Toy Story 4 and Tarzan Syndrome

Gonna start at the ending and work my way backward.  So SPOILER ALERT!  If you've not yet seen the 4th installment of the Toy Story franchise, stop reading now.

Okay, you were warned.

Preface:  I knew almost nothing about this 4th Toy Story going in, except that Bo Peep was featured prominently, and that's about it.

When we got to the end, the very end (because, as usual, there are about four false endings as we have to wrap up the smaller storylines, too), when Woody decides to (gasp!) leave his child (Bonnie) to join up with Bo and her sheep, I said, "Whoa!  I didn't expect that!"

And the boytoy said, "Seriously, you didn't see that coming?"

And I had to stop and think for a moment because I'm usually very good at anticipating narrative arcs and supposed "plot twists"; it generally takes a lot for a movie's plot to actually surprise me.  I guess that comes from years of studying and teaching narratives and stories, but I digress.

I think I finally stumbled upon why Woody's decision came as a surprise to me:  because I was focused on Bo Peep.  I was so focused on her story with my inner monologue saying furiously, "Please don't let her rejoin them!  Please don't let her rejoin them!" that I really wasn't paying as much attention to the very obvious layout of Woody's track, including his need for a "purpose" and/or a kid to take care of (established in the very beginning of the film).

I was watching and waiting, hoping against hope that the writers wouldn't have Bo Peep rejoin the toy-kid-family, thereby negating her own personal journey in that way that happens to so many female characters.  I thought Woody would rejoin his family, leave Bo again in a bittersweet moment that showed that she couldn't just go back to her old life (and that was okay). So his move surprised me; plus, it's pretty out of character for Woody who is rather defined by his loyalty to tradition (hello, the plot to the whole first movie).

But Bo Peep's transformation from sweet love interest shepherdess to badass, staff-wielding adventurer also got me thinking, especially when I commented during the film, "Bo's gone feral!"  I shouldn't have said that; "feral" was definitely not the right word.  Instead I should have said, "Bo became a badass!" or even "Bo learned some survival skills!"  Bo is example of what I've decided to call Tarzan Syndrome.

Some things to note right off the bat:

• This shouldn't be confused with Tarzan syndrome for kittens (and why you should adopt more than one at a time), or really with any other actual psychological condition.  We're just talking literary analysis here, folks.
• I'm using Disney's 1999 animated film Tarzan as my base model.

Even if you've not seen the 1999 Disney movie (with music by Phil Collins!), you are hopefully familiar with Tarzan as a story/literary trope:  male human baby is abandoned in the jungle.  He is found by/adopted by/raised by gorillas in the wild and learns to communicate with them/behave like them.  By the time other humans stumble upon Tarzan, he speaks almost no English or other human language, but can interact with wild animals.  Basically, Tarzan is left alone in the wild, and by the time the outside world catches up with him, he has brand new bag of tricks and survival skills.  He's also an adult and somewhat respected leader in his (animal) community.

Bo Peep's transformation in Toy Story 4 is an example of this:  she was abandoned, left, or "lost."  And by the time we (the world at large) "find" her again, she has a whole new badass skill set, many of which seem alien or foreign (or "feral") to us, and she is also in a respected leadership role in her new community (of other lost and/or "wild" toys).

The main difference, though, between Bo and the actual Tarzan story is that we don't get to see Bo's transformation.  Tarzan's story is just that:  his story.  And the Toy Story franchises are generally Woody's (and sometimes Buzz's) stories.  Even in this movie where Bo is featured prominently, her transformation and journey are relegated to a brief flashback and some exposition.  We don't get to see it; we don't see her "origin story" (if you wanna put it superhero movie terms).

Bo Peep is just one in a list of "strong female characters" in (mostly) film that have Tarzan syndrome (patent pending).  Here's an incomplete/in-progress list that's been playing through my head:

• Janet Van Dyne (Michelle Pfeiffer) in Ant-Man and the Wasp (2018)
• Atlanna (Nicole Kidman) in Aquaman (2018)
• Princess Leia's transformation to General Organa is almost a contender for her inclusion on this list, but not quite as no one thought she was dead; time just passed, and we were presented with her new self in Episode VII.  She does (very briefly) have her time in "the wild."  It's called Endor, and the Ewoks are like tiny gorillas.
• Rey in Star Wars:  The Force Awakens is almost a Tarzan, except that we do get to witness her part of her story and transformation (which is why it's probably my favorite Star Wars movie, with Episode VIII in 2nd place).

