Why Women Carry Purses (And Men Don't)

Walking down the street in lower Manhattan one is often caught in a stream of pedestrians--a line of solitary figures in suits, their sex easily distinguishable by one detail: women carry purses, and men do not. It may seem obvious to some (if it does to you, please feel free to stop reading), but the question this brings to my mind is why don't men carry purses? How do they know they have everything they need when they leave the house? Do they often go through the day wishing they had carried something with them that they simply couldn't shove into their pockets or stand to carry? I cannot count the number of times male friends have asked me to carry things for them: cameras, phones, glasses, etc. etc., yet they never seem concerned with being able to carry these things themselves. Why not?
Most of us have seen the episode of friends where Joey, dressed and accessorized by Rachel, carries a "murse" to an audition and is berated incessantly for it by nearly everyone he meets. The bag was not frilly, but still the fact that he carried it supposedly feminized him. Here I will propose three possibly reasons why:

1. Men are simple whereas women are complicated and perhaps a bit high maintenance. All men really need to have with them is a wallet, keys, and a phone, and all of those things fit quite easily into pockets making any extra baggage unnecessary. A woman, on the other hand, must have a hair brush, lotion, blush, lipstick, gloss, a mirror, hand sanitizer, and a plethora of other items that a man would have no need for or would never think of carrying with him at all times in addition to the wallet, keys, and phone. And since women are forever image conscious, they must have a bag that not only fits all of those things they find it necessary to lug around, but it also must be fashionable (often meaning nothing more than that it must cost an arm and a leg).

2. Men's clothing is made to accommodate the necessities of life whereas women's clothing is not. Men's jeans and jackets have pockets designed specifically to hold wallets, etc. If you need to carry a pen and a checkbook, just put on a blazer, and you get an inside pocket to stow them conveniently on your person.
Women's clothing is not so practical. Very few clothing items worn by women have functional pockets. Women's jeans are made to fit close to the body, making it so that any item placed in the pockets protrudes and ruins the effect. In fact, many pockets on women's jackets and pants are there for purely aesthetic reasons, some not extending more than an inch so that it's nearly impossible to place in them anything larger than a single coin. A hat I own has a buttoned pocket on the side which I never paid any attention to until someone asked me what I kept in it. The question was obviously asked in jest, but it made me wonder nonetheless. All of these useless pockets make it necessary for women to find another way to carry their things, and the purse is the perfect solution.

3. Women are the designated caretakers of society, and men need taking care of. I once went out to eat with a guy who asked if I had hand sanitizer in my bag, and when I told him I didn't, he seemed utterly taken aback and put out that he would have to find a bathroom wherein he could wash his hands. As a matter of course, I made sure to put my Purell back in my bag as soon as I got home, feeling a bit embarrassed that I had been so ill-prepared. In addition to that, I am also called on regularly to provide gum, tissues, pens, lotion, chapstick, an umbrella, and even a mirror on occasion for others in my company. I have no idea how I would accomplish all of that without the use of a purse. In college I often teased a friend of mine who carried a "mother-bag" which contained everything one might need in any given situation, but now I find myself emulating her level of preparation, and I only find it strange that men who've grown up going through boy-scouts with the boy-scout motto, "Be Prepared," can go through life as adults looking for someone else to provide all of the things women routinely carry around.

That's all I've got for now, but I think there's room for discussion. Why do you carry a bag around? or Why don't you?

11-Year-Old Gives Birth on Her Wedding Day

While scanning through news stories this afternoon, I came across this story. An 11-year-old girl in Bulgaria gave birth to a baby girl over the weekend, in the middle of her three-day wedding ceremony.

The girl met her 19-year-old husband a few weeks before her 11th birthday, when she was being bullied by a group of kids on the playground. He intervened, rescued her from the bullies, and later, she asked him out on a date, and a week later she was pregnant.

Now the girl says she will "stop playing with toys--I have a new toy now," and "I have to grow up, she is the child now--I will not go back to school.

While the father, who is facing up to 6 years in prison for having sex with a minor, says, “We know that having a baby is a big responsibility. My wife is young but I will make sure that I look after both of them if the law allows me.”

There are so many issues wrapped up in this story--the fact that 11-year-olds should not be having sex is probably the biggest, but also 11-year-old girls should not be pursuing relationships with 19-year-olds, and parents should be responsible for teaching their children morality/responsibility and acceptable behavior. While the culture is definitely a factor in this story, it cannot be "blamed" for what's happened. The grandmother with whom the child is living (her parents are in Spain) says that it is tradition for their girls to have children and marry young, but admits that her granddaughter is too young. The average marriage age in their particular area is 14. One of the most horrifying thing in the story is that the girl claims that she did not even know how to become pregnant. I find this difficult to believe, but if it is true, then it most definitely should not be. If a girl is capable of getting pregnant, she should know how reproduction works.

