There are many things I did not say at dinner tonight while interacting with a man I had never met before. He was obnoxious, impressed with himself, rude, sexist, and more interested in making sweeping, incorrect generalizations than in conversation. He changed his argument and the direction of the conversation every time he was challenged on any of those many sweeping generalizations. It was faux intellectualism taken to truly astounding heights. Also, he managed to insinuate at every opportunity that I, the only woman in the conversation, didn’t know what I was talking about. Following is an incomplete list of the things I did not say.

“If ‘society’ were reset,’ in your words, and we were all ‘dumped naked in a field with no tools,’ I’m pretty sure our first response would not be to kill each each other. Your first response, based on your behavior so far, would be to look at my breasts.”

“You are not an expert about something because you have the most baseline cynical opinion possible about it. Everything you have claimed the intellectual high ground on so far is something that I know for a fact someone at this table knows more about and is more thoughtful about than you.”

“I did not start paying attention to your conversation with [friend] again because you ‘were done nerding out.’ I am a nerd. I am not interested in combative pedantry, which is what you were doing.”

“I have, in fact, read Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I just told you that I have. I have read many things, actually. My breasts do not interfere with my vision or my ability to decode language. So when I finish quoting the scene you are laboriously trying to explain to me, it’s not like I’ve done some amazing trick.”

I know this might all seem petty. I know. But I felt, for the first time in a long time, that I was being shut down, over and over, for nothing so heinous as challenging a man who seemed to think that he deserved to be talking by virtue of his maleness, where maleness correlated to rightness. I, as woman, was supposed to sit there basking in the attention, gratified that he would be choosing to share his thoughts with me. Gratified, and appropriately impressed by his intellect.

In closing, I leave you with one of the most powerful set-downs in the history of modern cinema, delivered by a woman in a bright pink muppet sweater, the subversive epitome of femininity.

Thank you, and good night.

This post is long, and deals with uncomfortable situations involving minors (including me). They happened a long time ago, and didn’t cause lasting damage to me, although I don’t know and can’t speak to anything that might have happened to anyone else. I was very lucky.

When I was in summer camp the year I was fifteen, there was a counselor, a wonderful, thoughtful guy named Stephen, who patiently and with a little bit of horror in his eyes lived through being subject to our affections. One day, as we were hanging out at a picnic table discussing writing, one of my friends (who had a huge crush on him) said that she didn’t think the age difference between a fifteen and a nineteen-year-old was so big. To his credit, he didn’t bang his head into the table or run screaming or anything. He just said that there’s a lot of life experience that happens between then and now. What about people in their twenties? we demanded. Twenty-one-year-olds date twenty-five-year-olds all the time. He, still patient, ever-patient, said that it didn’t matter so much after college, but that when you’re still in high school, you’re in a very different place. I am still grateful to him for that conversation. Not so much because it changed anything, but because it put a quiet, non-parental voice in my head, a voice from someone close enough to my age and my perceived “cool” levels, that maybe some of the other things that were about to happen involving me might, just possibly, be on the wronger side of things.

Later that summer, I was part of the costume crew at a theater running a fairly expensive and (in its own mind, at least) prestigious youth program. The techies were all men in their late twenties, good-looking, etc. I had an uncomfortable (for both of us) crush on one of them, but he kept mostly to himself, away from the shrieking, hormone-fueled, slightly confused, sexually frustrated on a molecular level, roiling mass of teenager that had infested his theater. There was another one, though. I’ll call him Jon. The average population of any high school musical production is going to be heavy on girls, and teenage boys were, as they have always been, a combination of terrified and consciously oblivious that is very frustrating then and in hindsight a survival mechanism for the good of the species. Jon spent a lot of time with a few of the girls. He was at least thirty, and came across as funny, smart, and interested. The attention made us feel good, you know?

I got a weird vibe off Jon, kind of. I spent more time with the techie guys than the girls in the show, and he was a little too friendly when he was friendly, but he was all business a lot of the time, so it seemed okay. I know Jon and I talked. I know I must have been flirty, it was what I did. I liked using my words, and here were a couple of older guys who seemed to like talking to me. There was a rumor that the old lighting guy had been fired because of “something happening” with a girl our age, but we were safe. He had been fired, and she wasn’t involved in productions here any more. (That was mentioned sideways, like maybe she had been culpable, too.) Of course we were safe! How could we not be safe!

One afternoon, it was in a break between scenes. It was me, two other girls, and Jon sitting in a clump on the darkened stage. One of the girls, a thin blond wearing plaid shorts, was talking about something, and she said something funny. We were all laughing, and Jon put his hand on her thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. Another time, he and I were in the wings killing time between scenes, and my hair color came up. He asked if “the carpet matched the drapes.” I, in a reckless display of ingenuity and ignorance, shot back with “What do you think?” I had no idea what that meant until I got home and asked one of my friends. When my friend told me, I was aghast, but it wasn’t any dumber or weirder than the questions the guys my age were asking me, so I let it go.

