There was an “intervention” on behalf of Bono in regards to the destruction of the Khimki forest? Where is the evidence of this intervention?

Unless he comes out and says otherwise, he didn’t bring it up with Medvedev. According to at least Chirikova (a prominent defender of the Khimki forest), he actually didn’t make any promises regarding the issue.

Bono and his stupid glasses can waltz in to this country and then waltz back out again with no risk to himself or his career, express “regret” for failing to raise any actual issues with the president, and then try to make himself look cool by aligning with someone like Yury Shevchuk. I’m wildly impressed.

Shevchuk was badass enough to enter into an argument with Vladimir Putin, while Bono had a nice chat with Dmitry Medvedev. Yes, I understand, it was a gesture of goodwill on part of both Bono and Medvedev, I’m glad they enjoyed themselves, but there was nothing political or “intervention”-like about it,  so SPARE ME.

And I mean, I still like a lot of U2′s stuff. BUT SPARE ME ANYWAY.

If you and I are friends, and you’d like a password – you know where to find me.

As the column and the comments illustrated – a woman who works in your average office has two options: be sexy, or be taken seriously. This is actually an oversimplification, when you think about it: a worker can be sexy, as long as she follows certain norms. Cleavage, particularly if the breasts on display are substantial (smaller-chested women can get away with so much more – as one of my mother’s well-endowed friends once said to me, “but I envy Tatiana in the summer. She can wear a tiny tank-top without guys yelling ‘ho’ from cars.”), is a no-no, but heels, on the other hand, tend to go over OK. Dramatic lipstick is more tolerable than dramatic eye-makeup. And so on.

Though then again, there are exceptions, and it all depends on who is looking. In another, recent piece on Salon, Beth Aviv writes of the young woman who replaced her on her teaching job:

…All I have to say to my girlfriends is, “knee-high boots, four-inch heels,” and they scream: “We hate her.”

The truth is, I can’t really say anything bad about Alex, who’s smart, hard-working, and liked and respected by her students and the teachers in our department. Except maybe she’s too pretty or dresses too sexy to be a high school English teacher….

Aviv’s piece is beautifully written and heart-breaking, and what it’s REALLY about, I think, is the crappy job market that teachers all across the country have to deal with, but its hook is the idea that an older woman was pushed out from a job by a younger, prettier woman. Even when we realize that Alex was most likely hired instead of Beth because Alex’s salary would be lower, that aftertaste remains.

Americans tend to view physical beauty – particularly physical beauty in women – as something extraordinary and even suspect. It can’t simply exist, it must have a purpose – usually, a nefarious purpose. Or just a slutty one.

In this situation, beauty also has a tendency to blind. As one of the commenters to Aviv’s piece pointed out – it’s very likely that pretty Alex is a recent graduate with oodles of student debt (a situation I am more than familiar with). But her skinny jeans have the power to obscure her possible life challenges. Aviv is too good and too self-aware a writer to outright trash Alex, and she explores her own tense, disappointing working situation wonderfully, so I don’t have a beef with her (and let’s face it, most Salon commenters are way more sympathetic to men who get “distracted” by pretty women at the office, as opposed to women who get overlooked in favour of them). I do think it’s important to note that Alex is a real person.

When we use words such as “tasteful” and “appropriate” to discuss workplace attire, what we are really doing is pointing out certain class-markers. It’s “trashy” women from the lower classes, or else powerful heiresses and entertainment figures and the like, who are expected or, at the very least, allowed, to put the goods on display. Madonna has spoken about eating popcorn out of her cleavage during business meetings – and there’s a reason she can get away with it. Madonna will do anything to get attention, but that’s because attention is a career strategy.

For the average American office-worker (and this goes for both men and women, naturally), however, dresscode is sacred. Appropriate office dress is a little like a priest’s robe or a nun’s habit. No average American wants to see Sister So-and-So in a sheer Marilyn Monroe tee and a corduroy miniskirt (which are clothes I sometimes wear to work. Not in America.).