As far as the father goes, while it seems to me that simply not having sex with people you meet on school playgrounds would be a safe and reasonable approach, barring that, 19-year-olds must be responsible for verifying the age of their partners. This girl does not look 11, she looks closer to 16, which is above the age of consent in that country, but the way she looks does not change her actual age. All of that being said, this whole situation would be avoided if people could control themselves enough to marry before having sex.

All of this being said, the reason I really felt like responding to this story was that the comments on some of the articles were as horrific as the articles themselves. One person marked the darkness of the child's skin, then went on to talk about more and less evolved races, comparing "less evolved races" to weeds which breed more quickly than cultivated, "more evolved plants." I felt like I was reading something out of Nazi Germany. Before today, I really was under the impression that fascism was a thing of the past, and yet there it was staring me in the face. This was not the only comment of its kind, but most of the others were less obvious about their racism. Most targeted gypsies and culture instead of skin color. Another commenter cried out against Americans who saw this as a case of statutory rape and a terrible tragedy when, as (s)he said that the same case happening in the US with a black girl would be seen as her trying to live off the government.

I don't believe any of those arguments have any grounds in this story. These commenters are coming to the story with preconceived notions about the world and the way it works and the injustices of it all and the things that people are doing wrong, and then they are using the story to voice their thoughts about completely different issues. Until people are able to come to a case without their own agendas, comment boards will be a place where extremists voice opinions that make Americans look like self-righteous fascists, and that horrifies me.

Last off, I would like to say that I don't believe the couple in this story is cursed or destined to have a miserable life. The father in question seems sincerely, if naively, determined to improve the condition of his very young family. Both parties are professedly in love. Both express love for their new child, and the father has high hopes for her future: “I want Violeta to be educated, to be able to read and write. She was born famous and maybe she will stay famous like becoming a doctor who invents brilliant medicine or saves lives." I sincerely hope that this family can retain that determination, that they will educate their daughter in ways that they should have been educated themselves, and that she does someday become a brilliant physician...or whatever else she may want to be.


Article from NY Daily News

Video and Wedding Pics on YouTube

Thoughts on Grand Central Station

About three weeks ago, I moved about three blocks west to a new building. As a result, I now take the 4/5 line to school instead of the 2/3. I still get off at 42nd street, but instead of surfacing at Time Square, I now come up through Grand Central Terminal. The day I started my new route, I was in a hurry, and while I new, in theory, where I was, I paid little attention. I found the quickest way to the street, and I jetted to class. But on my way home, I had plenty of time to look around and soak in my surroundings.

I tried not to look like a tourist--I dread attracting negative attention, and no one likes it when a tourist stops in the walkway for no reason, gawking at what you see everyday, tripping you up when you're just trying to get home. So I looked up casually and saw for the first time the ceiling covered in stars. It wasn't what I expected. It looks nothing like Hogwarts. Instead of midnight blue, it's more of a turquoise color, really more green than blue if you ask me. The constellations are depicted as though someone had played connect the dots on the ceiling, and while it sounded terribly romantic in theory, practice left me a bit cold. Last summer I read "Gone to New York" by Ian Frazier, a collection of essays, in which Frazier talks about taking a tour of Grand Central and a tour guide who complains that there are mylar balloons on the ceiling that have been there for ages and he can't figure out a way to get them down. In the essay, Frazier and a friend retrieve the pesky balloons using a device they created for removing plastic bags from trees. I looked for balloons on the ceiling, but they must have gotten them all.

I can't really say that I was disappointed. The building is absolutely gorgeous. The four-sided clock in the main concourse is supposedly worth somewhere between $10 and $20 million. The clock on the 42nd street facade is one of the oldest examples of Tiffany glass, and the sculptures surrounding the clock comprise the largest sculptural group in the world. It is a building of superlatives, but I found little to connect to, nothing I could laugh at. I have little use for things I cannot laugh at. Luckily, Wikipedia shares the following tidbit about the ceiling:

"There are two peculiarities to this ceiling: the sky is backwards, and the stars are slightly displaced. [...] When they learned that the ceiling was painted backwards, the embarrassed Vanderbilt family tried to explain that the ceiling reflected God's view of the sky."


Who can help but smirk at an embarrassed Vanderbilt?