Few days later, he pulled me into him, wrapped us in one of the wing curtains, and kissed my neck. I was surprised. This wasn’t a thing that grown men were, you know, supposed to do to me.

Holding me in that old, dusty black velvet, he said, “You’re seventeen, right?”
I blinked. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might not know how old I was. I felt myself start to smile.
“Think again.”
His arms stiffened. “Sixteen?”
Now my smile was real, if tremulous, and just a little bit vicious. Remembering it now, I am sick to my stomach like I was at the time.
“Think again.”

I had not, up to that point in my young life, seen the color actually drain out of someone’s face before. He immediately let go of me, untwisted us, quietly falling all over himself, saying he was sorry, that he thought I was older, that it was a joke. I’m pretty sure he called in sick for several days, and didn’t come near me again the rest of the time I worked on that show.

I haven’t told that story much. I was lucky, I know I was. He’d been assuming I was legal, which made me nonprosecutable fair game, even though it would never have been fair. He was nearly twice the age he thought I was, and twice the age I actually was. He’s forty-one, now, and I hope he still feels ashamed of himself. Hell, I hope he never did anything worse.

So when I listen to talk of James Franco messaging with a seventeen-year-old girl who got her picture with him, I think about being seventeen. I think about being half in love with a dozen different movie stars, playing and replaying fantasies in my head that somehow magically involved me being older, or sometimes they didn’t. It was strange, because my historically minded self reacted with revulsion whenever I heard about marriages where the groom was so much older than the bride. Some fantasies aren’t supposed to come true.

Would he have messaged a twenty-one-year-old? Or a twenty-seven-year-old? Or a thirty-year-old? Or a thirty-five-year-old? Somehow I doubt it. These interactions are age-specific and they are all about power, and the assumption is that the man has all of it. Also based on the idea that there is some kind of secrecy, that he is protected because she won’t say anything. He told her not to tell. Sometimes she will. Not always, but she will. I am so happy that Lucy Clode did.

I didn’t say anything about Jon at the time. I didn’t tell my parents, I didn’t tell the director of the show, or the director of the program. I didn’t want to disappear, like that girl who’d been involved with the lighting guy disappeared. I was protecting myself against questions about my own behavior (which was probably verbally questionable) and against the embarrassment, and in the process I protected him. I should have said something.

Post it everywhere when anyone does something that makes you uncomfortable. I don’t care who you are, or who they are. Tell everyone. Shout it. Make fliers. Paper the world in our discontent and our vulnerability and our power. Tell them to think again when they go to seduce us, to take advantage of our limited experience and boundless desire to be older, to control our fates, to be like the older girls. The hardest part is the first part: telling ourselves to think again.

Things are hard right now, my friends. I’m casting around for some kind of distraction, some kind of destruction, something to take my mind off, or at least away. My options are limited, since I don’t actually want to make bad decisions.

So this time, I’m taking up my knitting needles and working on a thing of beauty.

I knit because it lets me remain in my head while blunting the sharp edges of distress. It calms me, interests me, the repetitive motion is soothing. I am always getting somewhere. One more step in the spiral, one more link in the chain. It’s a labyrinth, built and explored by my fingers. It’s a path, a journey, there is a beginning, middle, and end, and so much can happen along the way.

A dropped stitch, an error in the pattern, a lapse in concentration. Terrible fates to befall one. I don’t use markers to portion the way, and I don’t weave in lifelines in case something goes wrong and I have to rip back. I just pick up needles and yarn and go. Of all the parts of my life, I am least anxious about knitting.

That doesn’t mean that I’m not anxious. Worry over whether I’m using the right needle size can plague me, fears that the product will be too big, too small, it won’t feel right, it’s not soft enough, it’s too stiff, too loose, it can take me an evening of swatching and choosing to make sure it’s going to be right. (And this is in the least anxious bit of my life. I think I need lavender oil, or maybe gin.) But once I get it right? (“Right” is, of course, subjective.) Once I find the combination, it unlocks my enthusiasm and I fly.

I’m flying on the project I’m knitting now. It’s so gorgeous, pattern complicated and engaging. The colors in the yarn look like fallen leaves from oaks and maples. The yarn even makes this wonderful crunchy, dry-leaf sound as I slide it along the matte gray needles. It’s a lace shawl, but I’m knitting it in heavier yarn. It’s going to be very big when it’s done. A roof. A house. A safe place. An autumn day to spread over me whenever I want one.

So this is me. A maker of beautiful things, in sadness, grief, in confusion and need. Dancing through my days as well as I can even though my heart is heavy. Wrapping the yarn around the needles like my arms around the ones I love.

