Last weekend, The New York Times ran a story in the Fashion & Style section about Diablo Cody and her group of fellow best friend screenwriters, dubbed "The Fempire". The tagline for the story is "An Entourage of Their Own", and it's all about how best friendy, encouraging and supportive they are in a man's world. It kind of reeked of "I bet their menstruation cycles are synced!!!"ness. I subscribe to too many borderline feminist blogs that were immediately abuzz about if the story was exploiting their gender, if their appearance played into their success, and if blahblahblahzzzzzzzzzz.

I was eager to discard the whole thing because, well, it's boring. Especially because I've never seen Juno and never really want to. Until it struck me that the amazingness lies not in their stylish lifestyles, stripper back-stories, or surprising success. I could care less that they're making it in Hollywood; I'm more impressed and excited to learn it is in fact possible to keep the fun girls club going well into your 30's. Rejoice!

The name "Fempire" is stupid. Unless you imagine, as I do, that its invention was immediately followed with a cartwheel contest in the front yard to determine and crown the new Femperor. All of the babble about being the female entourage or answer to the Judd Apatow cadre is nonsense. I also don't care that they're all writers (if you can consider penning 'What Happens in Vegas' writing). I care that they give each other presents like necklaces that say "Fuck My Face" (mine's better). Of course girls support each other! Every girl that made it through freshmen year of college without a product-of-panic serious boyfriend should be lucky enough to know that. The real gem here is seeing that you might not always have to trade immaturity for success. Maybe the road to accomplishment and fulfillment is supposed to be paved with nights where we can't go out because we ate too many flaming hot cheetos.

fempire