Jodie Foster as Nell, Amy Acker as Fred in Angel, I would contend, are not Tarzans because they do not (initially) come back as bad-asses.  They come back (or are discovered) broken, for lack of a better word.  Fred eventually overcomes most of her trauma and becomes a functioning member of Team Angel (and then Illyria happens, but that's a different piece of analysis entirely).  I haven't watched Nell in I don't know how many years, so I can't comment on her outcome.

An argument could almost be made for Catwoman in 1992's Batman Returns (there's Michelle Pfeiffer again!), except there are too many slight perversions on the list of requirements to put her in the category (she isn't "lost"; she's pushed out a window; she doesn't learn a new skill set so much as get some supernatural cat reflexes and characteristics; we do see her transformation). 

One of the defining Tarzan Syndrome traits (since I've just decided that it's a thing) is that we don't get to see these women's transformations, and that's bad.  Sadly, most of these characters are relegated to the sidelines; their discovery and re-entrance into the world is a secondary (or even tertiary) storyline to the lead (usually cishet white male) character's story and development.  The women attain an almost mythical quality because they were gone (often presumed dead), and simply reappear, years later, as badasses.  When we do get to see their stories (female buildingsroman, anyone?), some of the mythos is lost because we can see it happening.  We get depth and details, and in exchange we lose a bit of mythical hero.  And I'm okay with that.  

We should be telling those stories, with their sweat and grit and hard fucking work (I mean, can you imagine the sheer trauma Janet Van Dyne endured living ALONE in the quantum realm for decades?!?!), and not just because those stories often involve awesome "getting ready" montages (I fucking love a good montage, and even not-so-good ones).  And we still get badasses when we tell the stories and see what went into creating the heroine we see:  please see Captain Marvel (2019), Wonder Woman (2017), Rey in Star Wars, and nearly every woman who has had to recreate herself after being abandoned.

Hard

This week has been hard; there's no two ways about it.  I've been feeling stressed, so my psoriasis is flared up (and I keep scratching it), and even my stomach has been hurting.  I've cried several times at work (mostly Monday and Tuesday) due to frustrations with my job and the person to whom I report (I don't do well when given contradicting instructions).

I feel like I'm running out of money; I have a deep-seated, never-before-admitted fear that purchasing the "penthouse" (my condo) was a mistake, that it was more than I can handle financially.  My sister was denied her disability by the judge, and the lawyer we hired (who only gets paid if my sister gets paid, BTW) has basically said that was her best chance.  So I really, really need her to get a job.  STAT.  But she doesn't really do anything "stat."  And that's going to be a problem as I continue to stress out.

I'm back to having hard mornings -- where it's hard to feel good about anything, where I feel like I generally hate everything.  Sure the season/lack of light doesn't help, but we're through the worst of it already, so I'm not sure that's entirely to blame.  But I miss those days when I was like, "Is this what it's like to feel happy?"

News and photos out of Australia are incredibly upsetting.  I've joined some crafting groups to make things to send for the animals, but between shipping costs, confusion over drop-off sites, regulations on what materials to use, and I think the Aussies have put a two-week hold on accepting donations, it just doesn't seem worth it right now.  They'd be better off with a monetary donation (which I don't really have).

I felt a surge of relief yesterday when I realized that it was actually Thursday.  I was somehow stuck in a Wednesday loop, that this hard week was lasting forever.  I was grateful it was Thursday.  But then Thursday itself lasted forever.  By 1 p.m. I couldn't believe it was only 1 p.m. as I had clearly had three full workdays in that time.  Time is a social construct.

As I get stressed, I find it hard to keep up with everyday things.  I haven't been logging my meals or steps in my fitness tracker; my weight is going back up.  I've barely remembered to log things in my ovulation tracker, which is all over the place as my body isn't sure what the fuck it's doing since I had my IUD removed.  Which could also explain some mood things, too.

In other words, it's Friday, it's not a payday, it's pouring down rain, and I really, really want to not do adult things for the next 24-72 hours.  Who's ready to hire a professional napper?  Because I am ready and available.