I’m not saying this because I’d like to make the same tired point about how Americans are too religious. I’m saying this because I believe that labour in America, particularly labour of the sort that involves more brain than brawn, is a religion in and of itself.

Some professions are more fanatical than others. I was annoyed, but not surprised, to read on Feministe that PEEP-TOE SHOES are an actual ISSUE facing female lawyers in the courtroom. It’s not surprising, because lawyers are seen as a kind of holy order unto themselves. Lawyers police each other – and are themselves policed. What’s the point of a holy order if ritual is not adhered to? And judges, of course, feel perfectly entitled to have all sorts of bizarre likes and dislikes – and to take them out on lawyers. In this case, female lawyers.

In a nation where millions of people tend to have visceral reactions to the hijab, discussions of whether or not a woman’s “toe cleavage” is too “distracting” in a courtroom setting are hilarious to behold – but if you laugh too loudly, you’ll get dirty looks. After all, this is srs bsns. It’s not vapid at all. It’s a serious concern for the legal profession we’re talking about here. Don’t get all up in the judge’s grill here. This is all about being respectful. It’s about integrity. It’s not sexist at all.

Ultimately, the fact that judges are empowered in this way says a lot about American society in general. We have long ago decided what “respect” and “integrity” look like – and they certainly look nothing like an attractive female body, or merely an attractive female toe.

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So the logical thing is, of course, to accuse him of rape. And then have him convicted. Of rape. By deception.

What if he had lied about his salary? His level of education? What if he had told you that he’s a great lover and he turned out to be one of these guys who lasts half a minute…?

What if this had been a Jewish dude looking to get laid in Jerusalem, and he’d decided that the best way to score was to tell some Arab woman that he’s actually an Arab? Think we would have heard about this one then? (Well, maybe. I don’t know. This isn’t necessarily a rhetorical question.)

Yes, the guy absolutely sounds like a sleazebag. And I am 100% certain that being confronted with his lies was a violating experience. I feel violated every time some dude lies to me about some crap. I can’t imagine how violated I would feel if a dude wound up lying to me about his actual identity.

And yes, I absolutely understand, that due to the complicated socio-political situation in Israel, these cases are way more complicated than what they look like on the outside. For all we know, this was a deliberate attempt by this guy to, above all else, shame and humiliate this woman (the fact that he apparently walked out before she even had the chance to dress herself is probably telling). And the shame and humiliation is something that’s borne out of a number of issues – you can’t be categorical about it. And that cannot be ignored.

Still, she could have sued him for fraud. Or just thrown her drink in his face at a party (I find Bloody Marys work best, in situations like this) and moved on. A criminal case sets a dangerous precedent.

A friend of mine recently developed a big crush on a guy in the course of a work assignment. They wound up sleeping together. The next day, she found that he had lied to her about a bunch of crap – including his name and, guess what, his criminal history. And I don’t mean a criminal history as in he got busted for shoplifting as a screwed-up teen many years ago. It was pretty horrible for her, and she spent the next few days spontaneously bursting into tears. She even took up smoking for those few days (and this is someone who has lectured me on my Parliaments very extensively). But then she moved on. She warned all of her friends about the creep, but she moved on.

And talking to her about it today, we both agreed that a rape case against the guy would have been ridiculous.

Speaking of anecdotes – I spent 6 years of my life with an Arab man who made me very happy. I get pretty tired of the assumption that “zomg Arab men are all rapists and violent terrorist bastards.” It’s a blanket assumption that many people make when confronted with cases like this, and it sucks.

So for those of you who are, for some reason, dying to know what’s in my bag, here’s a rundown:

- Work pass & press card. V. important. We have a saying in Russian: “without paperwork, you’re a little bug. With paperwork, you’re a human being!”

- Wallet. This one was a present from my ex, from London. It’s huge, expensive and fabulously bourgeois – novacheck with a patent leather trim. I keep the usual wallet-y stuff in it, and I also keep more unusual stuff, such as two small, laminated icons of the Virgin & Jesus, a small cross threaded in gold on a tiny cloth pillow (of the sort one normally sews into one’s clothes, or a soldier’s uniform – a present from one of my aunts), and small amounts of currencies from all the countries I used to live in (Ukraine, U.S.A, United Arab Emirates & Jordan. Should probably stick a Soviet coin in there too.).

