There is a scene in everyone's favorite nun movie, "Sister Act 2," when Whoopi Goldberg's character -- a lounge singer on the run -- is escorted to her new room at the convent where she will be hiding out. Her two (legit) nun counterparts have promised that the room holds a big surprise. "What did you put in it? A bidet?" Ah, the hope of the innocent. "Curtains!" shout her friends, and the camera pans around a small, stark and dreary room.
This is almost exactly the scene I imagine every time a friend of mine mentions her housing situation, at the Jeanne D’Arc residence on the West side of Manhattan. The reality is that instead of austere, convent-like surroundings, the rooms are chaste and frilly, decorated with what seems like an entire botanical garden of flowered things.
Thursday's New York Times story on women's residences highlights the old-world nature of these group homes: strict women-only policies and complicated admittance processes function to keep the areas -- if not the residents -- protected from the loose morals and dangers of … 2009? If the ideals seem old-fashioned, the fortunate thing for the ladies who live (and lunch) at these homes, is that the rent is, too. Ranging from an astounding $355 to $1,000 with two meals a day included, the women's residences are a steal straight out of the past, especially when rent at comparable locations can balloon to $3,000 per month and beyond.
The history of these residences is dotted with celebrity -- people from Sylvia Plath to Liza Minnelli passed through on their way to fame -- but it's laughable to imagine Jessica Simpson or Paris Hilton click-clacking through the lobby on their cell phones. Alas, no matter how many modelettes totter by in $500 heels, an address does not a hip sushi lounge make. But that is what the various women's residences offer: an address.
No matter how easy it is to recognize that a "beau parlor" -- a room designated for chaperoned male visitors -- is antiquated, women's residences are a solution to the problem of housing not only in New York, but countrywide. It's often difficult to strike a balance between safety and price. For some, leaving your room key at the front desk every time you leave your building is worth not having to check over your shoulder, and, for less than $1,000, just as cheap.
"You smoke?" one of the nuns asked my friend when she saw her outside lighting up. "Yep," my friend answered sheepishly. She was hoping that the nuns wouldn't kick her out, as smoking is strictly forbidden on the premises. "I'll pray for you," the nun said, and when my friend told me about it she just shrugged: "at least somebody is praying for me."
As our own Laura Miller said in "The Magician's Book," there are two kinds of readers: "those who liked 'Little Women' and those who preferred 'The Phantom Tollbooth.'" But whichever team you happen to play for, tonight, rather than curling up with another episode of "Two and a Half Men," why not watch "Louisa May Alcott: The Woman Behind Little Women" on PBS's "American Masters"?
In tandem with Harriet Risen's biography of the same name, director Nancy Porter's film looks to be a lively portrait of a woman who was uncommonly clever and ambitious in a time when women were rarely prized for being either. And though she's a beloved literary heroine to generations for the book her editor described simply as "a girl's story," Alcott, it turns out, was also a hash-smoking, free-thinking, pulp fiction-writing one-of-a-kind American icon. Imagine the fanstastic blog she'd have if she were alive today.
On New Year's Eve, people get drunk and sentimental, two states that often lend themselves to spontaneous sexual encounters. In fact, according to the National Institute for Reproductive Health, it's "the biggest night of the year for birth control accidents." That's why they've launched the "Don't Drop the Ball" campaign, encouraging women to inform each other about emergency contraception — sales of which "more than double in the days after December 31st" — via text messages and a video (below) pointing out that New Year's Eve revelry can lead to hazards like drunk-texting grandma and having unprotected sex, only one of which has an after-the-fact solution.
Now, I'm all for reminding everyone that EC is an option up to 120 hours after sex, and if you're over 17 it's available without a prescription — consider yourself reminded! — but contraceptive campaigns targeted solely at women make me a little pissy. Where's the one encouraging men who showed up without a condom, or were right there when it broke, to send the women involved a helpful text message the next morning? "Sorry I was 2 wasted 2 put it on right, but if yr pharmacist isn't a fundie, u can get Plan B. Happy new year." Instead, this campaign asks women to look out for each other, by sending "humorous" texts from imaginary bad dates like the Iceberg Lettuce Connoisseur because, while you can't help your bestie with that drunken message to grandma, you can act like her meddling mother the next day.