The Universe Is Cruel

The other day my sister was making one of our HelloFresh meals for dinner:  Mexican beef burrito bowls with poblano peppers.  I don't find poblanos to be all that spicy, but my sister does, and she dutifully washed her hands after cutting and handling the pepper.

Sometime later, she had to blow to her nose.  Now, I'm not exactly sure on the details, but she said the Kleenex "broke" while she was blowing, so I guess her bare finger ended up touching her nose?  Again, I'm not sure, but shortly after I found her laugh-crying in the kitchen about "hot peppers" holding a fingerful of yogurt up her nose.

And I laughed, too.  More "at" her than "with" her, especially as she still had one finger up her nose, trying to hold yogurt in place (no easy feat, I assure you).  I helpfully offered to remove most of the poblanos from her presence during the meal (by eating them).

A few days after this incident, I made our other HelloFresh meal:  one pot chili with pork and black beans.  Sidenote:  I've only ever made chili with beef, so this was an interesting change.  Oh, and the recipe involved one (singular) jalapeno: half of it minced into the chili, the other half in slices for "garnish."  And as my sister taught me (even before the poblano-yogurt incident), I was sure to thoroughly wash my hands after handling, cutting, slicing, and mincing the jalapeno.  And even after washing, I avoided touching my eyes, face, etc.

Later, a good twenty minutes later, as the chili had been simmering, but we hadn't yet eaten, I, too, had to blow my nose (my eyes had been watering when dicing the onion).  My Kleenex didn't break.  I'm not sure what happened, actually, but some of the jalapeno oil must have gotten somewhere, because a bit of my nose and my entire upper lip felt like they were on fire.

I washed my hands again.  I tried lightly washing my face (with cold water, to ease the burning), I applying some light, soothing lotion, I put on chapstick, but still the burning remained.  It wasn't awful; mostly just annoying, but my sister got a laugh out of it nonetheless.  I ate the chili (delicious), and moved on.

And then after that, maybe an hour later, I was sitting on my bed, playing on my phone, whilst the boytoy prepared to leave for a few hours.  I had an itch in...an unfortunate place...and, without thinking, reached down and lightly scratched said itch with my right index finger.

And within seconds I realized my mistake.

And I said, hoarsely, to the boytoy:  "I should not have done what I just did."
"What?"
And I explained, my eyes growing wide as my crotch was burning with the fire of a thousand jalapeno suns.

I stripped off everything I was wearing from the waist down and did a strange hopping-waddle-dance to the bathroom to get a washcloth and soak it with cool water.  I pressed the cool washcloth to my poor burning vajayjay, and it only partially eased the fire raging.
All the while the boytoy was torn between laughing at my antics and feeling bad for me:  "Ohhh, honey!"

Sniffling, I asked him to run to the kitchen, get a small ramekin from the drawer, and put -- you guessed it -- some yogurt in it.  While I continued to hop and apply the washcloth to my burning private parts.

I managed to text my sister (who was only in the living room, but I wasn't going anywhere, not having any pants on):

"The universe is cruel.  I just scratched myself in an unfortunate place and apparently still had jalapeno on my finger.
I want to die."

She responded in the only appropriate fashion:  with a GIF.


The boytoy brought me the requisite yogurt as I put a towel on my bed and prepared to lie down, apply the cultured balm, and suffer (somewhat dramatically).  The boytoy had to leave;  I had to call to my sister to lock the door after him as I wasn't going anywhere.

I texted her from across the penthouse one last time:

"I will be in my room until further notice."

While lying there with my yogurt-slathered crotch, I thought for a moment and then swiped a fresh smear some on my upper lip, too, as it was still burning.

I got your fucking spa treatment right here.

Resolutions Schmezolutions

New Year's, resolutions, yadda yadda yadda -- here's another chance to not suck!

Like I do most year, I'm resolving to write more.  But I prefer to call it a goal, rather than a "resolution."  (Words matter, y'all.)  Normally I'd be handwriting this particular tripe in my journal but (of all days), I left it at home (and I'm in the office).  So typey-typey it is!

I decided sometime late last year (heh) that continuing to review books and movies would be a good way to keep on writing.  So what did I do?  I started at least two (as yet unfinished) reviews, and I've read a third book that deserves a review that I cannot find the words to as it was simply too sublime (The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern, if you're wondering).  I've even gone back and read those unfinished drafts to see if they could jog my memory enough to finish 'em. Nope.