- Keys from two flats – one in Moscow, one in Kiev. A keychain of silver stars I bought in Alabama, and a keychain of a little red and gold bag that my ex brought me back from Dubai once. I feel a little wistful every time I see the little red and gold bag dangling. And so it goes.

- A bottle of mineral water facial spray. Because it’s Freaking. Hot. In Moscow. Sometimes, when I catch random people looking at me when I spray myself with it, I’ll offer to spray them too. They tend to say yes.

- My metro pass. Speaking of the metro, just look at what I had to put with this morning. Hades. This is Hades.

- Cosmetics, to keep myself pretty. There’s a mirror and eyeshadow compact in there, that my badass teenage BROTHER, of all people, bought for me. I told him I wanted eyeshadow for Christmas (as a way of getting him to not buy me anything – I didn’t want him to spend his money), he went into a make-up store with one of his equally badass friends, described my facial features and colouring to the saleslady, and picked out a compact. And it was perfect.

- Deodorant. Because it is Freaking. Hot. In Moscow. I really need to switch to some of that more natural crap, that won’t make my lymph nodes develop tumours. I really need to.

- My big fat Nokia phone. It belonged to my ex. I stole it in a fit of pique, after I discovered that it had a 5 megapixel camera. My ex had broken my camera a few months prior. I am still avoiding the iPhone. I think this is an issue of sentimentality.

- A.S. Byatt’s The Children’s Book. I avoided reading Byatt for years, on account of her dissing and dismissing J. R. Rowling in the NYT. No, really, I actually did this. Looking back on it, it might have been a tad silly. A tad.

- A pack of Parliaments and blue lighter to match. I don’t really smoke, of course.

- A long, silver scarf. When I lived in Jordan, I wore it as a hijab for a while. Nowadays, I take it with me when I plan to visit a church, like I did this morning. (There was absolutely no one there, it was just after a service but before they closed their doors. A few women were singing psalms in a corner by the iconostasis. One came out eventually and accepted the little paper on which I had written the names of people who needed prayers – prayers for health and wellbeing, prayers for souls who had passed on, and a special prayer to the Virgin, for two individuals who need extra help. One of those individuals being me.)

- Oversized purple  sunglasses. I bought them in London, after losing my other ones in a pub in Devon. As I recall, I got a huge lecture about switching from Vivienne Westwood to Ralph Lauren – from a person who is actually fashionable.

- A green little iPod Shuffle. My actual iPod recently fell in battle. The Shuffle was kindly donated by a famous philanthropist, i.e. my brother.

- A small bottle of perfume – the grassy, summery kind. “It reminds me of my youth,” someone told me recently. “But you are still young,” I said. “Not in that way,” he replied.

- The bag itself is a black patent leather tote, fabulously expensive, bought on fabulous sale as, to quote Disney’s Emperor Kuzco, “my birthday gift to me! I’m SO happy!” I’m not really happy, but stalking around Moscow with a great bag makes me feel imposing – which is good enough, I suppose. Our head news correspondent recently told me that one of these days, I’ll come back from the bathroom and both she and my bag will be halfway to the border with Belarus. I eagerly await further developments.

Seriously  – this entire Polanski thing has once again reminded me that I am in the wrong line of work. The news is an unnecessarily depressing business. I’d like to go back to my earlier childhood dream of being an orientologist in Australia. Or Brazil. Or Argentina. I’m pretty sure that not many species of birds have rape – except for ducks, but who needs ducks? I could have been studying the tinamou. It’s a terrific bird, when you think about it, really. Nearly 50 species. An ancient lineage. They make beautiful calls, very shyly, from behind bushes, rocks and trees. They lay attractively coloured eggs. These are creatures that are worth the development of patient observation techniques.