Sidenote: One of my favorite things in Grand Central, apart from walking through the main concourse and feeling incredibly small, is a pastry shop called "Hot and Crusty." I've never stopped there, but I love the tenacity of the name, and if I ever do go in, it will most likely be out of amusement, and not merely appetite.

An Excess of Hospitality

Awkward experience of the day:

I'm moving this weekend, and looking to trade in my loft bed for a bed...a bit closer to the floor. So I went to a furniture store on 14th street this morning (I happened to be walking by right when they opened, and the guy opening the door asked if I wanted to come in. I said I did, and thus begins our story.). I walked to the back of the store where the beds were, trying not to look too interested so as to avoid pesky sales-traps. I reached the end of the wall, and looked around for more, but instead all I saw was the guy from the door heading straight for me.

Being the beneficent person I am, I didn't avoid him. Instead, when he asked how he could help me, I responded:

"Sure. Um...which of these beds comes in a full?"

He led me over to the computer where he did a quick search, then directed me over to one of said beds. We talked about pricing, then I asked what the price difference would be on a twin.

"Are you sleeping alone?" he queried.

"Um, yeah. It's just me."

"You sure you don't need room for anyone else?" [This is my best match for what he said, which really did involve a lot of mumbling. I hate mumblers...]

"Yeah, I'm sure. I just need a single bed. Also, I have a roommate, so it needs to fit in the space."

While I thought the previous conversation was strange, I didn't think too much of it, and I was telling him that I'd have to think it over because I needed to look at the space and consider my budget, etc., etc. So, being the concerned salesperson that he was, he offered to have me fill out a customer contact card so he could let me know if there were any sales that I might be interested. I'm really bad at saying no, so I filled out the card, and James gave me his card, and I left.

Immediately after this, I walked across the street to a smaller furniture store and purchased a futon (which I'm actually gonna try and unbuy tomorrow...) from a little old man with a heavy NY accent.

I thought no more of my morning encounter until I received a text from James asking if I wanted to hang out...

I'm all for being able to put yourself out there and everything, but, correct me if I'm wrong, I think this was going a bit too far. Maybe I'm just horrified that I didn't catch on earlier. Maybe I should have understood, when he gave me his card and mentioned that his cell number was on it, that meant that in filling out his little customer contact card, I was actually giving him my number. I did not. I thought I was opening up the possibility of getting a discount on some furniture. I feel deceived. I did not respond.

Cry-Baby

Too young to be square... Too tough to be shocked... Too late to be saved

Such is the tag-line of the 1990 film, Cry-Baby, a movie I'd heard of over the years, but never seen until yesterday. In order to understand my reaction to the film, I believe it's necessary to understand the preconceived notions I had of it before yesterday.

So, I was a bit obsessed with Johnny Depp in high school, and championed films like Edward Scisorhands, Benny & Joon, and even Don Juan de Marco. While cyber-stalking my celeb crush, I came across pictures from cry-baby, but it was always the same picture--a tortured looking Depp, greased hair and leather jacket, with a single tear descending his cheek. From this, I deduced that the movie was about a greaser. I also saw short plot descriptions saying things like this one from IMDB: "Drape" (or Greaser) Wade Walker, also known as Cry-Baby for his ability to shed a single tear, falls head over heels for square Allison Vernon-Williams who, incidentally, is tired of being good." In my mind I pictured a cross between The Outsiders and Grease--an idea that was slightly shaken when a friend of mine referred to it as a musical, but not displaced.

That brings us to the time I sat down, on my own, and watched the movie, compliments of Hulu. It opens with a scene of high school kids waiting in line for immunizations of some kind, being given from the biggest needle I've ever seen. About two minutes in, the bubbly atmosphere is broken when a girl, admired by two boys, turns around to reveal the most repulsive face I've ever seen on a woman, made even worse by the contortions it went through as she talked, and the "switchblade" she carried (not really a switchblade as the blade was at least a foot long). At that point, I though, maybe this is just the intro?

I was mistaken. Things just got worse from there, and the introduction to cry-baby's hillbilly family (a cross between the Adams Family and Beverly Hillbillies) did not make things more pleasant. I realize now that the movie was a spoof, but that didn't make me feel any better about it. I sat through the whole thing, but it was one of the most painful experiences of my life. I guess that's what I get for not figuring out exactly what I was getting myself into ahead of time. From now on I'll take a glance at the genre before seeing a film.

New York Hospitality

I recently moved to Manhattan, and by recently, I mean exactly one week ago today. I don't know what I was expecting when I left my Southern California home, but everyone kept telling me that it would be "different." A lot of people told me that New Yorkers are rude and direct, that I should be prepared to fend for myself or be trampled down by the horde.

