Gina Barreca is fed up with women who lean in, but don't open their mouths. In her latest collection of essays, she turns her attention to subjects like bondage, which she notes now seems to come in fifty shades of grey and has been renamed Spanx. She muses on those lessons learned in Kindergarten that every woman must unlearn, like not having to hold the hand of the person you're waking next to (especially if he's a bad boyfriend) or needing to have milk, cookies and a nap every day at 3:00 PM (which tends to sap one's energy not to mention what it does to one's waistline). She sounds off about all those things a woman hates to hear from a man, like "Calm down" or "Next time, try buying shoes that fit".
"'If You Lean In, Will Men Just Look Down Your Blouse?'" is about getting loud, getting love, getting ahead and getting the first draw (or the last shot). Here are tips, lessons and bold confessions about bad boyfriends at any age, about friends we love and ones we can't stand anymore, about waist size and wasted time, about panic, placebos, placentas and certain kinds of not-so adorable paternalism attached to certain kinds of politicians.
The world is kept lively by loud women talking and "'If You Lean In, Will Men Just Look Down Your Blouse?'" cheers and challenges those voices to come together and speak up. You think she's kidding? Oh, boy, do you have another thing coming.
|Publisher:||St. Martin's Press|
|Product dimensions:||5.80(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.20(d)|
About the Author
GINA BARRECA is nationally syndicated columnist with Tribune News Service. She's the author of It's Not That I'm Bitter, Babes in Boyland, They Used to Call Me Snow White but I Drifted and co-author of I'm With Stupid: One Man, One Woman, and 10,000 Years of Misunderstandings Between The Sexes Cleared Right Up with Pulitzer Prize winner Gene Weingarten. She's a professor of English at UConn, and a member of the Friars' Club. She grew up in Brooklyn, NY but now lives in Storrs, CT. Go figure.
Read an Excerpt
"If You Lean in, Will Men Just Look Down Your Blouse?"
Questions and Thoughts for Loud, Smart Women in Turbulent Times
By Gina Barreca
St. Martin's PressCopyright © 2016 Gina Barreca
All rights reserved.
Does Beauty Really Equal Bondage? or "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Loathe the Spanx"
Could you be talked into purchasing a foundation undergarment so restrictive, so unyielding, and so draconian it makes a wetsuit look like a nightgown?
Here's why I ask: There's been a pop-up (rarely has the term been so grievously misused) ad appearing in the lower right-hand screen of my computer which at first seemed merely persistent but turned out to have been irresistible. It offered me a product that would, through cunning and science, give me a better figure. This week, I relented. Casting my integrity to the wind, I clicked on the link.
What I saw made me gasp, then wince, then toss my head and offer the hollow laughter of film sirens who discovered their boyfriends were no -good, gunslinging liars. The website was selling girdles. They didn't call them that, but that's what they were.
A girdle is a girdle is a girdle.
I grew up watching early women's rights activists burn their bras and girdles. Now times have changed and women are putting their undergarments into the flames for a different reason: They're doing it to forge the steel infrastructure more thoroughly by placing them in the refiner's fire.
* * *
That's why they're called foundation garments — they're made of metal and concrete. They're supposed to support the whole structure, from the bottom-up and the inside-out.
These new products differ from the girdles worn by women of my mother's generation only insofar as there are now girdles for the legs, girdles for the arms, and girdles for an adult's entire body. Turns out you don't just have to flatten your stomach anymore. You have to flatten your whole self.
I started looking at various other links for women's foundation garments — there are more than 28 million entries, so I narrowed my search to the first 75,000 — and it seems as if the most popular brand at the moment is a product called Spanx.
Name aside, I don't believe this product has anything to do with the act of spanking because, as far as I can tell, the hand of the person attempting such an act would ricochet off the taut trampoline-like surface of the fabric and in all probability cause the spanker to put out an eye or cause severe damage to his (or her, but you know it would be his) wrist.
In some cases, of course, that would be appropriate.
