Snow White Doesn't Live Here Anymore

Laughter, pleasure, malice, and the pursuit of adult fun

A Martini + Plate of Cheese Snacks = Happy Women

A martini and a plate of cheese snacks makes women happy.

The world lies to us.

Men don’t believe the lies. They know it’s a load of advertising, a bunch of hype, a song-and-dance number for the easily charmed.

But women believe. We’re like those weirdly inarticulate, Dacron-wearing UFO sighters who live in unpopulated desert towns: we know it’s out there, whatever it is.

We’re eager to believe it’s all possible.

We want to believe it is possible to erase the appearance of fine lines around our delicate eye area with the application of a product made from placenta extract. (We don’t want to know whose placenta, however, or be given details concerning how it was extracted: “HEY! I wasn’t DONE with that yet!”)

We want to believe that if we wear a pair of palazzo pants with a latex escape hatch built into the stomach area, we’ll appear five pounds slimmer instantly. 

We want to believe that highlighting our hair will make us look as if we’ve been in the sun instead of in a salon with enough chewing-gum sized pieces of Reynold’s Wrap sticking out of our heads to pick up Radio Nepal. on a clear day.  

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We are eager to believe that, soft contact lenses, foam inserts, gel nails, and underwire bras will transform us into soigee creatures so startlingly different from our usual lumpy selves that chance encounters with former college rivals will have them gasping “Is that really YOU?!”

We insist on believing that a flat tummy, toned arms, thin thighs, and a firm neck will make us feel better about ourselves, when all it actually takes to feel better is a martini and plate of cheese snacks.

After all, once we hit forty, women have only about four taste buds left: one for vodka, one for wine, one for cheese, and one for chocolate. Beyond a certain point, flat, toned, thin, and firm are all things best left to those for whom they are negotiable assets. Those of us with sufficient assets have earned the right to sit on them and be comfortable.

And yet we torture ourselves, even though we are smart broads.

We know better than to believe in our heart of hearts that applying “minerals” to our faces will actually reduce the apparent size of our pores. We know that the use of finely-ground rocks to act as sealant is best referred to as “grouting” and should be done by a licensed contractor and not by a teenager at Sephora whose pores are microscopic. Yet we buy the whole face-grouting kit so that we can get a “free” cosmetic bag.  The cosmetic bag will remain unused and, eventually, we will give it to a niece or goodwill.

Deep down, most of us realize that to “behave youthfully” will not make us seem like Demi Moore or Susan Sarandon, and will most certainly not net us Ashton Kutcher or Tim Robbins, but will instead prompt others to consider us as either Mrs. Robinson from The Graduate (if they are our good friends) or as Bette Davis from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane (if they are everyone else). More about this later.

We torture ourselves by wondering if we are too old for headbands.

We spend time pondering the judicious use of bangs. 

When an attractive man (or, for that matter, a woman—who has time to be picky) has flashed a dazzling smile in our direction without provocation, we spend the afternoon wondering if they noticed the insouciant way our bag and shoes create a stylistic dialectic, or noticed the whimsical yet edgy use of our accessories.

We like watchbands, bracelets, and interesting buttons. We are women who believe that what we need is a makeover and stylist, when we fear that what we really need is a sandblaster, caps, and our stomachs stapled.

And yet, I repeat, we are smart broads. Really.

Gina Barreca, Ph.D., is Professor of English at UConn, and author of It's Not That I'm Bitter: How I Learned to Stop Worrying About Visible Panty Lines and Conquered the World.

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