I won't say that this stereotype is entirely false (after only a week, I can't consider myself a credible source on anything, really), but I will say that my experience thus far completely contradicts it. When waiting for my bags at the airport, before the last one had even come around on the turn-style, a man came around asking if we (I was with my friend Edy who'd come along for moral support) needed a taxi. We said we did, and he immediately offered his help with our bags and bade us follow him. This was not the kind of service I expected; in fact, I was quite taken aback by it. I expected to have to go out of my way, push bystanders to the ground, and holler at the top of my lungs to get around in this city, and here was a man offering to take me where I needed to go without my even asking. It wasn't until later, crossing the street a few paces behind him, that I heard a voice over the loud speaker say "Please do not accept unsolicited offers for ground transportation." Edy threw me a glance that said "let's turn back," but as the suspect cab driver had one of my bags, I motioned for him to continue to the other side of the street before abandoning 1/3 of my belongings. When we reached the other side, we politely told him we thought we'd rather take a shuttle into town, took back the bag he'd been carrying, and headed back where we'd come from.

This incident not withstanding, I've found many New Yorkers to be quite helpful. When we finally reached the line of city taxis waiting for patrons, an airport employee handed us a pamphlet on New York transit and pointed us to our designated cab, where the driver took our bags, asked our destination, and then asked whether we minded taking the East River route. After inspecting that route on the gps in the back seat, we agreed, then headed off to my apartment.

One, possibly more convincing, instance of New York hospitality took place the next day as we attempted to board our first subway train. We'd walked all the way from Wall Street up to Central Park South, a fairly significant distance if you know the area, and had no intention of retracing our steps. So, we looked for a route that looked like it might take us home, then descended into the terminal where the map indicated we would find our train. However, the signs at the bottom of the stairs didn't correspond with what the map told us, and from thence came a bout of confusion that had us turning in semi-circles, looking for any kind of subway worker that might be able to help us. Not finding one, we were nearing despair when a lady walking by noticed us and asked what we needed. We told her the A train, and she pointed us down the passageway, up the stairs and over to the other side. We thanked her, then proceeded to purchase our passes. As we walked down the platform, we passed her again, and she smiled and repeated her previous instructions, asking if we were ok. There was more hospitality in this woman than I've met with in any stranger in California who wasn't trying to sell me something.

You'll make it . . .

Mount Rubidoux is a hill which marks the boundary between Riverside, the city where I live, and Rubidoux (roo-bi-doe), it's less reputable neighbor. At just over thirteen hundred feet, the hill is quite sizable, but is by no means the mountain its name might conjure up in the imagination of one who has never seen it.

My grandmother's house sits right at the foot of this hill, with the third tier of her back yard backing the trail that climbs it. As a child, I went up and down that hill more times than I could hope to count. Some of my earliest, and haziest, memories take place there. I can remember walking up with my dad, right after he and my mom divorced. I remember climbing into the tower on the Fourth of July, with cousins who were some of my closest friends before time and distance inevitably weakened the bonds between us. I remember, too, slipping and sliding down the side of the mountain behind my older and more courageous brothers, as they ran straight down, occasionally glancing back to see whether I was still alive, and threatening to leave me behind...

This Monday, Memorial Day, finding myself at home with nothing to do, I became increasingly restless. After trying for some time to find some diversion, I resolved to go for a walk up the hill that's such a familiar part of my life. I could find no one else to accompany me, so I was alone on this particular trek, which isn't all that unusual. I climbed the hill, Found my favorite rock (one shaped kind of like a chair) overlooking the city airport, and watched the planes take off for a while, then began my descent.

When I was about halfway down, I passed a fairly sizable crowd of people walking up. By chance, I caught the eye of a woman of about 65. She was somewhat withered, but still spry, and as she looked up at me, she said, "You'll make it," and smiled.

I probably smiled back, but I was too shocked to know for sure. What was she talking about? Hadn't I already made it? I was on my way down. She was the one with hard work ahead of her, not me. Did I really look so worn out, even after resting for half an hour, that there was some concern as to whether I'd make it to the bottom all right?

Or was she talking to herself? Old people do that all the time, and crazy people too, for that matter (or so I hear). Was her encouraging remark one aimed at herself and simply projected onto me? I'm certain at this point that I'll never know, but as I reflect upon the experience, I must admit that at some point I thought of her as some kind of soothsayer, telling me that I would make it, not only down the mountain, but in some larger pursuit. I'm still hoping she was right.