It turns out there's a good reason the "Don't Drop the Ball" project was aimed at girlfriends, though. Samantha Levine, director of marketing and media relations for the National Institute for Reproductive Health, told me on the phone, "Obviously, I think we'd all agree that the onus shouldn't be solely on women," but they nixed the idea of encouraging men to take responsibility for emergency contraception for fear of anti-choice backlash. "Not that we ever want to cater to the antis," she said, "but there is this mythology out there that men will get women drunk and then force them to take EC," thanks to the usual "paternalistic concern that the woman's not a conscious player" in her own sexual and reproductive choices. So the people creating the campaign were "nervous" that aiming it at men would reinforce the notion that nefarious guys will use women for sex and then stick around long enough to shove pills down their throats instead of just hitting the road or wearing condoms in the first place. Or something. Oh, antis, your ability to concoct ever-more-absurd scenarios to deny that women have any sexual agency never ceases to amaze.
Don't get me wrong — with all due respect to women who freely choose to ring in the new year with a new dude, one of my first thoughts when I saw that EC use skyrockets after Dec. 31 was, "I wonder how much of that drunken, unprotected sex is nonconsensual — and where's the 'Hey, guys, if she's drunk on cheap champagne this New Year's, don't rape her!' campaign?" But I certainly didn't worry that the use of emergency contraception might be nonconsensual, on account of how I'm not nuts. So I can understand why the National Institute for Reproductive Health would want to avoid reinforcing that myth — and regardless of how it's accomplished, increasing awareness of morning (and then some)-after options is a good thing. Says Levine, "It's surprising how many people still don't know about it." Even in conversations with her friends, who are pretty well informed about contraception, she's found that a lot of women don't realize or forget that it exists. "We didn't need to do 'Make sure you go buy a condom,' because people know about that," she said. But for some women, that text from the Iceberg Lettuce Connoisseur on Jan. 1 just might come as an enormous relief.
In case you needed any reminding that the holidays can be alarmingly awful, look no further than the bookended tales of this festive season — both involving highly successful men, their wives and early-morning altercations.
We all know by now how Tiger Woods spent the wee hours of his day after Thanksgiving — an alleged dispute with his wife over the rapidly detonating bombshells of his infidelities, a drive into a tree, injuries — and that's just for starters.
Now consider the tale of Charlie Sheen — truther fruitbat and television's most highly compensated actor, who was arrested in Aspen, Colo., on Christmas following an 8:34 a.m. call to 911. After being booked for second-degree assault, menacing and criminal mischief, Sheen spent a night in jail, posted $8,500 bail, and is now set to return to Colorado next month to face charges. His wife, Brooke Mueller, with whom he has 9-month-old twin sons, meanwhile allegedly claimed Sheen threatened her with a knife — and then recanted her story after telling police she'd been drunk she when made the call. According to TMZ, Mueller tested at a blood alcohol level of 0.13, lending credence to her assertion of inebriation and giving Mr. and Mrs. Sheen a Christmas morning straight out of Norman Mailer.
And on the other side of the world this yuletide, Finnish ski jumping champion and Olympic medalist Matti Nykanen was arrested after allegedly spending his Christmas attempting to stab and strangle his wife. Nykanen was also arrested in 2004 for stabbing a companion in a bar fight.
Sheen's attorney Richard Cummins, meanwhile, told People on Saturday that Sheen and Mueller "have two children together and they love one another and they’re going to work through what is a difficult time and they’re going to do that together and as privately as possible."
The incident is far from Sheen's first domestic dispute. The hooker aficionado was arrested in 1996 for attacking then-girlfriend Brittany Ashfield and served two years' probation for the offense. More recently, his ex-wife Denise Richards detailed a laundry list of abusive behavior in her 2006 divorce papers, culminating in a showdown in which she says Sheen shoved her in front of her daughter and threatened to kill her — an incident which, notably, occurred on Dec. 30.
What is it about the ostensibly most wonderful time of the year that makes it so fraught with potential violence?
On PsychCentral earlier this month, Dr. David Schneider, chair of family and community medicine at St. Louis University, noted a toxic combination of factors that can push families over the edge. "There’s a lot of stress associated with the holidays, from pressure to provide for the family and money issues to spending more time with distant family," he said. "Domestic violence often revolves around high-stress times. Additionally, people tend to drink more alcohol around the holidays, and about half of all domestic violence occurs when either the perpetrator or victim is under the influence of alcohol."
