Beauty Lessons I learned from TV's Babeliest Brothers (and one Awkward Angel) Part 1

It's not a secret that I have an obsession with Supernatural.

Sweet, sweet addiction.

I'm fairly sure everyone who has the internets knows I love this show. And I'm fairly sure my fervor on this blog and on my facebook page has either 1) scared my friends who aren't into Supernatural or 2) inspired my friends who aren't into Supernatural to watch this show. The friends who are already into Supernatural just nod and smile, because they know.

I was more surprised than anyone that I got sucked back into this show in June. Mainly because it's not British. It's probably the one thing I'm super fangirl enthusiastic about that isn't British.

What? British stuff is cool. So are bowties.

Anyway, if you've watched Supernatural, or even if you've seen pictures of the cast of Supernatural, you know that the show is full of insanely good looking people. And nowhere is this more evident than the show's main characters, Dean (played by Jensen Ackles) and Sam (Jared Padalecki).

Dean Winchester is too perfect to be real.
This has been a PSA by the HOLY CRAP,  JENSEN ACKLES association (HCJAA).

Ain't nothin wrong with this gif.
Shameless admiration of Sam. 

And, of course, there's Cas. 

Master of the Puppy Eyes.

Guys this good looking always have something to teach a girl. Wait, that sounds dirty. 

Guys this good looking always have something to teach the general public about beauty. Because let's face it, they're beautiful. 

So. Without further ado. Here are the Beauty Lessons I've Learned from Watching Supernatural. 

1). Find a Signature Style. 

These boys know what looks good on them. Leather jackets, plaid, and jeans. They have a look. They rock the look. 

They trust the look. 

2) Dress The Part 

Sure, they have their look that is their staple look. But Sam and Dean aren't afraid to dress for success on occasion. They've learned how important it is to wear the appropriate outfits for impersonating government officials, impersonating detectives, impersonating park rangers...

It may not be *you*, but sometimes an open mind pays off. Like on a date and you're going shopping for an outfit. Or, you know, when you've got to impersonate Homeland Security officers. 

3) Treat Yourself

I've heard the phrase "treat yourself" in conjunction with makeovers, massages, buying makeup, etc; but it can also be used in conjunction with actual treats. Sometimes, you've just gotta relax, slow down, and enjoy a big slice of 

PIE. 

If you're Dean Winchester and you're reading this blog, first off...uhhh, hi. You're really attractive.  Secondly, I'm fairly sure what went through your head was: 

Which is totally understandable. 

5). Have Confidence in How You Look, No Matter What People Say

I'm counting this as two, because honestly, this could also be a lesson in hair care. His hair (whatever you might say about the length) is so luscious. Whatever conditioner he's using, HOOK ME UP. 

Back to the original point--I'm fairly sure Dean has told Sam to GET A HAIRCUT more times than I can actually count, and I'm additionally equally sure that a lot of the fans support this idea. Sam is truly a beautiful human, but if his hair gets any longer, he'll start to look more like a certain Christian deity and less like the sorta-demon apocalyptic-vessel that we all know and love. 

Just a beard and sandals away. You know you can see it. 

But Sam keeps rocking it anyway. Sam is the poster child for "Long Hair, Don't Care." Sam likes himself and sees his attractiveness with his long hair and his short hair. Sam knows it's what's on the inside that counts. 

Even on those times when, you know, you seem to have misplaced a soul. 

Ahem. Yeah. Let's continue the list. 

6) Never Underestimate the Power of a Truly Badass Entrance 

First impressions are everything, and nobody on this show makes a first impression quite like our friendly neighborhood Angel of the Lord. 

Nothing says "pay attention to me" like walking through a barn painted with all kinds of deterrents like it ain't no thang, and then busting out a pair of angel wings.

For the rest of us, who are simply humans, there are ways. Wingless ways. But you can still totally make an unforgettable first impression.

7) Attitude is Everything.

Attitude will get you everywhere and everything that you want. Including the throne to the Kingdom of Hell. You've just got to be willing to put in the requisite amount of work to go along with it. Or, you know, get someone to do the work for you.

But, yeah. Mostly attitude. 

There are so many other things that could be on this list. So, what are some beauty lessons you've learned from The Winchesters and Friends? I know there has to be something I've missed. 

Sorry, what? I lost my train of thought. I found this when I was looking for gifs and...yep. 

