Two Girls, One Site

From a young age, I have considered myself quite the connoisseur of the English language, primarily because I completed scholastic instruction before the American public at large acknowledged that it might be a good idea to move toward a bilingual approach to education since there are a lot of countries and taco truck employees who don’t speak English. In my youth, I was not a favorite playmate of the other girls in my class, one of whom succinctly explained away her disdain thusly: “She uses too big of words.”

Rather than take this grammatically offensive accusation as a cue to simplify my burgeoning vocabulary and secure the approval of my peers, I opted to alienate these prepubescent philistines further by collecting unusual, frequently outdated words, looking to Shakespeare and interminable games of Balderdash to secure my place in society as an insufferable know-it-all bitch monster.

Now that I am technically a full-fledged grown-up, adult woman, I’m not able to devote myself to studying American English’s idiosyncrasies with quite the same fervor, but I do try to make it a point to zero in on any interesting, sexy or otherwise useful additions to the lexicon.

And so it happened, on or around January 25, 2007, I stumbled upon the phrase “manic pixie dream girl,” probably in a drunken stupor, probably eating an entire bag of Cheetos dipped in Tostitos queso dip, not that it’s any of your business, thank you very much. Coined by the very talented, very sexy (pending photographic confirmation) Nathan Rabin, a film critic for The Onion’s AV Club, the manic pixie dream girl is a “bubbly, shallow cinematic creature that exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures.” Rabin discovered this insidious stereotype during a forced viewing of that Orlando Bloom-starring cinematic abortion, Elizabethtown, but has identified the first appearance of said stereotype to be Katherine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby, which film yours truly first became aware of during my extensive study of Ann M. Martin’s Babysitters Club series, which study probably deserves its own series of posts on this site, because I read damn near every one of those books in spite of their repetitive introductions of the BSC’s members, to the point where my parents forbade me to read said expository chapters aloud during the period wherein my Fascist schoolmarm forced her students to read aloud to their parents, presumeably to forestall any arguments about certain students’ obvious illiteracy during parent-teacher conferences (ie the “too big of words” girl).

But I digress. The term in question (”manic pixie dream girl,” as a brief reminder for our hungover/ADD-addled readers) slowly worked its way into the public consciousness via various feminist blogs and a feature on NPR. Those media outlets, in addition to my fake Internet boyfriend Mr. Rabin (seriously, dude, call me. I’m 83% sure I’m not pregnant. Anymore.) worked hard to poke holes like Swiss cheese in the idea that any such manic pixies exist in reality. I, being a contrarian armchair linguist, agreed that the idea of some chick swooping into some dude’s life to fix everything and show him the vaginal equivalent of a plastic bag wafting around in some suburban strip mall parking lot and presumably suck his dick on a semi-regular basis is, in fact, a fantasy, but also felt that if this dehumanizing portrait of ladies kept worming its way into pop culture, it must be based in some kind of reality.

After two and a half years of pondering, binge drinking and Cheeto/queso consumption, I have come to the conclusion that the “manic pixie dream girl” (hereafter MPDG) is the result of phallocentric delusion and womankind as a whole has been victimized by the projection of this delusion onto various silver screens nationwide. The delusion itself results from the existence of what I like to call “manic pixie nightmare girls,” ladies (ie ME) who seek to elevate their manly partners, but have their own agendas, baggage, interest in life’s infinite mysteries and adventures and yes, depression to cope with, and who would be perfect for said manly partners if only they didn’t use their bubbly inspiringness for their (the MPNGs’) own good, because seriously, we all know that “any man” > “any mere woman.” Damn women with their distracting boobies and their annoying capacity to grow fetuses and their bouncy hair. So what we wind up with are the creepy, lobotomized versions of these otherwise awesome, normal, imperfect ladies, painstakingly edited to fit the writer/director/viewer’s fantasy of womanly submission and devotion.