There’s this weird movie I watched once. I think my mother got it from Netflix back when you actually got DVDs in the mail. It’s called Next Stop Wonderland and it’s an odd. cross-class love story between a woman who does something office-like, and a man who works at an aquarium. The two best things about the movie are a subplot about a puffer fish and the woman’s ex-boyfriend, a Green Peace activist and later stock broker played by Philip Seymour Hoffman.

That’s the only movie I have ever seen him in.  He’s dead now, apparently of a drug overdose. He was 46. Another hole left by addiction. A rip in the lining, and lives fall through.

Craig Ferguson, in an amazing monologue about his history with alcohol, has said that he was a sick man self-medicating with alcohol, and that on one occasion it saved his life. Watch it here. It’s worth it. Really. Twelve of the most important minutes you will ever spend on YouTube, I swear.

We all lose when a man dies alone from something as avoidable as an overdose. We all lose when kids have their lives wrecked by the same chemicals they are using to make it livable inside their own heads, whatever the reasons are. The world gets dimmer every time another person’s light goes out.

Addiction is not a choice. It is a genetic mental condition. Treating it as such would materially change the way the medical and judicial establishments handle people who are suffering from it, and that would be an amazing thing, it would change so much for the better and save so many lives. The culture of drug availability and addiction in Hollywood is shameful, and I hope this draws some attention to it. If that life asks so much of these people that they need to turn to drugs in order to survive it, then maybe that life needs to be examined and modified, because it’s exploitative and wrong to treat people in ways you’re not allowed to treat racehorses.

But there is another side to this. A very difficult side, and one that seems to be very unpopular at the moment. From the same Craig Ferguson monologue:

“You have to be responsible for your actions, sick or well. You have to be responsible. We’re all accountable. You have to be…it’s your responsibility to deal with the condition you have, in whatever way you can.”

People reacting from addiction are still responsible for what they do. The emotions those actions inspire are real. Gaps and heartache and anger and fear, and addiction is an evil, frightening thing to have in one’s brain. It is a tragic, horrible thing that Philip Seymour Hoffman died, and at the same time I am angry at him for dying like that. It’s anger borne of helplessness and heavily impacted by grief for what addiction did to someone in my family, and I won’t apologize for it.

I wish he had remembered that he wasn’t, didn’t need to be, alone, that it wasn’t hopeless. That there was more love to have and more movies to make, or maybe he could have gone and been an elk rancher, or a batik dyer, or a world class hair stylist. Because he wasn’t done. Because he lost his life, and we all lose every day, in millions of ways because of addiction, and it’s not impossible to get through it and live in vigilance against it. It really isn’t impossible, and nothing has to end that way. There is more waiting on the other side.

Are you feeling lonely, sunshine? Do you feel like girls don’t like you, don’t want to be around you romantically? Have you found yourself grousing about how you’re “too nice” and “girls don’t want me?” Do you spend a lot of time complaining to your female friends about this?

Well, today, Miranda is going to sit you down and explain to you why this is, in small, simple words.

You’re a jerk.

That’s about it. The sum total of why you cannot get a girl.

This jerkitude may exist on several levels.

First of all, let’s be clear here. When you say “I can’t get a girl,” what you mean is, “I can’t get a girl I feel is attractive enough to validate my cripplingly shallow sense of self-worth.” This is sad, to be sure. That your sense of self-worth is so shallow, I mean. You can’t get a girl who rises to your level of acceptable female fantasy attractiveness to have sex with you? Awwwuh, honey. Most women do not look like supermodels or anime chicks or whatever else you’ve been whacking it to since you were fourteen. This does not make them undesirable in any way. It makes you a shallow jerk, though, and you might want to look into that.

If you complain that you are “too nice,” then let me direct you to the first part of that sentence. You are complaining. Whining, in fact, about how “girls” (more specifically, girls-you-want-to-bang) would rather have sex with “that asshole who treats them really badly” than with you. This might mean that you are generally a whiny, non-self-aware, entitled jerk. You might want to look into it. Are you even able to articulate why the guy they’re with is an asshole? Might it just be because he has something you want? Furthermore, do you actually have some idea of how you’d treat her better?

The next thing I want to point out is one of scale. If you say, “I can’t get a girl,” or “I can’t get girls,” you are reducing women to collectible tokens, redeemable for manhood at the nearest arcade. What, pray tell, would you do with one even if you got one? Do you ever think about that? Do you ever think about how to be a good boyfriend, or a good man, if it comes to that? Do you think about what you’d like from a woman in your life romantically? I bet not, most of the time, beyond girls being a good source of self-esteem and blow jobs. I bet you just don’t think about it, because that isn’t the point of this exercise. The point is to get something that you find lacking from a girl, instead of from within yourself. This attitude makes you a jerk, and you probably want to look into that.