But what might start out as playful could become deadly and we should all remember that, especially before wearing an item of clothing that resembles a lace-edged iron maiden.
The premise behind Spanx is this: if you put Jell-O into a Thermos, it won't remember it's Jell-O.
This realization did not prevent me from wondering whether I might not be wise to purchase one. I've always been fond of Thermoses, which are the cleverest of appliances. You put in a hot beverage, it keeps it hot; you put in a cold beverage, it keeps it cold. As the old joke goes, "How do(es) it know?" But so-called shapewear? It turns out it's not so intelligent. That's why smart broads were eager to shed it.
Today's advertising rhetoric says shapewear will "smooth" your silhouette, which sounds rather comforting and benign, but with a little research (reading another 48,000 articles) a person can start to believe in conspiracy theories concerning the deviousness of underwear manufacturers rivaling those put forth by flat-world theorists — with the same impulse to get rid of curves.
Researchers argue that these arcane garments will cut off the circulation of blood to several of your favorite major organs — especially those having to do with digestion — and cause reflux, heartburn, and flatulence.
Fabulous, right? The fabric is virtually airtight; the wearer is trapped inside a Spanx garment. She is burping, belching, and releasing enough natural gas to keep the lights on in Tulsa for a three-day weekend, but the vapors are sealed in.
So now picture these ladies — smooth ladies, every one of them — slowly wafting toward the ceiling at the end of a gala, rising with a kind of grand elegance until they are gently bobbing up there against the lighting fixtures like balloons.
Surely at some point they, and their self-esteem, deflate and return to earth?
So you'll not be surprised I decided to skip the equation that beauty equals bondage, even when it's trying to pass itself off as a textile buttress.
Women don't need to bring back the whalebone in our corsets; what we need is to develop enough backbone to shed them altogether.CHAPTER 2
Unlearning the Kindergarten Lessons of Life
Like almost every other woman I know, many of the lessons I've had to unlearn in life I first learned in kindergarten.
For example, I've had to break the habit of having cookies and a nap at three in the afternoon.
That's because as an adult I developed this fetish about wanting to hold a steady job and not take up so much physical space I need to be hauled around by a winch.
Lying down every day after a heavy sugar and carb intake can undermine a girl's ambitions as well as her ability to enter a room without turning sideways and breathing in.
After a certain age, I also had to learn to stop automatically holding the hand of the person walking next to me. I discovered in my mid- to late twenties (I'm a slow learner) that the unoccupied hand belonging to my "buddy" (or boyfriend, or first husband) was often furtively engaged in holding a miniature bottle of cinnamon schnapps, the keys to a vehicle he didn't own, or the hand of another wide-eyed girl. (Sometimes all three. Remember: slow learner.)
One of the biggest revelations came when I realized that I did not have to share everything. That was fascinating. To believe I could be a good girl and yet insist that some stuff belonged only to me? It was hard to convince myself that somebody else wanting a piece of what I've got (a piece of pie, a piece of the action, a piece of my heart, whatever) was not a reason to fork it over. I was in my forties when I learned that even if somebody asks nicely, it is OK to say no.
Over the years, I've also had to learn that life is not a game of tag (nowhere is "safe") and that in most workplaces time-outs are not the penalty for behaving badly. I also discovered, along with the rest of America, that although in politics, professional sports, and Hollywood there are no penalties for behaving badly, if you're working retail or for a corporation you'll be fired before you can say, "I'm sorry."
Lately, though, I've realized that I've clung to the schematics behind the game of Duck, Duck, Goose as a guiding force for far too long. In women's lives especially (and since I'm talking about the pre-K demographic I'll call us girls without fear of appearing patronizing), all sorts of lessons have encouraged us to sit politely and wait to be chosen. Remember the game Duck, Duck, Goose, where you sat in a circle facing the center and waited to be recognized as the "goose," whereupon you were tapped and permitted to run around making choices yourself?
