Flirty Sexy Cute Magazine
the pros and cons of burying my head in sparkly sand
I grew up on (and in) movies that glamorized one job and one job only: working at a popular fashion magazine. And although I myself have never personally aspired to work at or start a magazine, I still, in my tender basicness, romanticize any opportunity to curate looks, or share “tips” and editorial photos to a chic community. Like you should subscribe to my life. Like I deserve to be an example in any way.
My intellectual and spiritual capacity resents the fashion industry’s exclusive “you can’t sit with us” energy and its wastefulness, how it shamelessly contributes to landfills, climate change, the very demise of our planet. And also, I felt a swarm of belly butterflies when I learned my wedding would be featured in Vogue, like all my dreams were coming true. Because… I dunno. My brain developed in a very specific sphere of white American culture. I’ve seen How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days and Devil Wears Prada an ungodly number of times. I am that material girl.
I’m not sure how to be these two people, one who cares more for insides, and the other more easily hypnotized by outsides. But I certainly am both of them, and I felt them arguing with each other more than usual this week.
I came up with my idea for today’s Substack post before the election results were in, wanting today’s essay to be like my very own magazine issue, to indulge in my frivolous fantasy, a way to treat myself in celebration of my birthday (today). And now I feel dumb, having wanted to flaunt my magazine-like life when so many are understandably feeling hopeless.
I also feel foolish for believing the US could elect Kamala over Trump. Because I’ve learned this lesson before. I’ll never forget the first SNL episode post Trump’s win in 2016, with a sketch about an election watch party made of mostly white people confidently expecting Hillary to win. And in the sketch, when Trump’s win is called on their television, cast member Cecily Strong confusedly realizes, “oh my god, I think America is racist.” And Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle exchange a look, feigning shock in response, as Chappelle says, “oh my god!” under his palm, and the audience delivers a heartbreaking laugh.
I still think about that sketch (a reminder that art can make an impact), because it was effective in teaching me one of the many ways my white experience keeps me in Lala land. Embarrassed to admit, I was that baffled white woman in 2016 thinking Cecily Strong’s exact sentiment. I knew America was racist, homophobic, Islamophobic, Antisemitic and much more. But I didn’t really want to believe it. Because I guess I didn’t ever have to believe it; my straight whiteness has always kept me from having to constantly bear witness to it, my Lizzie McGuire brain keeping my eyes fixed on whatever the it-girls are wearing instead.
This time around, I wouldn’t say I was shocked by his win, but I was shocked by the landslide of it all, which is maybe just as bad. And I now understand that my reaction says more about my liberal, white, heteronormative demographic than anything about the actual election. My bubble, blown out of privilege, has an opaque complacency coating, concealing all the deadly truths living out in the open.
I don’t have anything new or profound to add to the election post-mortem conversation. Instead, I’m here to read, connect with my community, tell my friends I’m here for them, use Trump’s win as an opportunity to look inward once again and do better, to use this inevitable outcome as a glaring reminder that activism has to be in every day life, not once in awhile, or when it’s most convenient, or when elections don’t go my way. It has to be every day. Every day needs to be different. That’s become my new motto, to penetrate my thick white skull. Every day needs to be different. I’m sure to some of you that’s a painfully obvious, tired idea. But I know that to most of us it is not obvious at all. We white women clearly need to hear it. So, my message to heteronormative white people who voted for Kamala is this; every day needs to be different. Let the current dread burn new behavior into your identity, to decide from here on out, you don’t go to bed at night unless you’ve done something different from our usual unaffected days, you’ve done one thing to chip away at our ceramic bubbles.
I have to make every day different, for myself, because my whiteness will always choose not to fuel me. Barf.
Recently I teased in an Instagram story that I designed my new favorite sweatshirt. I drew an iconic image of my famous cat Fred (who stole the hearts of literally millions by wearing a wig and playing Sex and the City’s Samantha Jones).