I really need to write reviews as soon as I've finished something, while everything is still fresh(ish) in my head.  As far as The Starless Sea is concerned, I also considered going back and just reading the parts I highlighted (thanks, Kindle!), mostly out of context, to see what that produces.  So far, nothing.  Not that it didn't trigger thoughts, just that I've been too lazy to write anything.  Bad Leonard, bad!

Also on my mind lately:  abuse, memoir writing, writing about abuse, repressed memories (particularly when they become unrepressed, which is apparently not a word), magical realism.

So that's what I've got goin' on.  2020, you'll be eventful, I'm sure.

Losing Leonard

A Story About Shrinking

(Meaning We're Talking about Weight Loss Stuff)

So I started a new weight loss/get healthy(er) program the other week.  Thanks to things like age and the fact that I don't walk across a campus and teach all day anymore, I was weighing more than I ever have before in my life.  I'm five-foot-three-and-a-half, people!  (And with a "small frame" if you believe those BMI chart thingies.)  I should not have the same "ideal" weight as a six-foot-tall man.

People said I "still looked great" when I would casually mention this and while I mostly believe them, the important thing for me was that my clothes were starting to not fit or be tight or uncomfortable or (worse yet) fairly unflattering.  And I simply don't have the budget to buy a whole new wardrobe to fit my expanding belly and booty and boobs (and other body parts that don't start with the letter "b").  And some of my current clothes are really cute, dammit!  I don't want to get rid of them.

And my previous ideas of using MyFitnessPal to log my meals and trying to work out wasn't cutting it.  Frankly, because I wasn't doing it (especially the "working out" part).  And this new program promised to help me build healthy, long-lasting habits which are (apparently) key to not only losing weight, but keeping it off.

One of the big things with this program is to celebrate my wins/successes/whatever.  That's not easy for me.  I mean, I will definitely toot my own horn about my awesomeness in other arenas, but talking about these goals/wins, especially since some of them are so tiny, feels weird for me.  It may be in part because I've never struggled with my weight before; I've never had to worry about what I eat.  I've always been curvy (read:  "BOOBS, I have 'em"), but I've also always been slender/properly proportioned.  But you know the old story:  you hit 30 or 35 and your metabolism suddenly says, "Well, that was fun!" and packs its bags, abandoning you mid-snack-break.

So this is me, trying to celebrate some "wins" and healthy habits.  For example:  I've been eating apples -- grabbing one on the way out the door to have as a mid-morning snack, having one as a side with my lunch instead of chips or bread.

And let me tell you, that is a BIG DEAL because I love me some crunchy, savory, salty, delicious carbs.  Keep your sweets, your desserts, your chocolate and cakes and ice cream.  Hand me a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, and I'll be a happy camper.  

Don't mistake me; this program doesn't say to cut anything out entirely or to deny yourself things.  It's more about moderation; "moderation in all things," as Aristotle taught us.  So, y'know, I'm not supposed to eat just the bread, or ALL the bread ALL the time.

Today I ordered my lunch (before walking the 0.6 miles, roundtrip, to pick it up and come back to the office), and I hesitated.  I almost picked that delicious side of French baguette to go with my turkey chili.  I really, really wanted it.  And I can have it, remember!  Just not all the time.  And then I remembered that I'm planning on making pot roast with potatoes and carrots and gravy for dinner this evening, so maybe I should save some of my carbs and calories for that and holy shit another healthy habit just happened!

Planning ahead, also filed under "Shit I'm Not Good At."  

I don't plan ahead (food-wise).  I don't "meal prep."  I haven't been looking ahead at my calorie allotment for the day and planning accordingly -- or planning at all. 

But look at that!  Up there!  I just did it!  Go me!

So I ordered my apple and was a little proud of myself.  And I walked to the restaurant (0.3 miles, per Google Maps) to pick it up and then walked back to my office again (0.6 miles total because math).  And I opened my bag to get out my bowl of turkey chili and there was my apple, happy to see me.  But what's that?  The bag is still heavy?  I look inside, and the restaurant also gave me the chunk of French baguette (equally happy to see me).

Curse you, and your accidental carbohydrate generosity, restaurant!