And how many fairy tales taught us essentially the same lesson? "Duck, Duck, Cinderella!" "Duck, Duck, Snow White!" Or classic books? "Duck, Duck, Madame Bovary!" "Duck, Duck, Anna Karenina!" Or popular movies? "Duck, Duck, Julia Roberts playing a hooker in Pretty Woman!"
Great lesson, right? Learn to win at a game where ritual passivity is preparation for random selection? Where the goal is to be distinguished as exceptional, not presumably because you possess any duck-like attributes (God forbid), but because you're not paying attention and might be a slow runner? Learn how to play a game where the object is to get caught?
Boys are rewarded for playing games where they line up by height and then run into walls. Perhaps I'm making that up — or perhaps you should do a Google search for "Guy Runs into Wall for Fun."
If you do, you'll notice that the recent number of visits to that YouTube page is about 3.5 million. The official YouTube page for the Olympics, in contrast? Fewer than a million views. And the YouTube page for the National Women's History Museum's video titled Three Generations Fighting for the Vote? Fifty-six views, total.
Men and women alike have to examine the lessons we teach — even for fun — and rewrite the rules of the games we play.
Nobody wants to go through life as the guy who slams into walls. And nobody wants to spend her life as a sitting duck.CHAPTER 3
The Cheap-Motel Backside of Facebook
Wouldn't it be just absolutely great if people put snapshots of themselves at their most miserable — not cute miserable, but actually miserable — on Facebook?
Real life, as we all know, is like seeing the reverse side of a perfectly executed needlepoint: it's messy, it's chaotic, and it's tough to see the big picture.
Years ago, a friend introduced me to what he calls the Miserable Snapshot Theory of Life. Since people now upload daily, sometimes hourly, photographs of fabulous meals, beautiful children, and astonishing vacations as evidence of their unimpeachably happy existences, his theory has even more appeal than it did originally.
Here's the premise: What if, when we were young, we could look into our future and see only the most ridiculous, awkward, and pitiful sequences? What would we think about ourselves then?
And now I'll tell you one of my pitiful moments, which starts as if it were an ordinary story: My husband and I drove across the country. We had a safe car, audiobooks, and enough cash to stay indoors. We were ready for fun.
Yes, parts of the trip were Facebook gleeful: diners with perfectly crisp hash; a local rodeo in Montana; landscapes so stark we wouldn't have been surprised to see a triceratops walk across the road.
But then there was this one night in Northern California.
* * *
It rained hard all day and driving had been tough: windshield wipers on, difficult to see the road, some pretty serious fog. We were going to try to make it farther north but decided around seven to call it quits. We pulled into a small city and chose a small local motel, since the plan was to get some serious sleep and leave early the next day.
Fair enough, right? So far, so good. So what if there were no other vehicles in the parking lot? Maybe the staff all walked to work. It was the West Coast. They're very health-conscious out there.
And OK, the room was a little worse than usual. For starters, it had a neon orange shag rug that had seen better days as far back as, say, 1972. I thought I heard crickets coming from inside the rug, but I convinced myself that my hearing was playing tricks on me. The shag couldn't be so deep that it had its own ecosystem, surely.
The room's only attempt at decoration consisted of six faded clown prints fully bolted to the walls. This implied that other guests had attempted to steal them.
There were twin beds covered by nylon paisley bedspreads so slippery that it was nearly impossible not to slide off directly onto the shag rug, thereby becoming consumed by whatever lived within its layers.
Seeing the expression on my face, Michael said, "I'll go get us some food."
The understanding was that, while he was gone, I would unpack whatever we needed, open the wine, and get our evening started. I looked around for those little plastic glasses usually on shelves in the bathroom. Not only were there no cups in the bathroom; there were no shelves.
There was, however, another clown print. But no cups, no glasses.
I decided to drink the wine regardless.
My husband returned to find his wife sitting on a nylon paisley bed drinking cheap wine directly out of the bottle while gazing stupefied at Bozo.
In a falsely cheerful voice Michael announced, "The only thing I could find to eat was potato salad."
"Where did you get potato salad where there was no other food?" I asked.
"There was a deli, it was closing, and I didn't like the look of the cold cuts."