And as Janet Scott-Mace, associate executive director at the Women's Center and Shelter of Greater Pittsburgh explained to the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review after a harrowing Christmas-morning standoff involving a local man and his pregnant girlfriend, "Anytime an outside stressor comes into play in families where there is abuse, the violence will escalate, especially over the holidays. Don't get me wrong — Christmas doesn't make families violent. But if there are domestic violence issues in the family, it often escalates."
We don't have to go all urban legend about on the worst times of year to get in a domestic dispute — it can happen at any time. A 2008 US Census report detailed more than 60,000 domestic violence calls in just one September day. Nor, as the incredibly murky details of both Woods' and Sheen's stories suggest, is the story always a straightforward case of male-on-female abuse — men make up approximately 15 percent of domestic violence victims.
One thing is clear — the pressure cooker period between Thanksgiving and New Year's is particularly, sometimes tragically, fraught for men and women who are already vulnerable — those with a history of violence and substance abuse, for example. And though they missed celebrating Christmas together, Sheen's wife has apparently belatedly given him something to remember her by — a restraining order.
Neither rain, nor sleet, nor house arrest will keep Roman Polanski from delivering good tidings and cheer. In a letter written from his current detention center (a spectacular three-story Swiss chalet) and his first public statement since being locked up, the 76-year-old director sent warm holiday wishes to his supporters.
That's right -- Polanski's first public words after being imprisoned didn't express remorse or beg for forgiveness. Instead, he gave a shout-out to all of the strangers out there who have had his back this whole time -- despite his having raped a 13-year-old girl. Polanski writes that he has "been overwhelmed by the number of messages of support and sympathy" he has received:
These messages have come from my neighbors, from people all over Switzerland, and from beyond Switzerland -- from across the world. I would like every one of them to know how heartening it is, when one is locked up in a cell, to hear this murmur of human voices and of solidarity in the morning mail. In the darkest moments, each of their notes has been a source of comfort and hope, and they continue to be so in my current situation.
The entire stomach-churning communique can be found on the Huffington Post, where it was published Monday by the letter's recipient, French philosopher Bernard-Henri Lévy. Thanks to "the generous access provided by Arianna Huffington and her staff," Lévy has used the site for months now as a dumping ground for his Polanski apologism -- or, as he likes to call it, a point of view that "contrasts with the howling of the pack." The truth, though, is that early on a significant share of "the pack" was howling about Polanski's victimhood just like Lévy -- but sanity finally prevailed. Unfortunately, despite popular opinion turning against the world-renowned director, his letter sadly suggests that Lévy is still far from alone.
It's the second day of Broadsheet's link-giving holiday, which means another shiny ... blog post for you to read. Yesterday we served up our best missives of the year on the topics of reproductive rights and motherhood. Now, we present to you our favorites on sex, lies and scandal — and, this year, there was plenty to choose from on that front.
"She's So Beautiful and Nice. How Do You Hit Her?" by Judy Berman: You might ask, What the hell does being pretty have to do with being hittable? At least that's what we wondered when folks started invoking domestic-violence stereotypes in reaction to Chris Brown's assault on Rihanna.
"Why I'm Starting to Feel for Miss California," by Mary Elizabeth Williams: Carrie Prejean may represent "the goody goody, the beauty queen, the topless model, the 'dumb bitch,' the would-be porn star" — but the public hatred for her says more about us than it does about her. We're the ones still clinging "to the nearly impossible-to-uphold standards we set for our beauty monarchy — sexy but not too sexy, pure but not prudish, outspoken but only if we agree with the opinion." Granted, this story was written before she truly refused to go away.
"Elizabeth Edwards' Walk of Pain," by Rebecca Traister: Why did a brilliant woman subject herself to a tortured media tour following the revelation of her husband's infidelity? She seemed on a mission to regain her dignity. As Traister so eloquently puts it:
One way to do that, of course, is to be the person who says everything that everyone else might be saying behind your back, so that they don't think you're clueless or weak. Another is to develop your own account of what happened, including the vulnerabilities that you are able to turn into strengths by expressing them with grace and beauty. Another is to trash that bitch who banged your husband in front of the whole world, with Oprah on your side.