I won't be eating either item anytime soon as I'm thankfully I'm stuffed from lunch -- well, not "thankfully."  The goal is to feel satisfied, not "stuffed" or uncomfortably full.

Today's Pro-Tip:  if you're also getting a smoothie, you probably only need a cup of soup rather than a bowl.

So now the apple and the bread are both just sitting on my desk, staring at me, possibly judging me.  #SuspiciousStillLife

Please note:  this post is not a request for tips or advice, nor is it an advertisement for said program.  If you want info on it, just message me directly.

Of Boots and Bullying

There was one of those Q&A memes going around the other week that said to "focus on your senior year of high school" and then answer the questions.  They were things like "What kind of car did you drive?" or "Where did you work?"  One question asked what your favorite shoes were, and I wrote "All of them" because hi, have you met me?  But that got me thinking about shoes in high school, even now, weeks later.

Yeehaw, bitches!

My love affair with shoes started eons ago, long before high school (my first pair of leather cowboy boots were red; I was five years old and I wore them to stomp on spiders at my dad's farmhouse).  But by the time I reached high school, I was starting to earn money here and there from work, babysitting, etc.  And I (very slowly) learned how to (very slowly) save up money from those things and my allowance and whatever else came my way.  And even though I knew my mother wouldn't approve, I started to use that money to buy my own shoes from a women's shoe store at the mall (THE mall, we only had the one).



With my heart pounding, I walked into the mall store with, y'know, grown-ups shopping -- I still remember it had mustard-colored walls and unflattering fluorescent lighting.  Then, just as now, I hit the sale and clearance section first.  I may love shoes, but I'm also a cheap bitch and don't like spending a ton of money on a single pair of shoes; my cut off seems to be fifty dollars..  And at age 16, fifty bucks was a lot of money, period, let alone on one purchase.  And I found them.  And they were still on sale.  And in my size.  It was love at first sight between me and a pair of knee-high, black leather, stiletto-heeled boots.  I shelled out my hard-earned cash, and I was even tempted to put them on right there in the store and wear them around the mall.  But I didn't.

A li'l something like this

I did go home and try to hide their existence from my mother for as long as possible.  That probably lasted a day, maybe two.  And she was not happy with my purchase.  My mother was far from a prude when it came to how I dressed in high school.  She was all for figure-flattering outfits and things, including some that were borderline trashy (and I wore anyway).  But black leather CFM boots were a line she wasn't willing to cross for her 16-year-old daughter.  But more than that, she objected to the amount of money I spent.

She flat-out told me I couldn't wear them (though I don't recall her saying that I had to return them).  And I naturally asked (read:  "whined"), "Why?"  It was my money, wasn't it?  They were just shoes (boots), weren't they?  Where's the problem?

My mother was unable to articulate the world's hypersexualization of teenage girls, the sexual connotation that boots have due mostly to the patriarchy, the fetishes associated with black leather.  And in the back of my mind, there was a slight tug that the boots were somehow "inappropriate," but all the facts on the surface said it wasn't any big deal.

So I wore them.  I even wore them to school one fine fall day, below my plaid Catholic school girl skirt, and garnered more than one disconcerted look from some teachers, but not a one of them said anything directly to me.  As they weren't sandals or tennis shoes, I was still complying with our dress code.

Somewhere in this same time period, I saved up my allowance and bought another pair of knee-high leather boots.  These, however, were flats (gasp!) and made of suede instead of regular leather.  They had a large kind of patchwork pattern on them made of jewel-toned suede squares -- emerald, magenta, black, and dark teal.  They laced all the way up the back.  They were the kind of boots that would look awesome at a ren fair or with a Robin Hood outfit.  I had plans to wear them with my costume for madrigal singing.

Imagine these 4 pairs of boots had a beautiful 1990s baby

Later that year, we were on a school trip for an acting competition with events like improv, choral reading, one acts, solo interp, duo interp, etc.  A group of about twenty of us arts/theatre students, freshmen through seniors, were there together competing in events against other schools.  I was probably a junior.  I wore the jewel-toned jester boots over my jeans and was feeling pretty fabulous.

