This article, by a journalist who, in the course of her work, had to wear a full-on abaya while in Saudi Arabia, ran in the LA Times almost a month ago; but since the topic isn't particularly time-sensitive, and since the specific things I thought worth discussing in it are, alas, perpetually relevant (it seems), what they hey.

The article itself is quite interesting, and worth a click through. But tempting though it is to think "oh, those poor oppressed women," Stack manages to move beyond the easy writeup to draw parallels, to make the lives of women in Saudi Arabia, which I for one find hard to imagine, seem comprehensible--even familiar.

This particular statement really jumped out at me:

Isn't this true of women everywhere, really? In the article, the author feels conspicuous both when she's arriving in Saudi, and has to put the abaya on, *and* when she's leaving, and has to take it off again. Having to put it on shames her; but taking it off makes her feel suddenly conspicuous, aware of the ways that no matter where she is, she's on display, as a woman.

Isn't it true? What you wear, or don't wear, is always significant if you're a woman. Your hair color matters--blonde? You're a ditz! Brunette? How noir! Redhead? Spicy! Your body isn't just to live in--it means something: are you the "kind of girl" who "takes care of herself" or "lets herself go"? Do you wear heels? Those are "fuck me" shoes. Flats? What are you, a feminazi? Are you black? Mm, chocolate. Asian? Either a dragon lady or else you know how to treat a man. Latina? Picante!

And so on, and so on.

Guys get stereotyped, too. But when push comes to shove, they've got a more leeway to ignore it, I think. And men's roles go beyond the surface, there are a few more variables than sexuality and appearance, visibility and invisibility. I've never been to Saudi, buti it still sounded depressingly familiar to me when Stack told the story of having been shooed away from the bank where she was waiting for a friend because the "men could see" her (oh, the horror!). She complained to the friend afterwards:

Aarrgghh.

Bitch_PhD doesn't really think that "hey, things could be worse" is all that comforting.

Tonight's the Oscars, and we all know that what we really care about isn't the movies, but the outfits. Who's going to wear what, who's going to look great, whose outfit is going to look like a coked-out fashion designer's nightmare?

And, a related question: whose cleavage is going to look awesome (cough:: Penélope Cruz::cough), and who's going to have the hard-as-a-rock half-melons that suggest too much time at the plastic surgeons?

With the latter in mind, folks who are interested in all things breast-related might want to put Stacked: A 32DDD Reports from the Front on their reading lists. What is up with our collective cultural obsession on breasts? I mean, they're nice and all, but you'd think they held the promise of world peace, the way we get hung up on them. According to this reviewSeligson's book doesn't promise to be a Serious Cultural Analysis, but it does look like food for thought. Might make a nice pair (pun intended) with Marilyn Yalom's more scholarly A History of the Breast. Yalom (who teaches at Stanford) points out, for those who will inevitably want to argue that our tit-obsession is "only natural," that actually breasts as objects of sexual focus is actually a modern invention.

My vote is that our modern preoccupation with boobs has got something to do with the modern reification of domestic motherhood: kids aren't just extra hands on the farm, or little savages waiting to be tamed any more; now they're precious innocents who need nurturing and devotion. And by extension, we're all just looking for the perfect mommy to cradle our modernity-buffeted heads.



Which is, in fact, the role Cruz's play in Almodóvar's Volver. Just another piece of evidence that Almodóvar is the fillmmaking genius of our age.

Bitch_PhD's own breast obsession mostly has to do with finding well-fitting bras