This would be all well and good if viewers of MPDG-centric entertainment didn’t have such a faulty conception of fantasy versus reality. Because, see, straight dudes perceive (correctly) that society doesn’t let them have feelings or boobs of their own, but they also don’t want to be party to any faggy self-examination or formalized psychotherapy. So instead, they hit the multiplex (or the arthouse theatre, if they are particularly secure in their masculinity) and let Zach Braff convince them that moving home after failing at whatever the hell it was they were trying to achieve in life is TOTES FINE, because there is surely a lovely, Natalie Portman-esque MPDG just wasting away forlornly because she doesn’t have a special, unique snowflake of an emotional cripple on whom to work her life-fixing magic. She, being a woman (a WOMAN, for god’s sake), surely has no aspirations of her own or problems that can’t be eradicated through fellatio and/or psychotropic medication and/or childbirth, and can thusly focus all her time and energy on Zach Braff or his Midwestern, non-famous equivalent (ie all of my ex-boyfriends, who, if there is such a thing as cosmic justice, are currently dying in rape fires), presumably spending any time she is not interacting with her Braff wannabe in a catatonic, Stepford Wives state of suspended animation.

Now, readers, I know what you’re thinking: “Whoa, Kelly, that’s an awfully reductive view of American masculinity, to say nothing of your wholly self-serving crack at your ex-boyfriends, with regard to that “rape fire” business. Now who’s got a ‘faulty conception of fantasy versus reality?’” To which I would reply, bravo, unnamed reader! Way to use my own lazy bullshit blog post against me! That is an excellent point because it belies the very lie of the MPDG stereotype, as well as the stereotype of American dudes, sensitive or not–the idea that any complex human being, dude or dudette, can be reduced to a simple, descriptive catch-all nomenclature.

As always, my point is that you, yes, YOU, should be hella pissed off. Why? Because there’s not nearly enough manic pixie nightmare girls represented in popular culture. A cursory Google Search reveals not only that I may not have officially coined the phrase (but I’m totally willing to take the credit if anyone is interested, because I am a total MPNG), but that only a few Internet citizens have pointed out examples of the flip side of the MPDG, namely Anne Hathaway in Rachel Getting Married and Jennifer Aniston as Liz Lemon’s old college pal on 30 Rock. Seriously? Manic pixie nightmare girls are way better and more entertaining than manic pixie dream girls, if only because we can have have bad idea sex with no comeuppance. I want more of them on my teevee. They will make me feel more justified in my continual consumption of artificially flavored cheese snacks, especially those produced by Frito-Lay, because manic pixie nightmare girls are very committed to senseless brand loyalty for no good reason. Because we are inexplicably awesome. Anneken out!

-KA

I fucking hate Chloe Sevigny.

If you are fortunate enough to not know who she is off the top of your head, you can currently catch her on that HBO series Big Love, or you can see her ruining a variety of films with her annoying waifish insincerity such as Boys Don’t Cry  and American Psycho.  Being that I am a rather amiable person, my list of arch-nemeses is short, but very specific.  The following is listed chronologically according to the order in which these people pissed me off. 

(1.) Neve Campbell

Reason: Just a plain terrible actress who got a lot of work for no good reason.

UPDATE - Recently crossed off the list when I realized that she is no longer a threat, being that she hasn’t worked since Wild Things (circa 1998).

 (2.) Ann Coulter

Reason: Whose arch-nemesis list is she NOT on? (Except Rush Limbaugh who has placed her on his “Chicks I’d Like to Bang While Hopped Up on Prescription Meds and Looking at Gay Porn” List)

 (3.) The Hostess at Chili’s in Dayton, OH. (circa 2004)

Reason:  I don’t remember her name.  I don’t remember what she looked like.  I just remember she was rude as hell.

 And last, but not least of all….

 (4.) CHLOE SEVIGNY

Reason:  All of the following….

 Now, I know this is a woman-centric site and we are suppose celebrate the feminist spirit and embrace each other as beautiful talented women and not to vagina-bash our fellow females. But I just can’t help it.  She is the epitome of the callous, self-deluded celebrity; the oblivious hipster; the ultimate pretender of knowing what is going on in the world, but really only concerning herself with the 10 square blocks she inhabits.  Read the little article below (brought to you by the ever hilarious Gothamist), and please, please, please don’t forget to follow the links to The Nightlife Preservation Community page.  You can’t write better comedy than that….

While you were out enjoying the night for no reason, others were out enjoying the night for a cause. And that cause is to be able to enjoy many nights, more often, forever and ever. The Nightlife Preservation Community… is something that exists, and it was launched by the NY Nightlife Association on Monday. It’s here to help you go out more often, stay out later, and age quicker-like Chloe Sevigny over there.

