Don’t get me wrong, I love the holidays, and I love giving and receiving gifts. But after all the hassle my office has just gone through deciding how to give the gifts (yankee swap vs. secret santa), the merry has melted right out of the thing. There are so many rules to consider, so many feelings to potentially hurt. Like when the big boss takes the best gift out of the hands of the lowliest office worker, because that’s how you “play.” Or when the poor Jewish person is forced to trade gifts as a Secret Santa (my office elected to go with Secret Snowflake, instead). Or when someone opens your carefully selected, deprived-you-of-sleep yankee swap gift and says, “What kind of gift is this?”

Frankly, I could do without anything from my co-workers. It’s enough for me to take a few hours out of work, eat some good (enough) food from our contracted caterer, and chat with everyone. But some are very adamant about it; last year someone floated the idea that rather than give each other gifts, we collect gifts for a charity. Nice idea, was the response, but we should still do yankee swap, too (and we did, so I bought two gifts instead of one).

Good grief, Charlie Brown.

South African Sonette Ehlers is taking women’s defense in a new direction – vaginally. The former medical technician has developed Rapex, a version of the female condom that is beefed up with teeth to stop would be rapists, or at least to slow them down enough for intended victims to get away. My first thought: won’t the rapists be angrier, and find some other way to hurt these women? After all, it causes no lasting damage – seems like it’ll be more likely to piss them off. And as Kira Cochran of the Guardian points out, “it places the onus for stopping rape not on the perpetrators, but on women – entirely the wrong way around. It implies that rape is an inevitable part of human culture and that women need to adapt accordingly.” Some have even claimed that using the device is just an act of vengeance toward the rapists.

I’m sorry, say that again? Maybe it’s just an old eye-for-an-eye judgment on my part, but I think rapists deserve much worse than a few pricks that aren’t permanent (excuse the pun). The fact is rape is all too common in South Africa (and many other places, too) – perhaps it will anger the would-be rapists, but it seems better to have some chance of getting away than none at all. Is it just a bandaid slapped on a larger problem? Of course it is, but someone please explain to me how we ought to go about changing the way a rapist’s brain works so we can stop him from hurting women. And then make sure to change all rapists’ brains. I think it’s more empowering for women to have some option of defense.

And I think the teeth should be bigger.

To change, or not to change, that is the question – my last name, that is. I’m getting married, and I am struggling with this decision. I should note before continuing that my fiance is totally on board with whatever I decide (and even has expressed the opinion that maybe I should keep my own). Also, I am not resistant because his name is long and unpronounceable or anything of that nature – Ott doesn’t cause much confusion. I am, however, resistant to hyphenated last names, which feel a little artificial to me.

I’m really partial to my last name. It defines me. My first initial and last name spell a real word, and it’s actually fitting for my personality. People call me by my full name all the time, because there are so many Sarahs out there. Yes, I share my name with an actress, but that’s kind of good – when you google me, you have to sift through all her pages before you get to any mention of me, and I like it that way. When I imagine going by a different name, I feel uncomfortable. Like I’m masquerading as someone else.

On the other hand, it’s cultural tradition. Our children would have his last name, but mine would be different. People will want to call us the Otts, but I won’t really be one. Maybe his family will be offended. Actually, even my mom said I should change it – “it’s easier with the kids,” she said. And part of me wants to be the Otts, just the way I’m part of the Miles family right now.

Most of my family members have changed their names, except for my aunt (by marriage), who never took ours. I certainly don’t feel offended by that, nor is anyone else, but I know part of her decision was that there were no boys in her family to carry the name. Of course, it is ending with her, since her child shares my uncle’s last name.

Help, ladies, I need advice!

And we’ve almost missed it, but fortunately Sam Baber, an Emerson grad and good friend who blogs about culture, film, and lit, among other things, didn’t forget. Check out the American Library Association to find out more about what you can do to celebrate intellectual freedom, and see lists of the most challenged books today – go out and pick one up today.

I love my dad, but sometimes he puts his foot in his mouth. This morning he told me about a conversation he had with my mother, who recently turned 52:

MOM: I got my period again today – I thought I was through with this.

DAD: Well that’s okay – that just means you’re still all woman.

MOM: (with a raised eyebrow) So when it does stop, I won’t be a woman?

DAD: (stammer, stammer) No, no, I meant you’re still a young woman.

MOM: So then I’ll be old after menopause?

DAD: (stammer, stammer, and um, more stammering)

Now Mom’s been with Dad long enough to know he’s not purposely trying to be a jerk, and that, in his insensitive way, his intent was to make her feel better, but it did bring up an interesting question – why are conversations about women’s bodies – and I mean conversations, not commentary – often uncomfortable? I admit to feeling grossed out by what my body does sometimes, even though it’s always natural – is it a result of this discomfort?