Yeah, I'm definitely a Dean girl. It's a very real fact. 

Tired of Hearing About Feminism? Too Bad...

Ah, feminism. The "F" word. The word that causes people to cheer, or roll their eyes. The word that has been defined and re-definied for us by conservatives, by liberals, by feminists, by non-feminists. People defend it, attack it, hate it, love it. Nothing is quite so polarizing as feminism. Feminists can attack other feminists for "not being feminist enough," feminists can attack non-feminists for being wrong...it's all so complicated.

Yeah. Complicated enough that I'm going to try and talk about it. But if I can cover PTSD, I can talk about this. And I can talk about it in a mature way, if not as elegantly as Jenny Lawson.

With recent conflicting hashtag activism movements like "Not All Men/Yes All Women" and "I Don't Need Feminism Because/I need Feminism Because, it's especially easy to get confused. It's especially easy to misunderstand what feminism is. Is feminism misandry? Does feminism give women a sort of reverse advantage, as Fox News claims? Do people just need to stop talking about it, already?

As a sociology minor, I get that. And I admit, I'm biased. I've never not been a feminist. As a toddler (yes, at two years old) I was making statements about girls and boys being equal and how silly it was that people thought boys were better. I'm paraphrasing, obviously. But I've always had a certain kind of double consciousness that I'm a smart person, but also a woman; and that means that men will get certain privileges that I don't, and that kind of does make me angry. I've worked hard to earn what I have, and so it's common sense to me that I should get every opportunity a man would, in my chosen field. I also know that, under the current system, I probably won't get every opportunity a man would, and that feels wrong. So it's common sense to me to be a feminist.

What is feminism? Well, that is a simple and complicated question with a simple and complicated answer. The simplest answer is: feminism is the belief that men and women are equal, and deserve equal rights.

The complicated answer is: are we talking liberal feminism, Marxist feminism, or radical feminism? Are we taking into account the gender binary, societal gender roles? Are we talking female as sex (biological) or gender (assigned)? Are we going to talk about non-white, non-cisgender, queer feminist movements and issues? These are all parts of feminism, and are all equally important.

Basically, the complicated answer simplified is that feminism is a movement that strives to put all human beings of all races--female, male, queer, straight, trans--on equal footing. It just happens to be called feminism because the balance of power as it currently sits tilts the scales against women.

Phew. So much theory. I'm not even sure I've got it a hundred percent correct. So let's move to what feminism is NOT:

Feminism is NOT misandry. Misandry is a hatred and mistrust of men--the mirror image of misogyny, which is a hatred and mistrust of women.

It's a common misconception that ALL FEMINISTS ARE EVIL LESBIAN MISANDRISTS. We're not. Are some feminists lesbians? Of course. Do some feminists hate men? Yes. Does that make the movement invalid? No.

I've never met a feminist who is as crazy as certain members of the media will lead you to believe. For the most part, we're all fairly rational people who are just really sick of the patriarchy. This DOES NOT mean we're sick of men. In fact, most of us (even those of us who are lesbians--gasp) like men and have male friends. I'm a big fan of men. I've got a lot of male friends, I've had really fantastic boyfriends (as well as some really crappy ones) and I've been on dates with really sweet, really awesome guys. Does this mean I have to like male privilege? Or the patriarchy? Well, no.

A lot of men have been really defensive around me when I say things like "I really don't like male privilege. I don't think it's fair," or "I really don't like the patriarchy as a system." They seem to think I'm talking specifically ABOUT THEM.

I'm not. If you're a dude, you're not the system. You benefit from the system, especially if you're white and straight. That's not your fault. It doesn't mean you like it. But you do benefit from it, and half of the battle is acknowledging that you do without getting defensive and throwing #notallmen around like confetti. We get that it's frustrating. I was super frustrated when I realized I have white privilege and I can't revoke it. The balance of power in the system gives it to me. And it makes me uncomfortable every single day, that I have a privilege that I didn't earn and I can't do anything about it by myself. It makes me ill. It should make me ill. 

And I have certainly met women who don't like feminism and feminists. My former mother-in-law told me that I needed to tone down the feminism if I was going to have a happy marriage. I've even recently had female friends tell me they're not feminists and that feminism makes them angry and tired. Do I necessarily a hundred percent know where they're coming from? No. Feminism is something that I have really strong feelings about.