And every now and then that morning, I would feel a tug at the back of my leg.  But when I would glance behind me, no one was there.  And it wasn't happening all the time -- just intermittently, and I couldn't find the rhyme, reason, or pattern as to why or when.  I felt it when going up the bleachers in the auditorium for the morning announcements/introductions.  I felt it when sitting at the lunch tables in the cafeteria with my classmates.

And somewhere in the early afternoon I discovered the culprit: a fellow student, one of my own group (so another theatre person) had tied the laces of my boots (because they laced up the back, remember?) together.  At the back.  But not so tightly or close together that I couldn't walk outright.  I still had a couple of inches to spare; hence, why I only felt the tug during certain activities.

And I no longer felt fabulous.

Instead, I felt crushed, embarrassed, defeated.  Had they been tied together all morning? How did he do it without me noticing?  Did everyone know except me?  Were they all secretly (or sometimes not so secretly) laughing at me?  I was humiliated and a little betrayed.  Even though I wasn't close friends with my fellow performers, we had at least had that arts-theatre-not-a-jock bond in common and were from the same school, traveling together, competing with each other against the other schools.  But I was still ostracized and bullied by the very people you would think would understand what that feels like.

And even typing it out now, the fact that someone tied my shoelaces together in a public place, is humiliating and upsetting, and it happened nearly thirty years ago.

I cried in the bathroom at that strange, out of town school and tried to go on about my day, seeing the other events and trying desperately not to feel self-conscious about my choice in shoes (boots) -- and failing miserably.  I didn't confront my classmates or the particular "suspect."  I didn't tell a soul, and I've never told the story until now.  I don't think I ever wore those suede boots again.  A year or two later, post-high school, I went looking for them (having conveniently forgotten about this incident), and they had disappeared.

Reticence: A Review

Reticence by Gail Carriger
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Reticence marks the end of an era, as Miss Gail Carriger has already stated that there will be no more books in the Parasol Protectorate/Custard Protocol universe. For that alone it deserves the four stars as creating this universe and such a series of books (3 generations of characters!) is no small feat.

The rest of this review does have spoilers, so click accordingly. 

Was Reticence Carriger's best book in the series? No, it wasn't. She's had others that made me feel more (How to Marry a Werewolf comes to mind; I bawled like a baby at Faith's big reveal); she's had others that made me laugh more at some of the ridiculousness and utterly dry delivery (the lobster line in Poison or Protect, anyone?). And, of course, nothing beats the original; Soulless was the first love for many of us.

Like many sequels, prequels, and other "-els", Reticence sometimes falls into the trap of wrapping up things a little too neatly; Carriger, of course, acknowledges this with the cheeky epilogue, aptly titled "With a Neat Little Bow." Bringing in the characters from the Finishing School series felt a little forced. While we knew that Agatha was sponsored by Lord Akeldama (a.k.a. Goldenrod), the fact that he's been playing this game with these ladies all along was perhaps a little too contrived. Similarly, mentioning that "Miss Imogene" had been around "forever" (with Genevieve LeFoux) felt shoe-horned in, probably because of the writing order; when we're first introduced to adult Quesnel in Prudence (and his mother), Romancing the Inventor (Imogene's introduction to the universe) hadn't been written yet.

My other quibble (and it really just a quibble, a matter of style and preference, really) is one that I also noticed in both The 5th Gender and Competence: playing the ending. When our two main characters meet, their romantic involvement is already a foregone conclusion. Granted, we spend the book watching them try to tell each other (which is amusing); however, I seem to prefer it when we spend a good portion of the book watching the characters trying to figure out their feelings. Arsenic and Percy (and Tris and his detective, and to a lesser extent Prim and Tasherit) already know they are attracted to each other. To me, the rest of the novel then feels a bit rushed since we already know the conclusion coming. I much preferred it, to use an example, when Alexia and Connall didn't quite realize their feelings for each other (though nearly everyone else around them did); their dance around each other (and their feelings) was much more interesting to me that way. It could also be due to the narration type in the books; Alexia's books are primarily (though not 100%) from her limited POV; in the others, we get fairly unfettered access to several different characters' minds.

All of that said, do I regret buying this within minutes of it being released and procrastinating at my office over the course of two days to read it? Absolutely not.
It was still full of Carriger style: charming, sweet, flirty (yes, please, to the boot-unlacing bit!) and had my favorite cameo thus far (Lady Manami).

View all my reviews