Lookie! Ah Made Mahself A Bay-Bay! or, "Girl Power!"

The Wench professes that she is annoyed with the central conceit of Waitress, which she recently viewed on DVD. The central conceit being: motherhood as salvation, the mother-child bond as all-nourishing and all-fulfilling.

Kerri Russell's character, the "Waitress" of the title, insists that she does not want her baby throughout the course of her pregnancy. In a letter to her unborn child, she reveals that she thinks very little of most people, and that she feels ambivalent bringing her into such a cold, mediocre world.

Yet the moment her newborn daughter is placed into her arms, Russell does a complete 360. She goes from being a cowering, abused wife to telling her evil hick husband to stick it where the sun don't shine. She abruptly breaks off an affair with a doctor who ostensibly was the only one who took interest in her or made her feel at all meaningful. All this before she's even wheeled out of the hospital. And all this, because all she needs is her bay-bay.

Balderdash, says The Wench. Where's the post-partum depression? The engorged breasts? Hell, where's the extra pregancy pounds? Where's the mind-blowing stress and strain of caring for an infant as a single, self-employed mother?

The Wench is also peeved that yet another female protagonist falls for yet another gainfully employed male. We've seen so many doctor and lawyer love interests (yet sadly, no Indian Chiefs), underscoring that a man's chief attraction to a woman is his earning power. Oh, yes -- and his ability to see the real woman behind the waitress/ugly chick/prostitute.

On to other films dealing with unplanned pregancy: The Wench confesses to being puzzled by recent claims that Knocked Up is sexist for portraying women as demanding and shrill. The character Debbie was indeed an angry, anxiety-ridden shrew, but no more so than many post-feminist wives and mothers The Wench has observed. These are women whose husbands work demanding jobs so that they have the privilege of staying at home with their chidlren, yet insist on splitting household chores evenly for the sake of "fairness".

How fair is it, The Wench asks, to expect one's husband to come home after a long day of sales calls/surgery/depositions and clean up? And really, why must Debbie's character insist on her husband buying "pink cupcakes" or otherwise participating in child-rearing to an equal extent as she?

The Wench suggests that Debbie and other women of her ilk do as all other women with small children have: run to the shrink and procure a scrip for Paxil, Wellbutrin or similar anti-anxiety drug. Surely, that "Waitress" will at some point -- and if she's lucky, her psychiatrist will be cute and charming and pie-loving, to boot.

On Oprah, or, The AntiChrist

The Wench was utterly delighted to stumble upon this enlightening NY Post piece by Maureen Callahan, in which the author examines the popularity of the latest female New Age tome, Eat, Pray, Love:

What is going on? Why is it that women, in overwhelming numbers, are now indulging in this silliness in a way that men are not? (To be fair, there was the equally unhinged “Iron John" movement in the '90s.) Oprah's audience has helped turn serious, artful literature like Cormac McCarthy's “The Road" and Elie Wiesel's “Night" into bestsellers. So why aren't they clamoring for more weight when it comes to Oprah's female authors? Where's the Joan Didion? Or Alice Munro?

Instead, we are saddled with this narcissistic New Age reading, curated by Winfrey (who is responsible for turning “The Secret" into the year's best-selling book) and newly abetted by Gilbert, whose own book is 2007's second best-selling title. During her most recent appearance on Winfrey's show, Gilbert beamed beatifically while spouting stuff like: “If you take the word ‘no' and put it backwards, it's almost ‘om.' " “When you fill up your own skin with yourself, that alone becomes your offering." “There are days when I look at that meditation mat in the corner of my room and say, ‘I'm gonna have to see you, like, Thursday, but I know you're there and we're coming back to each other."

The Wench considers Ms. Gilbert's bromides to be pure, unmitigated POOP. And POOP stinks just the same, whether spelled backwards or forwards.

Ms. Winfrey encourages women to slather themselves in unadulterated narcissism (Could one expect any less from a woman who features herself on every cover of her magazine?). She calls this brand of no-holds-barred self-love "finding your spirit" and "living your best life" -- euphemisms that conveniently absolve women from the yucky, inconvenient duties we all shoulder in this life.

Real personal and spiritual growth demands sacrifice and inner struggle. It involves learning to be content on less. It involves a battle with one's own temperament. It involves a hard, critical look at the values and beliefs one holds dear, and a hard, critical appraisal of the self.

Ms. Gilbert and Ms. Winfrey deny this is so. They tell women that personal and spiritual growth can be achieved by a patchouli-scented bubble bath, or by eating low-fat wraps with skim-milk cheese. Or, as Ms. Gilbert suggests, by getting a four-hour massage from a brown-skinned medicine woman. And a great many women swallow this Kool-Aid willingly and without question.

The Wench never ceases to be amazed at her gender's simultaneous, completely contrary impulses: To be taken seriously, and to be treated like little girls.

In Which The Spiteful Wench Is Shamed

Recently, The Wench's husband overheard her cackling over news of the latest rash in Thai penis-slashings by jealous women.

At which point, The Wench's husband asked her whether she would be laughing quite so hard if the issue were breast-slashings by jealous men.

Good point, sayeth The Wench. Although her cackling was primarily induced by the reporter's ill-advised use of a banana in the footage.

The Wench remains intrigued by the Thai surgeon's comment that, in cases where the penis has been "chopped up", he "builds a new" penis for the victim. The Wench asks: Does he have that capability? To make a better penis? Better . . . faster . . stronger?