I started rifling through the paper bag for napkins and cutlery. There were napkins, but no spoons, knives, or forks.
"Michael," I asked, "how are we supposed to eat this?"
"What do you mean?" he said.
"There are no implements," I pointed out.
In a phrase I at first didn't understand, Michael said, "I have a shoehorn." He looked enormously pleased with himself.
Then I got it. So we sat at the ends of our respective beds, passing the bottle back and forth along with the plastic container of potato salad as we shoveled food into our mouths with a shoehorn.
Let's face it: If you'd told me when I was a kid, "Honey, you're gonna spend a night sitting in a sleazy motel eating potato salad with a shoehorn and staring at a clown print in silence," would I have really worked so hard in college?
I used to think I'd like to see my future: "Oh if only I could fast-forward a little bit, and see where I end up, that will give me motivation to do well, and be all that I can be!"
We have to choose those snapshots carefully. None of them are representative: it's all about context.
When Michael and I left the next morning, our drive took us though fields of orchids. Had we not stopped the night before, we would have driven past them in the dark.
A picture might be worth a thousand words, but you choose your words and your pictures carefully.
And always pack a shoehorn.
Excerpted from "If You Lean in, Will Men Just Look Down Your Blouse?" by Gina Barreca. Copyright © 2016 Gina Barreca. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Part 1 I'm Not Needy; I'm Wanty
1 Does Beauty Really Equal Bondage? or "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Loathe the Spanx" 3
2 Unlearning the Kindergarten Lessons of Life 6
3 The Cheap-Motel Backside of Facebook 9
4 Women Carry Everything We Need to Start Life in a New State 13
5 The $150,000 Park Avenue Purse 16
6 Women's Bodies-from an Amusement Park to a Terrarium 19
7 Let the Good Times In 22
8 Bring Your Sense of Humor… and Nineteen More Rules to Live By 25
9 Achievement Dysmorphia 29
10 Occupy Vogue 32
11 Loud Women Talking 35
12 Growing Old Gaudily 38
13 Turn It Up; I'm Dancing 41
14 When Faith's Needed, I Don't Have a Prayer 44
Part 2 Sex Is Not the Answer. "sex?" is the Question
15 The Female Orgasm, In Her Own Words, Explains How She Is Not Elusive 49
16 Rules on Love, Laughter, and Using Your Words 51
17 Define That Feeling 54
18 Sixteen Things Women Hate to Hear (Even When We Like or Love You) 58
19 Sixteen Things Men Hate to Hear (Even When They Like or Love Us) 60
20 The Truths About Relationships Nobody Wants to Admit 62
21 Why Are Men Masters of the Breakfast Domain? 65
22 "Happily Married" Is Not an Oxymoron 68
23 Save the Last Class for Me 73
24 Relationships, Roundabouts, and Banana Boats 76
Part 3 Amateur Traumatics
25 Never Talk Politics with Your Family 81
26 Why Work Matters 84
27 To a Young Friend Who Is Not Happy at Her Job 87
28 Why I Hate Nature and Love Electricity 90
29 Six Things You Need to Know About Changing Your Life 93
30 You're Not Perfect, Either, Lady! 95
31 Pack Only the Liberty Bag: Advice I'd Give to My Younger Self 98
32 Shrinkage 101
33 After Loss 107
34 Spring Cleaning for the Soul 110
35 Deal with Your "Emotional Allergies" 113
36 Put the Brakes on Being Busy 116
37 Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions 119
Part 4 The Didn't Lead Me into Temptation: We Took a Shortcut
38 Bad Boyfriends at Any Age 125
39 Ten Reasons to Thank the One Who Walked Out 130
40 When It's Over 132
41 Timeline of a Breakup Recovery 135
42 Hearts and Parachutes 137
43 How to Get What You Want 141
Part 5 If You Run With a Bad Crowd, Can You Call It Exercise?