But does this mean that I shame them and judge them? No. As a feminist, I'm all about choices. If you chose not to be a feminist, that's your business. But make sure you know what it is you're choosing before you make a decision. Jenny Lawson said that, and I agree.

I've taken you through the theory. Now it's time for the personal portion of this post.

I'm going to begin with this phrase: I need feminism. It's an oldie, but a goodie.

The most obvious reason I need feminism is because I was abused by someone who was supposed to be my partner in life. I became a statistic, and I know what it's like to feel totally powerless and scared. You guys already know quite a bit about that. So I'm going to go with some less obvious reasons.

I need feminism because I'd really like to feel safe walking down the street or working the stall at the farmers' market by myself. I've had several experiences of men approaching me while I'm alone at the booth and saying really inappropriate things to me. I've been shouted and heckled walking down the street. None of that makes me feel super awesome. In fact, it makes me feel gross, dirty, and like my body is public property somehow. It's not.

I need feminism because I can watch about a hundred movies about meaningful friendships between two guys and maybe find one about a meaningful friendship between two women that isn't between two sisters or doesn't somehow turn sexual. I'm all for portrayal of LGBT love stories. I'd just really like to see two women being really awesome friends. Because awesome female friendships exist in real life. I've got a ton of them. I wouldn't be who I am without my support group of female friends. So I think it can be a thing that happens in movies.

I need feminism because I'm not the sum of my body parts. I've been treated like that before. It sucks. I've also been treated like a human--the guy I went on a date with most recently treated me more like an equal than about half of my actual boyfriends did--and that was such a nice change. I've had guys I barely know make insinuations about my sex life, which is absolutely none of their business.

I need feminism because objectification is real, and no matter how hard my parents worked to keep me from buying into self-objectification, it was prevalent and persuasive enough to suck me in anyway. And it still sucks me in, even though I consider myself to be an enlightened woman. It's too easy to see myself as an object.

I need feminism because "friendzoned" is a term and I've been on the receiving end of it. It's horrible. I like to think of myself as a nice girl, but when I get accused of friendzoning I used to feel so awful and guilty. Now I just feel irritated. Yes. I get you're a nice guy. I never said you weren't a nice guy. But that doesn't give you any perks other than friendship. 'Liking' my posts and photos on facebook, hanging out with me--none of that means you'll get in my pants or even get a date with me, and if you're doing all that with the intention of trying to seduce me, you're not actually my friend. Being my friend means being my friend. And I promise, being my friend is actually pretty neat. I'm really loyal to my true friends. And there's this double standard with friendzoning--I hear guys talk about it ALL THE TIME, but girls rarely refer to themselves as being "friendzoned," even though I'm fairly sure girls experience unrequited feelings just as commonly as guys do.

I need feminism because people think feminism only just pertains to the Western world. Feminism is a global issue. It's easy to say you don't need feminism if you're a white, Euro-Western woman. But the world is a lot bigger than us, and women around the world face some terribly serious threats.

I'm not much. I'm one woman who strongly believes that women are capable of everything men are. I believe that women are underrepresented, abused, and undervalued, both at home and on a global scale, and that is totally unacceptable. People should not accept it.

How many women who could write this blog post in a much more inspiring and moving way way than I do, who don't have the means or the voice?  How many Malalas are out there who haven't been supported by their families in their dreams of education and equality?  How many women who could change the world for the better?

I believe in feminism's cause. It's not a perfect movement. It's really not. But it is inherently good. And I just really want people to see that.

Further Reading (I know, no articles for the other side, but they're hard to find in my world, and I'd be happy to read and update this post with some well-thought out against articles if they are supplied):

http://iwantedwings.wordpress.com/2014/07/21/a-response-to-women-against-feminism/

http://jezebel.com/5992479/if-i-admit-that-hating-men-is-a-thing-will-you-stop-turning-it-into-a-self-fulfilling-prophecy

http://thebloggess.com/2014/07/women-who-are-ambivalent-about-women-against-women-against-feminism/

How to Hold a Baby

Yeah, I know what you all are thinking. You're thinking Hilary, what the hell is wrong with you? How to hold a baby? What kind of a how-to is that? Also, are you pregnant? 

I'll answer the questions in order:
1). I don't know.
2 & 3). It's a valid one. Bear with me.
4). ABSOLUTELY NOT. Let me say that again: NOPE.

As an only child, babies and children in general are kind of a mystery to me. I may or may not have called my mother while babysitting a neighbor's crying baby because I couldn't get it to stop.

