In time for the release of what seems like the worst female-centric movie ever made, comes a ray of hope from the past: the entire animated series of Daria.

Daria was sarcasm personified. She’s the person everyone wishes they were: the girl with the witty comebacks, summoned instantly for any situation. She didn’t care about petty things, she didn’t care about pretty things–most of the time she just didn’t care. But she was funny, savagely so. And smart. And unafraid. And for six glorious years, she influenced an entire generation of girls.

I spent the formative years of my life watching her, buying anything remotely tied to her, dressing like her for Halloween and costume parties. She was me; in a sea of Brittneys and Fashion Clubs she spoke to us girls who wanted more. We were the girls who talked to adults like equals. We were the girls who didn’t understand why it was SO important to attract the attention of the boy-of-the-month. We’re the girls who actually liked reading books, especially books that made grown-ups uncomfortable. We’re the girls who refused to adhere to standards, normal or double, because that’s not who were were. We’re the girls with band-aids on our knees, pulling our dresses over our heads because they’re hot and silly and we want to play in the mud.

Generation Daria is older now. We’re among the first wave of women to outnumber men in college. We’re climbing our way into the ranks of male-dominated fields, along with our older sisters, winning attention and accolades and praise.

At the same time, we have to do more. There is a whole generation of girls now growing up with Bella, not Daria; waiting for their Vampire to come instead of realizing that finding Mr. Toothy Charming is not important; who are told their only wish is to aspire to the ranks of that cult of Jimmy Choo, the girls from Sex and the City. They have no Daria; they have no My So-Called Life, or Powerpuff Girls, or Alex Mack, or Scully, or Alias, or any inkling that women are allowed to be just as complex as men. The “heroines” of our little sisters fail the Bechdel test every time, and unless we can show them life does not revolve around hollow romance and lip-gloss, we’ll have failed them too.

They need a Daria, and if they can’t get a new one, hopefully watching the old one will suffice.

Today I became incensed at stereotypes, as I often am. This happened while watching an episode of “News Radio” which made a joke about how all women love scented candles. As steroetypes go it was pretty weak, but enough for me to scoff and point out mentally that I’m a woman and I own no such thing.

Until I walked into my apartment and was sucker-punched with realization: I DO own a scented candle!

It is on the table in front of the door. It smells like cotton when it burns. And, most importantly, I DON’T REMEMBER BUYING IT.

I sat dazed, cotton wafting. If I lived with roommates I would assume it was theirs, or at the very least that they were pulling a fairly subtle practical joke. I tried to think where I could have gotten it–as a present? A drunken purchase? I have no idea what store even sells cotton candles–SEARS? Did I get drunk and go to SEARS?

Uneasy, I began to worry. Did someone break in solely to place a conventionally female item on my table? Ridiculous, I snorted, entering my bathroom. That’s like someone putting–

My scream had the neighbors pounding on my door. “Hey!” they yelled through the wall, “What is it?”

“BATH SALTS!” I screamed.

The pounding stopped. “Uh…what?”

I stumbled, unable to look away. There they were, on the counter, next to bottles of bubble-gum “flavored” lotion and enough mascara to supply a Sorority. I ripped open my shower–jars of body butter. I tore through my medicine cabinet–purple glitter nail polish. I ran to my bookcase–two copies of “Eat, Pray, Love.”

“Why would I need two?” I cried, sinking to my knees. “WHY WOULD I NEED TWO!?”

Get a grip, I thought, slapping my face. Dear god, I was wearing the glitter polish–NO! I couldn’t think of that right now! I felt like a Philip K. Dick protagonist, except instead of learning I used to be a Martian secret agent, I was discovering that I had taken the “Are you Compatible With Your Man?” quiz in Cosmo.

“What’s happening?” I whispered as I lay in the fetal position. I hated frilly things. I never bought them, and avoided places that had them. Yet here I was, proving every TV show, movie, and shitty comedian right.

Had I really bought these things, unknowingly? Had the very shows and ads and movies and books and magazines and billboards and assumptions I decried influenced me? Were these things beat into my subconscious to the point where even I, staunchly anti-feminine Josie, think of apricot face scrub the same way I think of band-aids or toothpaste?

“No.” I sat up. I knew what it was. Without a shadow of a doubt, I could name the force that did this to me. I looked around, eye twitching.

“GREMLINS.”

So that’s why I have mousetraps all over my place. It’s just a waiting game now. Sooner or later they’ll emerge–to add high heels to my shoe hang, or perhaps to replace my backpack with a clutch that says “I love to shop!” in rhinestones.

But when they do, I’ll be ready.  Oh yes…I’ll be ready.

I’ve never equated travel with sexiness. Fatigue, delays, cancellations, motion sickness, and exhaustion yes, but I’ve never thought any part of traveling is particularly lusty. Even when you’re at a vacation spot my thoughts tend towards sleep, resting, relaxing on the beach, reading a book. Unless you’re a US Marine on a Thai tour, sex never enters the picture. But driving down La Brea this afternoon here it was (or, here THEY were) bold as brass: a brassier telling me to watch the Travel Channel. Not a woman, just two Kong-sized knockers stuffed in a Fay Wray-sized bikini-top. This was total objectification in it’s grossest form–cars swerved as they gazed upon breasts utterly detached from any context or (god forbid) humanity. The Travel Channel is selling itself with sex at it’s most blatant, any threat of seeing a person in the billboard woman washed away by monolith mammaries, boobs able to take over a building in a single supergraphic! It’s a good thing Travel C. saves its ad from being really crassly stupid by giving it a witty tagline:

“Have you been EXPOSED?”

Get it? Get it? Clever, get it? Because there’s boobs!!!! On an unrelated note, it’s policy of the Travel Channel to have their copy written by  14-year-old boys.

So, bravo Travel Channel. May you continue to advertise at a level of mediocrity designed to drive off half your audience in the name of titilation for something routinely boring.

Stop snickering over the use of the word titilate, Travel Channel, and go do your homework for fourth period. Stop laughing about that word too.