The kick off event was held at M2 Ultralounge and according to the invite we got, was to be “attended by hundreds of industry owners, managers and employees as well as many elected officials.” Miss Sevigny hosted (donning a plea to free her brother’s nightclub) and the plan is to mobilize the troops and “get behind elected officials and candidates for public office who understand how important the cultural, economic and social roles, a vibrant night time economy plays for New York City.”

According to the press release, last year more people enjoyed nightlife in the city “than The Yankees, Mets, Knicks, Giants, Jets, Rangers, all Broadway shows and the Metropolitan Museum combined.” Way to go, everyone. So wait, just what is the big threat nightlife needs saving from? Guest of a Guest explains, “The NPC is taking on the fun police to save New York City… right now special interests and unproductive legislation is straining an industry that employs over 20,000 people and supports the local economy.”

And the NPC itself declares they want to “create greater awareness of the issues that affect the entire hospitality business, and indeed, the issues that impact NY’s image worldwide as the global capital and the City that Never Sleeps.” Was there an open bar pouring Absolut Vague before this mission statement was written?

If the picture alone didn’t make you want to spray her in the face with a can of PBR, then I’m sure the article certainly did.  For those of you who were wondering what the deal was with “Free the Beatrice” t-shirt Chloe was donning, no, it’s not for some Iranian POW or the name of a homeless shelter/puppy rescue facility; it is the name of her brother’s private nightclub in Manhattan that will only let you in if you have a coke problem and a MTV Viewer’s Choice Award coming out of your ass.  They were shut down by the city when they were caught stuffing several more people in their confined adult playroom than is legally permitted by the FDNY.  Although, to be fair, both Olsen twins and Lindsey Lohan were there and they should only really be counted as one person…

I guess what it comes down to is the fact that I find anyone wasting their money and star power on such exclusive, elitist bullshit completely ridiculous. While attending the grand opening of a new Kiehl’s store in the East Village, the president of the company was quoted as saying, “If Kiehl’s were a woman, she’d be Chloe!”  Yes, she would….useless and way too expensive for us normal plebeians.

TO BE CONTINUED…(once she pisses me off again)

There is a general rule of etiquette I follow whenever I find that a person bears a striking resemblance to a celebrity/politician/historical figure…..

RULE : Don’t fucking tell them.

Why? Because…

A.  He/She probably looks nothing like whoever you think  they look like.
B.  He/She will not understand the reference, or
III. He/She will know exactly who you are referring to, but find it insulting no matter how pretty/talented/sexy/popular they were in the 80’s.

Now, I tell you this as someone who has received all kinds of unsolicited comparisons…most of them less than pleasant.  Here are just a few:

Rosie O’Donnell
Ok, so, we both have dark hair, we both are chubby, and we both have gotten into public arguments with Donald Trump, but the similarities end there.  I’ve been getting this since I was 15 years old.  Now, if you are a woman, or have taste, or are not blind, you know this isn’t really what you would consider a compliment.  The conversation usually goes something like this:

Asshole #1: Hey, ya know, you look like somebody. Doesn’t she?
Asshole #2: Yeah, she sure does…
Asshole #1: I know! You look like that… Rosie O’Donnell!!

Now, at this point, I usually give them a less than ambiguous indication that this is not a welcomed comparison.  Then the backtracking begins…

 
Asshole #1: Uh…well, ya know, she is sooooo funny. I just love her show….

 
No,  you dick! You didn’t say I was FUNNY like Rosie O’Donnell, you said I LOOK  like her!!!  Well, you look like Rodney Dangerfield! Don’t be offended….he’s hilaaaarious!!

Monica Lewinsky
Now this comparison, like most episodes of Murphy Brown, is dated and was really only relevant during the Clinton Administration.  This era happened to fall primarily during my adolescent years which, unfortunately, left me too self-loathing to allow it not to make me self-conscious, and too young to appreciate the benefits of a good economy.  I have to say though, restrospectively, I kind of appreciate this comparison.  I have never thought Monica Lewinsky to be unattractive, no matter how many late-night talk shows said she was, and I think, as far BJs go (and yes…I called them BJs because I’m mature like that), you could do a lot worse than the most powerful man in the world.  To every drunk, desperate or bored woman in America she was an inspiration, whose name was only to be marred by the Rush Limbaughs of the world who had to pay for theirs…