I was young, okay? And to be honest, I'd probably still call my mother if my own hypothetical baby was crying and I couldn't get it to stop.

You really didn't think I couldn't not make a Supernatural reference on my blog, did you? 

It doesn't help matters that my dad's side of the family consists of only three grandchildren, myself included; and that my mom's side of the family hasn't had a new baby (up until this year, but I'm getting to that) for five years. Last time there was a new baby in my immediate family circles, I was still a teenager.

Hint: I'm not a teenager any more. 

Recently, my cousin Heather had a baby, and when I say recently I mean like a week and a half ago. This marks the first new baby that the family's had in a while. I had the opportunity to go and visit Heather and her newborn daughter, Scarlett, in the hospital. 

She is truly a beautiful baby, and I was/am amazed by this tiny little life. 

But I mean, I had no idea how to hold the baby. Like, a vague idea of cradling, but my mom and my aunt Susan were cradling the baby and moving the baby around from cradling her to leaning her against their shoulders and I was like, WHAT IS THIS WITCHCRAFT? I knew from my high school Child Development class that you're always supposed to support a baby's giant bobbly head because they certainly can't support it themselves, but I'd learned nothing about shifting the baby around.

HOW TO HOLD A BABY, according to an untutored only child:

1). Hold out arms to receive baby. 

2). Cradle baby in arms to give maximum head support 

3). quickly realize that the cradle position is not even a little bit comfortable for you, but the baby seems fine with it. 

4). Sit and cradle the baby. Arms start to shake a little. DO NOT stand up. Ever. 

5). Watch the baby squirm and worry it will start crying. 

6). Overthink how you're holding the baby. Wonder if the baby is comfortable. 

7). If baby starts crying, give it to someone who knows how to deal with that, because you don't. 

HOW TO HOLD A BABY, according to other people, mothers, and so on

1). You just know. Because you're magic and not an awkward only child. 

My mom and my aunt did give me something of a tutorial to try to teach me how to move little Scarlett around, but for the most part I was incredibly gun-shy and maintained the cradle for most of my visit. 

But then, something weird happened this last Saturday. 

I was working the market with AJ, and one of his friends that I'd met at his birthday party came to our booth. She had her two-month-old son with her, and I stepped out from behind the booth to look at him.

"He's so cute," I said.

"Would you like to hold him?" 

I took a moment to think about it, and then, to my surprise, said yes. 

She moved him from her sling and handed him to me. I put him to my shoulder, just like I'd seen much more experienced baby handlers do. 

I was shocked with myself. Where did these skills come from? 

I held him for a while, and then gave him back so I could work. And then, once things had slowed down, I held him again. And I was moving him around, shoulder to cradle to leaning against my legs, and I felt like some kind of wizard. 

Either I'm getting better at this game, or this baby is a magic baby, I thought. 

Me holding the baby while taking a selfie. Excuse the no makeup. 

I confessed to his mother as I handed him back for the last time that, as an only child, holding babies has always been kind of scary to me.

"Really?" she said as she tucked her baby back in his sling. "You seemed totally confident to me." 

I shook my head, baffled at myself and my newfound baby skills. But hey. If I've got them, I'm not questioning where they came from. I just hope I can handle a crying baby with this level of calm and expertise. 

We'll see. 

Ain't nothin' we angels can't do. 

The Perils of Gym Class

I'm sure whoever invented the idea of gym class had good intentions. "Let's find a way to help children be healthy and get exercise in," they probably thought. "Also, children made to sit still for this long get really fidgety and annoying, so we'll be killing two birds with one stone. Everyone wins!"

But you know what they say--"the road to hell is paved with good intentions." Incidentally, that's exactly what I'm speculating the road to gym class is paved with. I'm fairly sure that that means hell and gym class are exactly one and the same.

None of you will be shocked to hear that I was not a particularly athletic child. I was an incredibly prolific swimmer and a decent dancer, but anything that involved hand-or-foot-eye-coordination (yes, foot-eye coordination is totally a thing, ask any self-respecting soccer player) was a little bit beyond me. My parents were of the school of thought that "if she shows an interest in it, we should let her do it--but we should also make her try as many things as possible," and after years of torturous summer camps, they finally understood that I was what you'd call "indoors-y" and preferred reading to 90% of other activities.