44 Why Friends Can (Sometimes) Be Better than Family 147
45 And If You Envy Your Friend? 150
46 Sitting Down with Your Demons 153
47 Gifts of Omission 156
48 When a Friend Faces Divorce 159
49 Girlfriends: As Essential as Cupcakes and Revenge 162
Part 6 If You Met My Family, You'd Understand
50 Why I Tell Stories 167
51 Marrying Italian 171
52 "Listen to This One…" 174
53 My Mothers Dreams 177
54 Sex Talk in the Park 180
55 When a Mother Doesn't Like Being a Mom 183
56 Questions I Wish I'd Asked 186
57 What Makes an Apology Real? 189
58 "You Think I Have All Day?" 192
59 The Hummingbird Effect 197
Part 7 Seeing Something, Saying Something
60 If You Lean In, Will Men Just Look Down Your Blouse? 203
61 Good Girls Say No-and Women Should, Too 210
62 Why We Know That When Guys Make Slurping Sounds at Us on the Street, It Isn't a Compliment 215
63 Never Mind Mindfulness 218
64 A Good Eater's Guide to Actual Food 221
65 Please Don't Eat the Placentas! 224
66 Words Rich People Use That Poor People Don't 226
67 A Proactive, Impactful Look at Words I Despise 230
68 Moments of the Irrevocable 233
69 Five Reasons to Hate Twilight 236
70 Fifty Shades of Stupefaction 239
71 Good Dirty Books Versus Bad Dirty Books 242
72 Essential Must-Not-Reads 247
73 My Bikini Bridge Is the Verrazano 251
Epilogue: What Everyone Must Stop Doing Right Now 254
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
This book is fantastic!!! It'll make you laugh until your sides hurt! Once you finish you'll just want to start it again.
Gina Barreca’s latest book, If You Lean In, Will Men Just Look Down Your Blouse?, is a collection of tell it like you see it hilarity. Ms. Barreca wastes no time as she launches into a diatribe of situational comedy that is actually life as we know it. Her perspective is razor sharp and she is all eyes and ears waiting to pounce when it comes to getting her observations down on paper before the thought is lost forever. The book is broken into parts ranging from the difference between ‘need’ and ‘want’ in the opening (Part I: “I’m Not Needy; I’m Wanty”) to closing with saying way you see (Part 7: “Seeing Something, Saying Something”). There is a delicious and extremely humorous tone that resonates immediately in this body of work—this broad has chutzpah! I found myself laughing out loud when she compares the modern woman of today with the woman of yesterday. She focuses on the mega-successful undergarment ‘Spanks’ and keeps it real: “Could you be talked into purchasing a foundation undergarment so restrictive, so unyielding, and so draconian it makes a wetsuit look like a nightgown?...” She is calling today’s gal out and forcing them to recognize these amazing garments (a/k/a Spanks) for what they really are...a girdle! Remember? Mom wore one! Barreca’s refreshing and quite audible voice rings loud and clear from the rafters across the pages. She has arrived and through the conduit of her pen, is comfortable in her own skin to call it how she sees it. It did not take long to settle into the hilarity of this book and it took even less time to recognize Ms. Barreca channels an infamously famous person who delivered such bravado back in the day: Erma Bombeck. Conversely, Erma was a woman before her time and (thankfully), Barreca is unafraid to carry the torch and tell it like she sees it. Ms. Barecca has a style and approach of taking no prisoners as she pens her views brashly and unabashedly—topics ranging from sex to relationships to shopping and the uncanny and never-ending differences between man and woman. Yet she ties the premise together beautifully time and again as she points out the stark opposites and the wonder of how such co-habitation continues to work—for the most part. I say thank you for a delight of a read Ms. Barreca! Quill says: This book is laugh out loud engaging and delivers many ‘aha’ moments throughout.
Italian American writer, editor and academic, Gina Barreca's latest book is tender, funny and full of stories from her youth in Brooklyn and Long Island. The aunts who raised her and the boyfriends who broke her heart are all well drawn and make readers feel at home but also on their toes. The short pieces make you laugh and think and are good conversation starters.