Art by me, that you can now buy here.
100% of my profits will go to the ACLU in preparation for Trump’s return.
The perfect holiday gift? I’d say so. Click here to order yours.
I’m sorry, liberal white people reading my Substack, I know nobody takes in information well when it’s preachy. So I’m going to wrap this pill in cheese by including some of the feel good, aesthetically pleasing mental healthcare I’d planned on sharing originally. We’re all hurting. My therapist used to say, when I was in crisis, “Gentle, gentle, gentle. Reinvent the world gentle.”
Here are a few ways I took really good care of myself recently, in case it’s helpful for you and your justified heartache:
My closet = My insides
When I struggle to let someone or something go mentally, I find it helpful to physically discard items in my home that aren’t serving me anymore. This simple action reminds me and my nervous system that I’m capable of letting go. Recently, in search of serenity through this process, I held up a vintage pink sweater I’d cherished in high school, but hadn’t worn in a while because of some glaring moth holes. Sigh. I suppose I should part with this darling cashmere.
Then I remembered, I hadn’t done something creative with my hands in a minute, even though art-making has always been a core piece of my sense of self. And I know that a lack of expression contributes to my anxiety.
So I took out a box of threads. And although I’d taught myself to embroider letters during the pandemic I wasn’t sure if I could successfully embroider over a moth hole. A quick YouTube search proved me wrong, and after teaching myself to embroider very easy beginner roses, I designed and fixed my new favorite article of clothing.
It was the act of repairing, using my creativity and focus, learning something new, working hard until it’s just right. Every piece of the assignment was good for a wobbly soul, and I wondered, what else can I make? What else can I look at in my own home and say, “I’m proud of that.”
So the following week, I bought clay to make espresso and cappuccino mugs, before painting our household’s “Café name” on them. I love them so much and so does everyone in my family.
Riding the high of my creative week, I stitched my dad’s nickname for me on a pillow so that I can always feel the best of him. This one felt really, really good, I have to say. I found the font on Pinterest by searching tattoo fonts.
sneaking in a pro tip here (because this is still my magazine and I can do whatever I want):
Next time you have an article of clothing hemmed, ask your seamstress to save the excess fabric to fashion a scarf or headband with it.
Living that DIY life can be both therapeutic and economical, which is great, because my taste and my budget have never been friends. Another side note: I’m a terrific bargain hunter, eBay user, and Poshmark fiend. I know how to curate and take good care of beautiful, affordable jewelry so that I’m not spending money stupidly. (Fyi if you use code ALEXANDRAK on that last jewelry link you’ll get 10% off).
This isn’t quite the magazine I imagined sharing today, and I feel a bit of shame sharing anything in my voice at all. But I plan to hold onto some feelings of normalcy for my sanity’s sake, to continue writing essays about what I do know, sharing my stories complete with some images I find aesthetically pleasing, living out some subconscious fantasy to be editor in chief of my own publication. But, moving forward, I pledge to also include at least one new social justice action item idea in every essay. Seems like the least I can do in the world we’re very much living in.
a few easy, easy ideas 🌹
Follow a new account, so your newsfeed can keep you in the know of the harsh realities your neighbors are currently facing, like this one.
Make a manageable donation to an organization that fights for vulnerable communities like the IRC.
Find an in-person or virtual event aimed at meaningful political change, with expert speakers who know their shit, and listen in, like this one!
Choose to buy that thing you need from someplace other than Amazon.
Please let me know what you’re doing this week to manage your fear and disappointment. Share your resources, favorite podcasts, cake recipes, whatever’s making you feel better, or better yet, whatever’s making you feel more motivated to stay engaged. I would genuinely like to know, whether you’re diving headfirst into action, burying your head in soothing sand, or walking a balance of both.
Lastly, here is a photo of my husband because that is probably how I would end every issue if I had my own magazine ♥
We all need radical self-care right now and reading your words is that for me!♥️
cute husband!