"Perky" and "Sporty" are synonyms in my mind.
I'm not either of them. 

Gym class was never a problem when I was homeschooled, 1st through 5th grade. Mom and I would go on early morning walks or play basketball in the empty church gym. This is what gave me the illusion that I might actually be decent at throwing balls at things, but really shows how little I actually knew about basketball.

Fast-forward to sixth grade. 

 

Actually, don't. I don't remember a thing about gym class in 6th grade. I know that we had one, and that, presumably, I would have been required to participate, but I was probably too distracted mooning over my sixth grade crush to remember what torture we went through. 

Seventh grade, though, I remember, because that was the first year I was made to run the mile. 

I can put up with the indignities of soccer, ultimate frisbee, and flag football, but running the mile is just plain embarrassing. I've never been a runner, and when I have had cause to run long distances I usually start tasting iron and my chest gets tight, which either means I'm really out of shape and I'll die young or I've got a touch of runner's asthma. I never had this problem swimming laps, but running makes me dizzy. Or at least, it definitely did when I was in seventh grade. 

My teacher explained the task--we needed to complete a certain number of laps to get one mile, and then we would be done with class. Not ever having done this before, I was fairly sure I'd manage, but I was by no means looking forward to it. 

About halfway through, I was seriously slogging. Three quarters of the way through, everyone else had finished and I was starting to see stars. My teacher actually had to help me down the stairs and back to my classroom because I had nearly fainted. I was humiliated. No one wants to be *that* kid, especially not me, with my burgeoning anorexia. 

By the time the next gym class rolled around, my teacher had an announcement: she'd miscalculated the distance and made us run two miles instead of one. Which was a small comfort to my shame, and if I wasn't an incredibly innocent child at the time, I probably would have been thinking in curses. 

Eighth grade, I didn't even try to disguise my dislike of gym class. I was very much in the throes of the Adolescent Awkward Phase, where my body was simultaneously betraying me by going through puberty, and being betrayed by me, because I wasn't eating. It was a rough time for everyone, and to my disgust, running the mile became a quarterly occurrence that I dreaded. Not only that, but games that I hated like dodgeball and basketball were being incorporated into our routines, as well as some Presidential Fitness thing that Bush introduced specifically, I think, to punish me for not supporting him in his 2000 and 2004 campaigns for president. 

Not everything about gym class was a nightmare: I discovered I liked volleyball (or, at least, when compared with everything else it was downright enjoyable). Just most of it was. Everything seemed to tell me that I was not ever meant for gym class: the humiliation of without question being the worst at everything (and, like Divination, gym class is not something you can read into perfection, and YES I WENT THERE with the Hermione comparison), as well as feeling like I was disgustingly unattractive and overweight and all my bodily flaws were on display for everyone to see. 

Seriously. It makes me uncomfortable just remembering it. 

This was never more apparent than when the school installed plastic tile-things in the previously concrete gymnasium floor, presumably to minimize the amount of injuries and potential lawsuits. We were playing something--probably basketball--and I biffed it, because that was one of two things I did when playing sports. 

1). Falling over. 

2). Freezing like a deer in the headlights until someone yelled at me to PASS THE BALL and then flailing hopelessly to get the ball as far away from me as possible

Anyway, it was a really minor fall--I wasn't even smarting a little--and I got up and kept going in an effort to Be Like the Cool Kids Who Always Got Up and Dusted Themselves Off and Played Sports Well. I didn't even notice I'd split my knee open until my best friend, Becca, pointed out that I was bleeding all over the floor. I looked down, and sure enough. There was a substantial trickle of blood running down my leg, as well as several spots on the gym floor. 

"Seriously," she said to me later, when I was in the bathroom putting an office-supplied band-aid on my injury, "are you made of glass? I'm pretty sure you're made of glass. I think you break easier than anyone I know." 

I would have reminded her that I've never actually broken any bones, and that she was probably a lot less breakable because she'd spent time fending for her life among her eight siblings, but she was right. Skinning your knee is one thing. Skinning your knee when you barely touch a padded plastic floor is another. 

High school was a relief, because you only have to complete so many credit hours of gym class, and I'd knocked those out in 9th grade and the rest were taken care of by my ballet and modern classes. Which, I was still rather physically inelegant at that point, but at least I wasn't having to run the damn mile anymore. It was also a relief because it meant I didn't have to participate in another science fair EVER AGAIN, but that's another story.