The Wench will cease now.

Public School, also known as A Veritable Henfest

Disclaimer: The Wench has the utmost respect for teachers and the tireless dedication and service they provide, educating our young.

Now that we have that out of the way, allow The Wench to tell you how she really feels about her spawn's teachers.

The Wench's spawn attend public school in an affluent neighborhood. Their teachers, by all accounts, are hard-working and enthusiastic. They are also hell-bent on classifying The Wench's spawn with all manner of disorder, disability and dysfunction. One of the Wench's spawn does not pay attention and has difficulty completing work. The other has a short temper that occasionally flares when confronted with loss, such as losing a game of Chutes and Ladders. This particular spawn is a mite anxious, to boot.

The Wench thought these behaviors were symptomatic of being bored, lazy, six years old, and a general pain in the ass. Instead, the teachers assured her that they indicated potential ADD, OCD, LD and XYZD (The Wench made that last one up). The teachers urge evaluation and therapy. The teachers are aflutter with worry and concern. They simply buzz with nervous energy.

The teachers, without exception, are female.

Now, The Wench has not one beef with female teachers. They perform their jobs with heartfelt valor. However, from personal experience, The Wench notes that --on the whole -- the female gender is vastly more inclined to fret and fuss over the health and well-being of children. From a random sampling of friends, family and acquaintances, The Wench finds that:

(1) Women are twice as likely to troll the internet, reading up on possible developmental delays in their progency and developing hysteria (with concurrent insomnia) as a result.

(2) Women generally follow the recommendations of teachers or doctors to have their children evaluated for various disabilities. Men, however, react to such recommendations as follows: "Nuthin's the matter with that kid. This is bullsh**."

(3) Most affluent, hyper-educated women are taking Paxil, Wellbutrin, or another popular anti-anxiety medication.

The Wench can't help but wonder if the incredible surge in special education referrals is linked to the fact that every last damn teacher is a worrying, whinnying woman. At the last parent-teacher conference, The Wench felt as if she were sitting amongst a brood of Mother Hens, clucking with concern.

Whither art thou, male teachers? Or, for that matter, any teacher with a reasonable approach to child development, one grounded in experience and common sense?

The Wench urges her male readers to spend as much time as possible with their children as, more likely than not, their children spend almost the entirety of their day hovered-over by a bevy of Nervous Nellies.

And yes, The Wench understands that her spawn's teachers act only out of good intentions. But is not the Road to Hell paved with those?

On Women Who Want It Both Ways: The Pop Culture View

The Wench recently viewed The Nanny Diaries. The Wench was not pleased.

Let us put aside Laura Linney's abrupt character transformation at the end. Let us put aside the fact that Scarlett Johansson's character is whiny and weak of spine. The Wench's real beef is that the movie panders to the base female urge to have it both ways.

Case in point: throughout the course of the movie, Ms. Johansson learns that wealth does not mean happiness, and that she would rather pursue a less lucrative career in anthropology than make piles of dough in finance.

All very well and good, The Wench says. But if this character's epiphany, if the message behind it, is to have a shred of integrity at all, why have Ms. Johansson wind up with the filthy rich (and cute!) guy at the end?

Why? Because women want it both ways. They cling to the romantic ideal that money doesn't matter, that one should search for and find the one who fills the soul -- not the pocketbook. And yet. And yet. Wouldn't it be nice if your soul-mate was conveniently loaded? So that you'd never have to work again? Or so that you could pursue a low-paying but deeply satisfying career like anthropology without sweating it?

The makers of The Nanny Diaries understand this impulse. They also understand that women feel a little guilty about it. That's why they made Chris Evans's character a poor little rich boy whose mommy died when he was a toddler. Awwwwwwwww. See? She's not into him for his looks or money. She's into him because he's wounded.

This creative cop-out has been around for a long time. The Wench first took note of it as it pertained to these gals:

In the final scene of How To Marry A Millionaire, Lauren Bacall announces that she's through with gold-digging and satisfied to be with her very average new boyfriend. At which point, the boyfriend reveals that he is, in fact . . . don't faint, now . . . a millionaire! An updated version of this gag appears in the Broadway production of Thoroughly Modern Millie, wherein an entire show-stopping number is devoted to Millie's declaration of love for Jimmy, even though he hasn't so much as two sticks to rub together. And then, surprise! Turns out Jimmy's loaded, too.

The Wench thinks Lauren Bacall's boyfriend should have stayed an Average Joe. And Jimmy should have stayed a penniless schmuck. But that would risk losing the female audience.

This is one of the many, many reasons The Wench loves Jane Austen: When it comes to women and money, she does not resort to such cheap cynicism and gimmickry. On the contrary: Our girl Jane lays it on the line.

Consider Elizabeth Bennett's visit to Pemberley. Before, she's just not that into Darcy. In fact, she thinks he's kind of a creep. Then she sees this:

And then she gets the grand tour of the grounds, the palatial mansion, and Darcy's ginormous sculpture gallery. And all of a sudden, she goes from Ice Queen to Hot and Bothered:



Let's be honest, ladies. You can believe in love for its own sake, with all its limited-income frustrations. Or you can go for the guy with the deep pockets. If you're lucky, you might find that Mr. Soul-Mate and Mr. Deep Pockets are one and the same. If not -- well, then. Pick a side.