serve as a social barometer for the nation. Just ask media-rologist James Cameron (too tired for my Avatar rant now, but know it's inside if I've spared you thus far).

All this hype reminded me of something I saw while digging around in crocks past, looking for Mr. Roboto. Something that seemed quite appropriate. At least watch until the one minute mark, that's all I ask. After that, it's funny because the point is undercut by the giant fake tree forest illusion on stage behind them, but still a good one. Also, I believe Tommy Shaw in this video (is that him? a replacement?) may be the inspiration for Kate Gosslin's new hairstyle and extensions. Another grand illusion of its own.

"Dont you go believin' in movies and tv and rock videos and all that crap, Come On!"
Dennis DeYoung of Styx

Learning To be a Housewife

Yesterday's quiz answer? I think I'd be H.M.S. Ginnafore. Still thinking about what the HMS stands for.

Today!
I've spent some crock time devoted to my devotion to Bravo programming, let's be honest. Well, last night I realized just how much I rely upon television to provide order in my world. A circuit tripped in my apartment at the exact 30th minute of the episode of Project Runway, leaving me in the dark figuratively and literally. Not only was I not going to know what happened (still haven't caught up yet, no spoilers), I also knew I was not recording the remainder of the episode! Or the Real Housewives finale! Terrible news! And imagine my consternation today when I did not know whether or not power would be restored in time for me to come home on a Friday night, hunker down with the Guide menu of my DVR, and record some programming I missed last night. WOW. I was tense all day! And mad at my building manager all day! Why such callous disregard for my need to plug in entertainment-providing appliances!?!?!

Well, joy of joys, I came home to discover power restored. Sure, there's one circuit that's just been left in the off position that appears to be unresolved and possibly a fire hazard, and sure, maybe there are paint chips from around the circuit breaker all over the kitchen floor, but hey! There are also back to back episodes of the Real Housewives franchise - an OC finale, and the NYC season premier.

Heaven...I'm in heaven....

Housewives on t.v. are professional bickerers. I kiiiiinda hate bickering! Yep! But man oh man, am I watching this shit. So, to honor this for being as ridiculous as it is, I've decided to take the "Which housewife of Orange County are you?" quiz on the bravo web site. Let's see who I am!

Uh oh, question one and I've already failed. "Who do you consider your best friend?"
Options for this are daughter, boyfriend, husband, and mother. Um....none of the above? Can my best friend be my best friend? Guess not. Let's pick mom. Question 2 - another failure! "Do you consider yourself a workaholic?" Isn't this one a yes/no?
No, no it's not.
Uh oh, how do I handle conflict with my significant other? Do you mean my best friend? Wait, that's my mom.
Uh oh! Am I comfortable making big purchases? This involves my man's opinion or gifts? Eek! Whole Foods sushi was a big purchase for me this evening...
Ahhh finally we've found a question for me. After speculation about whose celebrity fan club I'd join and my parenting style, a question about what gets me up in the morning, and the perfect answer - a bucket of coffee!

Twelve questions later and we've figured out who I am. Though I've seen quizzes in both Seventeen and Cosmo that seem more applicable to my lifestyle, I probably think this quiz is correct in its correlation with my OC Housewife style. I'm Jeana!

"Always able to keep a cool head amidst the chaos of her bickering brood, Jeana is a powerhouse realtor and the one most likely to dole out the best advice to a fellow housewife in a tough situation. Being Jeana means you're a kind soul, an amazing listener, and above all a true and genuine friend. Sure, you tend to have high expectations of the people you love, but it's only because you want them to realize their true potential."

Does this mean I'll do Playboy? Or let my daughter get implants? Or maybe that I'll host some good pool parties. We'll see. And yep, one day of minor television discontinuation might in fact make me an OC housewife in my obliviousness to real problems of the world. That one....yeah. Way more on point!

Abbreviated thoughts

Today I was thinking about L.L. Cool J. Why? I have no idea. I really think I'd be an excellent candidate for a brain mapping study that examines childhood music and television exposure and that effect on long-term thought organization.

Really, if you ask me to sort by lyrics, the process typically goes much faster in my brain than say, sorting by importance. Somehow, when I thought of L.L. Cool J, I thought of the song "O.P.P." and how good it is. I then thought hm, abbreviations are pretty awesome, as are using them forever, as L.L. Cool J has done in his career, even as he works for Sears as a fashion designer. Sure, ladies love cool James, but ladies also love Sears. Ludachris cutting out the Luda for acting? Well, I get it, but how great is Ludachirs as a name? Good. L.L. Cool J didn't switch for Sears or his cop show. And I guess neither did Ice-T. Ice-T made me think of Ice Cube, and then the end of all of that were my grand conclusions that: 1. I'm down with O.P.P., and 2. Today was a good day.

Uh oh! In looking up a picture of L.L. Cool J, I just discovered Sears ditched his clothing line!!!! What??? Maybe the love of the ladies does not come from the same ladies? Terrible news. I can only hope he will rectify this situation and become a part of L.L. Cool Bean, the direct mail catalogue for every urban outdoorsman.

This is a crock question I pose to readership - if you were going to make initials to throw at the front of your name that meant something, which letters would you choose? And what would they stand for?

I'm going to have to think on this one.