If you find yourself becoming resentful of the girls in your life, both the ones you do and do not want to bang, because SO MANY WOMEN do not want to bang you, you will start treating even your female friends badly because you “can’t get a girl to like you.” Thus alienating the girls who already liked you, and contributing to several pernicious cycles all at the same time.

Do you complain about the friend zone? “Argh, she totally friend-zoned me!” Let me tell you a little something about the friend zone, snugglepuss. The friend zone is where women put jerks. Or boys/men who come across as really, really needy, or sort of mean, or even people who have abuse red flags going up all over the place. But mostly jerks. And while we’re at it, do you really want someone to date you out of pity rather than sincere and interested affection? And while you’re complaining to me, thanks for letting me know that unrestricted access to a woman’s vagina is all that matters to you. Good to be aware of, nice to have the feedback. Now get OUT OF MY LIFE, YOU JERK.

Ah, yes, I must say a word here about friends. If you have female friends, chances are at least one or two of them really were into you, however vaguely, at some point, but something about you turned them off to you as a romantic partner. She probably realized you were a jerk. Maybe you made too many misogynistic jokes, maybe you came across as too needy, maybe she realized she valued you as a friend more than as a boyfriend. It really does happen. Girls know that relationships are going to go horribly wrong, and maybe they didn’t one to go horribly wrong with you. Also, they might not be physically attracted to you. It happens. Remember, guys are let off the hook for not noticing the geeky girl until she hots herself up for them all the time. You do not get a pass on this because you have a penis. Despite what you have been told, it is not a magic wand.

You want to know how to get a girl? Stop being a jerk. Stop thinking about girls-and-how-to-acquire-them. Shower every day, keep your hair clean and pulled back off your face, shave, look at men in magazines and figure out how to dress nicely. Have hobbies that get you out and about. Read. Listen to music. Go for walks. Develop your friendships and cultivate new ones. Think about what you really want from life, and figure out how to get it. And when a woman becomes interested in you, don’t. be. a jerk.

I don’t want you to have any fun. ESPECIALLY NOT YOU. YEAH, YOU.

See, this is what all the talking about “respecting boundaries” and “sexual harassment” and “consent” is really about. It’s about how I do not want you to have any fun. None at all. No suggestive remarks at the expense of my body, or my behavior, or my sexual proclivities, (real or imagined) or even just my smile. No being able to touch me whenever you like, just because you want to and I’m there and I’m female.

Nor should you be able, in my little fantasy world, to make sweeping generalizations about half the human population of this planet as if we are lesser than you are, or subject to your whims.

I know that’s going to make a real dent in how you amuse yourselves.

I feel better now that I have pulled the mask of wanting equality, of wanting safety, of wanting to be included with all our flaws and all our gifts without fear, off this despicable monster known as “feminism.” Which, by the way, in its highest form extends those privileges to all genders and all people, without exception.

That might be fun.

I’m avoiding writing.

I love writing. It’s part of me. I made up stories about the people who owned all the things in the catalogues when I was too little to write words. I scribbled nonsense squiggles in notebooks. (Some people, looking at my handwriting, would say that little has changed.)

But today, and for many days previous, I haven’t been doing it. Other things have gotten in the way, chewing up my brain power. Some of those things were good. Some were hard. Some were video games. Some were the way the cookie crumbles. All were not-writing.

Whenever I’m engaging in not-writing it is easier for me to cope with my fellow human beings in large doses, I resent having a day job considerably less, and I’m more likely to answer the question “How are you?” with “I’m fine,” instead of the less socially acceptable rundown of how things are going for a person I listen to who lives in my head. But, not-writing has diminishing returns. Over time, I feel wrung out, at the mercy of every little bump in the emotional road. It’s because I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m not centered when I’m not writing.

My balance isn’t centered in reality. It’s in imaginary places, or how I imagine real places might be. It’s centered in suburban New Jersey, in New York City, it’s a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. There are murders, most of the time. Sometimes there are starships. Sometimes there are murders on starships, something that has never been adequately explored in fiction. But all of it is just not here. A lot of other people are like me, but that doesn’t make me feel less alone in the doing of it.

I need the people in my head more than I need (most of the) real ones. They keep me sane. Making another world keeps me able to make sense of this one, and my place in it. Often, that place is consciously apart, in the role of observer rather than fully engaged experiencer. The only reason this is socially acceptable is because sometimes the people in my head are entertaining, and they never tell me to burn down real buildings.

There is nothing else for it, though. This is who I am, and what I’m made of. Stories, and underneath that layer of ambivalence, the tight-lipped joy of creation.

So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to do some time travel and make some magic with words. It’s the same magic that makes me love knitting and spinning. I’m taking something and making it something else, one stitch/word at a time.

Maybe I’ll avoid not-writing for a while instead.


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