I’m not a huge fan of headlines like the one above. And let me state unequivocally and for the record that even if the following story turns out to be merely a canny grab for a book and movie deal, then I’m still repulsed. Scratch that, I’m even more repulsed.
The facts are these, a writer for The New York Post has decided to start a blog (300sandwiches.com) that chronicles her attempt to make 300 sandwiches for her boyfriend in order to convince him to propose to her. Nope. I’m not kidding. That is the premise for a blog in the year 2013. Caity Weaver’s phenomenal write-up in Gawker makes it a point to stress how beautiful the blogger in question, Stephanie Smith, is. I’m not sure that really matters, do you? But for the record, yeah, the women is an accomplished attractive writer. On that we can all agree.
What bothers me more than this woman and her boyfriend’s f*cked up relationship dynamic is
his hideous hair color the fact that I don’t believe her. I don’t believe him. I don’t believe this whole thing is anything less than Stephanie Smith’s transparent attempt to follow in the steps of Julie Powell. Ugh, and what a hideous aspiration. In case you’re unfamiliar, Julie Powell followed up her best-selling book-turned-film “Julie & Julia” with a repulsive volume called “Cleaving” all about how she cheated on her lovely and supportive husband. Oddly, Amy Adams and Chris Messina didn’t sign up to act that one out.
So what do we do with someone like this? This Stephanie Smith. Do we ignore her? I mean, that’s what I’m praying every publishing house and film studio does. But I don’t hold out much hope. This subjugation is basically “50 Shades Of Grey Poupon,” it’ll make a mint. I don’t care what works for you and your would-be partner. Make him all the sandwiches. Build her all the picket fences. It’s none of my business and I’m not the boss of you and your personal life. I do care when I suspect it’s all a put on lovingly crafted to provoke my feminist ire. It calls to mind that infuriating, link-baiting cover story in Newsweek that implied that the “50 Shades” phenomenon represented the secret desires of the working woman. That somehow our ascendence in the professional sphere is too much for our quivering female brains to handle and that we LONG to be subjugated in some way. Even if that subjugation involves lunch meat.
Please do yourself a favor this fine Thursday morning and read the write-up on Stephanie Smith over at Gawker. I’m particularly fond of the part where Caity Weaver wishes this were one long murder con:
Those lines aren’t a prelude to the triumphant part of the story where Stephanie prepares Eric a special sandwich consisting of a box jellyfish on a bed of oleander leaves with hemlock garnish—a sandwich which, Stephanie will later testify, she had no idea would poison Eric so swiftly he would expire where he sat (though her browser history will suggest otherwise). They’re just part of the narrative of Sandwich’s charming life. I mean Stephanie’s.
Once again and for the record, there’s nothing wrong with making your loved one a sandwich. I, personally, would be disgusted by a partner who held an engagement ring ransom until he had the requisite number of Reubens, but that’s just me. However, intentionally inflammatory blog concepts meant to tap into our outrage? Well I’ve got two words them. Sh*t sandwich.
Joanna Robinson loves the movie Secretary. It’s about something else entirely.