Woman Mogg vs. Regular Mogg

mogg

There was a period several years ago, between 2003 and 2006, when I transformed into an entity that Jones likes to call 'Woman Mogg'. Though we're still tweaking our theory, being a 'Woman' is a sort of hyper-regularity. It appears that you're doing it right, but there's still something that's a little bit off.

I was living in a small town in Alberta with a man I thought I was sure to marry. My fake blond hair was long and pseudo-feminine. I owned a hair straightener. My nails were usually painted red. Jones’s boyfriend at the time asked her once why I always smelled like ‘cheap perfume’. (It was true; the only kind I’ve ever worn is the $12 body shop variety.) I bought a bunch of costume jewelry because I had no idea what I liked and didn’t want to find out in case I couldn’t afford it. I went to the gym, and lost 25 lbs in 2 years. I hung out at West Edmonton mall, and bought flowery dresses from French Connection.

Of course, becoming Woman Mogg wasn’t completely about physical appearance. I also cooked a roast every Sunday. I was living up to scholastic and occupational responsibilities. I went on vacations with the in-laws. In short, I was a 23 year old playing house. What I want to focus on now, though, is my housewife costume.

Exhibit A: Woman Mogg, on a visit to Toronto, circa 2005:



I look like my mother. In fact, when women decide that its time to be an adult, many of us dress up as our moms. The fashion may have changed, but we follow their example and often choose a variation on their mature look as we age. We turn our noses up at women who wear, as an example, mid-drift t-shirts that are marketed toward pre-teens. I took out my piercings by the time I was 22, because I was a “grown up” now, and when I see a 40 year old still rocking them, a big part of me thinks it’s a creepy Michael Jackson-esque attempt to cling to better times. Why does ‘time to grow up’ often mean ‘time to primp and preen and look like (trendier versions of) our parents’?

One aspect of regular appearance unrelated to my mother - and invisible in the photo - is the little porn star stripe that I had shaved into my pubic hair. By the time this photo was taken I was already sick of doing it, but my boyfriend tended to accuse me of going off him if I didn’t put in the effort. Jones went through a period of declaring “WE’RE WOMEN NOW. WE DON’T HAVE TO LOOK LIKE 8 YEAR OLDS” and, as she often does, she managed to completely convince me. A year ago, when she was trying on her Woman Jones outfit, Jones temporarily changed her tune: “Mogg, if you expect to get a man, you’re going to have to start waxing.” She was tipsy, of course, and retracted once sober, but this demonstrates the wildly different opinions on how a regular man ought to maintain her parts.

I don’t know if there are stats on pubic hair maintenance – Jones? – and I cant really be fucked to look. We’ll put it on the junk shelf for now and write a wildly graphic entry about it later.

Once I moved back home, Woman Mogg began to disappear.

This is me upon my arrival:



The blond hair and blouse are gone, replaced by pharmacy-box-red and a bizarre sweater-vest. Jones and I moved in together shortly thereafter, and it looked for awhile like I was on track to becoming regular. As many of you know, though, things declined slightly (seriously) from there. By the time I left for Mexico, I was, by all appearances, a drunken, homeless crazy woman sobbing on the ground outside Pearson airport. I had a photo of that, kind of, but it would make this blog NSFW, so use those brilliant imaginations.

Today, I’m on the look-out for a happy medium, and playing with notions of how much time a regular man spends on looking regular. Stay tuned for the results.