The problem is that there isn’t enough open dialog about this, so it’s no wonder the men in our lives don’t know how to support us through these changes, or even the women for that matter. I can’t remember exactly what my dad said when I got my first period, but it was something like “congratulations – it’s supposed to be a good thing, right?” And my mother has trouble getting advice about menopause from my grandmother; Grandma can’t shake growing up in a “don’t ask, don’t tell” atmosphere. We do have women’s health product commercials on TV, but let’s face it – those are often cringe-worthy, too, and don’t do anything to make having a period, or not having one, feel more normal. Usually these products (I’m thinking douches, estrogen pills, etc.) are focused on “fixing” the condition.

I’m lucky enough to have a Mom who will talk about any and all of this with me at great length, and I hope that others do, too. Let’s start the conversations now, with our children, moms, grandmas, partners and our dads, too – my dad may always be unsure of what to say, but at least he can learn what not to say, and why. What is this conversation like for you? How can we make it better?

It saddened me greatly to hear that Grace Paley, a talented writer and social activist who championed women and anti-war movements among other things, died yesterday at her home in Vermont at the age of 84.

Ms. Paley’s short stories, for which she won much acclaim, focused on women’s lives – not glamorous portrayals of the social elite, but the grittiness of everyday life for the single mother, the ex-wife, the “women that Roth and Bellow and Malamud’s men had loved and left behind,” says her obituary in the New York Times.

I first read Ms. Paley in a course called Contemporary Short Fiction, which, in this case, meant postmodern fiction and included a thick anthology with that label on the cover. The tale was “The Pale Pink Roast,” written in 1959, and told the story of a woman and the estranged father of her child, with whom she had still slept with behind her new husband’s back. I was surprised at the stark honesty of the story; she portrayed her characters with all their flaws and contradictions, leaving the reader to sort it all out, with an ear for dialog that is spot on.

Ms. Paley did not rest on her literary laurels, but worked tirelessly to effect change for underrepresented groups, and to lobby for peace in the face of war – exactly the kind of author and person Fringe Magazine aspires to publish and profile. Had she written novels instead of short stories, she’d certainly have been part of the Pool for the 25 Books Project we’re running. I urge our readers to seek out her work, learn about her life, and carry on her vision.

My day job requires that I fill out a lot of forms for college students, including verifications of good student status for insurance companies that have good student discount programs. I rarely read the eligibility specifics past the part that pertains to me, but it was a slow day, so I skimmed through and found this little gem:

The Good Student Discount terminates at age 25 or if female, at the time of marriage, whichever occurs first.

Um, excuse me? Do women automatically become more reckless once they get married, and should no longer get discounts? How come a male can get married and still get this discount until age 25? Can anyone help me here, because I can’t come up with one plausible reason for this rule to be in effect. This is a well known insurance carrier, and should know better. Or their lawyers should. And the form was revised 12-12-2005!

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts…

At the end of a long, lovely day yesterday, I, my boyfriend, and another couple sat in the yard, remarking on how we’d had the perfect Fourth of July – we’d canoed a river all day, complete with a small American flag stuck to the head of one of the canoes, then headed back to the house for grilled steak tips and corn on the cob. Then we lit sparklers (the few we could get lit, that is, as they were old enough to have been in a forgotten corner of the garage). Proud Americans celebrating Independence Day – absolutely.

It’s hard not to think about our government when we think about being American; after all, it was the form of government we choose when we grabbed our independence from the British that made us different – revolutionary. When we celebrate the Fourth of July, we celebrate revolution.

Too bad we’re not really revolutionary anymore.

It makes me a bit sad to think that our most American of holidays is marked by barbecuing a few hamburgers, watching a few fireworks, waving a flag or two. Perhaps we make some big purchases during Fourth of July *blowout* sales. Maybe watch a show on Thomas Jefferson on the History Channel. It’s our culture, and we’re proud of it, but I wish Americanism had less to do with consumerism. And unfortunately it’s the consumerism that we’re so well known for. That, and our deplorable foreign policies.

I hope this is just my cynicism showing through, and that the country is filled with hopeful Americans who can and will make a significant difference in our world. If you’re out there, tell me about what you’re doing, and I’ll light a sparkler in your honor.

Oh, and if you’re looking for a good place to rent a canoe in eastern Massachusetts, check out the Foote Brothers’ Canoes – floating through the wilds in a self-powered craft is a good way to channel your inner-colonial American.

That’s right, the summer solstice is upon us (okay, it was yesterday), and what better way to celebrate the longest day of the year than by partying with Fringe Magazine! It’s our annual fundraiser, and this time we’ve upgraded from my house to the fabulous downstairs at Tommy Doyle’s in Harvard Square. The party is from 7-10pm – we’ll have hot munchies to share and rockin’ beats courtesy of DJ Tanya Ca$h. So if you’re in the Boston area, come out and support independent publishing! (Cost: $7 at the door)

Bring your dancing shoes and your drinking hat!