Yasmin Bleeth
Ok, stop laughing.  I’m slipping this one in just under the wire.  This was a fluke comparison given to me by a drunk man a Rudy’s Bar & Grill.  Now just to set the scene a little for those of you who don’t know what Rudy’s is, Rudy’s is a midtown Manhattan bar made entirely out of plywood and electrical tape that has $7 pitchers of PBR and free hot dogs. I was standing by the door of the woman’s bathroom waiting for my turn, absent-mindedly fiddling with my hair, when a drunk middle-aged man wearing a thermal shirt walked over to me, put his arm around my waist and said, “No need to pull your hair, sweetheart.  You’re beautiful.  You look like Yasmin Bleeth.”  And as he walked away, I couldn’t help but feel a little better about myself, and a little sorry for Yasmin Bleeth. Now in my rare sober moments, I realize that the comparison is completely inaccurate and I look nothing like Yasmin Bleeth. Come on!! Yasmin Bleeth for chrissake!! I look nothing like her!!!

But, on second thought…..

Touche.

You know, I had this whole rant about “trust” and “being writing partners” and “how can you repay me like this when I didn’t tell anyone about that rash you have on your hoo-ha,” but I’m just gonna let the SOV say it for me.

All your words in my brain turning into clutter, Kristina.  Your move, bitch.

Okay, so apparently “pingbacks” are something that exists.  According to WordPress Codex, “the best way to think about pingbacks is as remote comments.”  Don’t tell me what the best way to think is, WordPress!  I am not a computer!

It would appear that Two Girls, One Site received our first pingback on March 8 at approximately 11:03 AM.  So far, so good.  It means that somebody, somewhere, posted something on WordPress that was related to the post in question.  Last night, I clicked on said pingback and I was shocked, shocked, by what I saw.

The post that linked to us is called “Health Tips for New College Students.”  Strike one, ovzr.com.  Kristina and I are college graduates.  We got our diplomas just fine on a steady diet of Boone’s Farms, Taco Bell Express and coffee from vending machines.  We didn’t need any vaccinations, sleep or regular exercise, thank you very much.  I don’t know about Kristina, but I graduated magna cum laude from a fourth-rate state university, and that was without exerting any effort whatsoever in any of my classes.  Can you imagine what I could have done had I just tried, even a little bit?

I don’t see what difference it makes to S. Michael Windsor whether or not I contracted gangrene from the communal showers or developed Type 2 diabetes from sitting on my ass in front of reruns of The Real World: Back to New York for an entire week.  Guess what, S. Michael Windsor?  I’m a grown woman and I make my own choices, regardless of whether they’re “good” or “bad,” according to some narrow idea you have of what it means to be “healthy.”  I’m doing great.  I’m married to a swell fella, I have a Blackberry and a poster from the production of The School for Scandal I directed, signed by every member of the cast and crew, even the ones who wanted me to die in an explosion.  What happened in your life that caused you to think anyone wants to hear your stupid, logical suggestions on staying healthy in college?

Even more disturbing than S. Michael Windsor’s air of superiority is the fact that the blog where this hateful screed is posted isn’t even a real blog.  It’s an example of a WordPress blog.  I clicked on the “About” tab at ovzr.com and this is all those jokers had to say for themselves:

This is an example of a WordPress page, you could edit this to put information about yourself or your site so readers know where you are coming from. You can create as many pages like this one or sub-pages as you like and manage all of your content inside of WordPress.

Seriously.  Fuck.  You.  WordPress.  I don’t remember the part of my agreement with your site where I said, “Hey, if you judge my personal lifestyle to be destructive, or you just find the words ‘diet’ and ‘college’ on my site, please, by all means, link to my blog in the hopes that I will see the error of my ways.”

Of course, I don’t usually read licensing agreements, since I assume they all read more or less the same: “Yeah, yeah, my immortal soul, whatever, agree.”  Listen up, WordPress.  Even if I didn’t read your stupid terms of use or whatever, you have no right to tell me what to do with my body since the implied agreement only gave you jurisdiction over my soul.

Nobody but nobody makes me see the error of my ways and lives to tell the tale.  Why do you think the Catholic Church is such a wreck?  You better watch out, WordPress.  I’m gonna kick your ass.