This is all just a polite way of saying FUCK THIS POLANSKI NONSENSE WITH A GARDEN RAKE, of course. But then again, I don’t know. I hear that rural Argentina’s nice.

Here we have Spain’s captain, Iker Casillas, kissing his reporter girlfriend. You know, when Spain was stunned by Switzerland, a bunch of fans tried to blame HER for the loss, because she was in South Africa, reporting on the World Cup, and apparently her feminine wiles “distracted” Casillas into letting Spain score, right right right. Well, you know how I feel about BS like that. “Never mind what haters say, ignore ‘em till they fade away” – as the immortal genius of T.I. would have us know.

Love is beautiful. I love love. I love love even more when it has football stirred in.

* – OK, I exaggerate. But not by much. Not really.

Sigh.

Now on to cheer for Spain in the final.

(Well, I mean, I won’t be upset if Holland wins either, it will be one of those finals for me – a good time either way – but Iker Casillas is still my secret lover.)

I wasn’t annoyed with Traister’s article itself. I think her observations are all very valid. She opens by talking about an essay by Sloane Crosley, in which Crosley takes a solo trip to Lisbon after randomly pointing to it on a map. It’s supposed to be fun – but it isn’t. Cue major life lesson.

It’s not that I don’t relate – I am privileged enough to do just that. But when Traister talks about how “the possibilities of success, wealth, happiness, true love, close girl-friendship and super-awesome spontaneous trips to Lisbon carry their own oppressive weight, the awareness that none of us can possibly live as cheerily and as gaily as we might fantasize about doing,” all I can think is “Anyone who doesn’t realize that past a certain age I honestly WANT TO SMACK.”

A little over a year ago, I took a trip to Britain. My then-boyfriend’s family generously allowed me to stay with them in London for a few days, and then I went up by myself to Edinburgh (just in time to catch the initial swine flu panic!), then traveled to Liverpool, also by myself, and then went down to visit a friend in Devon. It was a great trip, especially the Devon part – and the going back up to London to see my then-boyfriend part.

But I also felt the loneliness creep up – in Edinburgh, in Liverpool. I read my morning paper and drank my coffee. I bought postcards I used as bookmarks. I shined my boots before going to sleep at night. I was, for those few days, genuinely alone.

Why should anyone be surprised? Why is this even a revelation? Bear in mind, I’m not saying this to diminish Crosley’s writing itself – I just enjoy it for different reasons, I guess. I like the confessional style, not so much for its social underpinnings, but for the stories it tells. The moments it gives shape to. What it memorializes. What it discards.

I don’t need a book written by a young, single, American woman to shock me with some seminal truth about femininity – it shocks me first and foremost with its humanity. And I”m not saying that because I believe that all is dandy in American publishing and we can discard all of this gender stuff altogether (hell, I thrive on the gender stuff, being “fiercely feminine” in the finest tradition of random Tom Robbins phrases that stick to the insides of your brain for years). But neither do I pick up these books because I want my own lifestyle to be validated – or else explained to me. I’m too old for that now, that horse durn left the barn. I pick up these books when they happen to be damn good books.

And maybe I just don’t see anything brave in the  actual, literal admission that life is kinda ordinary. I mean, even my life, fairly extraordinary in the right light and from all sorts of angles, is kinda ordinary, I realize as much. I enjoy reading about ordinary lives, if the stories are told well – but not because I want to secretly pat myself on the back for using the freedom bestowed upon me to, like, make mistakes, and spill coffee on my dresses. And I’m not even saying this as one of those stereotypical “liberated American women” everyone loves to prattle on about. Hell, plenty of people will tell you that I’m anything but. From the sort of men I favour and down to the crap I put up with on a daily basis. *shrug* Whatever, you know? A week in my life can still makes for a good story to tell in bars, but only because I take the trouble to tell it right. It’s  important to care about the telling, I think.

I also realized this: Maybe, even as a young, single, educated woman with hair nicely-dyed-for-a-reasonable-price, I still just don’t believe in “expecting” happiness. Happiness is angelic. It comes and goes of its own accord.