"Craigslist Xes Out Sex Ads," by Tracy Clark-Flory: In May, Craigslist announced it was shuttering its infamous "erotic services" section and replacing it with an "adult" area, where ads would cost $10 and be rigidly screened for illegal services. Broadsheet spoke with prostitutes who made a guess as to where sex workers would turn next: the streets. But, shortly thereafter, it became clear that Craigslist's supposed turnabout really only "amounted to a dimming of the flashing lights and a renaming of its virtual red light district" — all in response to a crusading state attorney general.
"The Thorn Birds of South Carolina," by Amy Benfer: South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford's e-mail exchanges with his mistress, "Maria," were "part morality play, part bodice-ripper" and 100 percent riveting. They also reveal Sanford as "a guy struggling to reconcile his duties as a husband and father with being 'impossibly,' 'hopelessly' in love with another woman." Ah, the timeless appeal of star-crossed sex scandals.
"Reminder: Roman Polanski Raped a Child," by Kate Harding: After the world-renowned director was finally arrested in Switzerland, you wouldn't think those five words — "Roman Polanski raped a child" — needed to be said. However, Broadsheet's Kate Harding was one of the first to say what truly mattered, and in doing so she helped change the national conversation:
Let's keep in mind that Roman Polanski gave a 13-year-old girl a Quaalude and champagne, then raped her, before we start discussing whether the victim looked older than her 13 years, or that she now says she'd rather not see him prosecuted because she can't stand the media attention. Before we discuss how awesome his movies are or what the now-deceased judge did wrong at his trial, let's take a moment to recall that according to the victim's grand jury testimony, Roman Polanski instructed her to get into a jacuzzi naked, refused to take her home when she begged to go, began kissing her even though she said no and asked him to stop; performed cunnilingus on her as she said no and asked him to stop; put his penis in her vagina as she said no and asked him to stop; asked if he could penetrate her anally, to which she replied, "No," then went ahead and did it anyway, until he had an orgasm.
"Cheering for Letterman's Confession," by Mary Elizabeth Williams: The "Late Show" host seemed to have learned a thing or two about how to properly handle a sex scandal from the mistakes of his philandering predecessors: "There were no Mark Sanford-style tears. No John Edwards-esque denials. No John Ensign-y contrite admissions that it was 'absolutely the worst thing I've done in my life.' No shame or blame. Just some straight-up, self-deprecating honesty." In a year of sex, lies and scandals, how refreshing is that?
Ladies, how many times has this happened to you? You're married to — or at least seriously dating — a handsome, high-profile professional athlete. It's a glamorous, exciting life. Too bad he's got other women throwing themselves at him 24/7. And we all know how humiliatingly that works out.
Well, now there's help. A new organization, with the back-off-bitch-he's-mine name Off the Market, has launched to help keep athletes and their significant others on the straight and narrow.
Founded by Tia Robbins, wife of New York Giants defensive tackle Fred Robbins, "professional mother" Jerika Johnstone, wife of former NFL player Lance Johnstone, and Jasmine Silva, girlfriend of St. Louis Rams safety James Butler, Off the Market promises to "enrich the lives of couples by offering a unique environment, exclusive services, and access to valuable resources for the ultimate benefit and honoring of the relationship between woman and man."
Their invitation-only kickoff event will be Monday in New York, and they promise goody bags from the likes of Tenga, makers of "the best male masturbation aid on the market." It may not be a cocktail waitress, but it's a whole lot cheaper than a divorce settlement. Looking forward, the ladies also hope to "offer a private lesson for strip pole dancing one day or even offer to have a strip pole built in a home" for their clients. Of course they do.
Every relationship deserves regular nurturing and loving attention. So I'm asking — what are the guys doing in all of this, aside from jerking off into the Tenga Flip Hole? In her bio, Silva says that "a successful woman is one that is equally amazing as a mother, a wife and a leader in her field," while Robbins echoes that "women are the rock, the heart, and soul of the relationships." That's right, once again, females are consigned to the role of gatekeepers of the out-of-control masculine libido, clinging hopefully to the stripper pole in exchange for his faithfulness.
Promoting "positive, healthy, sexy, rewarding, fun, and exciting relationships" is all well and good. But the idea that if we just try hard enough, we can buffer ourselves from the heartache of infidelity is kind of bullshit. Beautiful, sexy, smart women get cheated on every day, despite their best efforts. So while we're all for keeping the spark alive, we also note that there's something pretty sad about calling an organization "Off the Market" and having the term apply not to the women it aims to serve, but the men they're trying to hang on to.
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