That don’t impress me much

Hi! first, I would like to make an addition to last week’s post on mooncups/organicups/diva cups or whatever your preferred brand is. My friend was convinced by my review to give it a try, and she is one of those way-too-enthusiastic people who leave encouraging notes on the back of toilet doors now, if that helps anyone (although I’m sure she’s probably the only one that reads this). Anyway, she made commented that on my review I seemed too astonished by its size and alarmed her. So she was pleasantly surprised when she received hers in the mail. She made this very excellent point: it’s not nearly as big as a dick. Lol. I mean, it’s not quite as… um… aerodynamically shaped… but yeah, if you can manage that, you’ll have no problem. Very good point worth mentioning.

OK the true point of today is: irritating people. But specifically the ones who irritate you with no real just cause, which irritates you more, because you feel like it’s your fault but also your inner Neanderthal instinct just says ‘no’ to that person.

I know a few people like this. One just got engaged. Very sweet girl. Used to be a close friend of hers at one point. But she slowly grew to irritate me so deeply that I can no longer speak to her. Usually I would greet engagement news even of a long-distance acquaintance with genuine joy and happiness, but hers just irritated me. Why? I don’t know. I feel dreadfully uncharitable. I have no reason!!! She’s just ANNOYING. She’s too sickly sweet. She puts on airs like she farts peaches and cream. Can’t be doing with it.

Another is this very mild very tiny sitch that I have going on, and again, it’s filling me with this irrational desire to be extremely rude. Guy in question is, on the face of it, very inoffensive. Why has he irritated me so much? Possibly because I know where he’s heading and I don’t like it. Or I think I know what he’s thinking and I really don’t like it. Maybe I don’t, maybe I’ve got him all wrong, but then again maybe I haven’t… but I just can’t be as rude to him as he makes me want to be, so I’m going to vent it on the internet instead, where no-one will ever find it.

Because I’m between uni and home, I don’t go to my home church all that much now. There’s a guy, we’ll call him John, I’d guess about twenty, really tall, long black hair, very awkward. Fairly new as our congregation goes, I reckon he’s only been coming about four years (hahaha no really. Ours is full of elderly lifers). Felt like I ought to get to know him a bit because it’s important to make newbies feel welcome. In the end, I didn’t, because I didn’t want to encourage…. anything. So basically I’ve never spoken to him.

Backstory: when you’re the only teenage girl at a small village church, you pick up a fair bit of unwanted attention. ‘Nice guys’, who are anything but. Been burnt a couple of times like this, hence the wariness. I’m not being a deliberate knobhead, I’ve just had enough of midnight messages of ‘will you be my girlfriend’. In the end I ‘married’ my best friend on facebook to stop the stupid relationship requests from coming in. ‘C— has listed you as his girlfriend, will you accept?’ Fuck no. In this instance the person in question was special and had no concept of boundaries. Made my life a bit miserable for a while. And you have to be a lot more careful around special people. It sorted itself out in the end after a few excruciating conversations, not just with him either. Parents, church wardens etc. I just do. Not. Need. That.

ANYWAY. Went to church on Sunday as I’m back home for my Easter hols. ‘John’ was in church. Our only contact was a handshake during the peace (you literally shake hands with – or hug, or kiss, if you’re so inclined – EVERYONE and say ‘peace be with you’, a part of the service I actually really love). Got home to find a facebook friend request. I thought, “Do I want to add him? No I do not.” But then my kindlier half said, “Give him the benefit of the doubt, he maybe just adds every randomer on facebook, not everyone is weird.” So I accepted.

WHY ARE GUYS SO ANNOYING? I bloody KNEW I shouldn’t have. Female intuition. Definitely a thing.

Seconds later, I get a message. I’ll type them in and you can see if you find them irritating. It’s not so much what he says, it’s what’s behind it, and his weird faux-interest and admittedly v. mild humble bragging. I nearly sent him a gif of dear Shania in her leopard-print crop top/cape. ‘That don’t impress-a me much, uh uh uh-huh.’

Here we go:

Him: ‘Hey, we’ve met at church a few times. Saw you play the piano- its really good! I’m a strong Chopin man myself, what kind of music are you into?’

Me, after considering immediately blocking him for no reason other than the ‘strong Chopin man myself’ part: ‘Hey, yeah I’ve seen you a few times, I’m never at church really because I move around a lot, live in —- at the moment. Thank you very much, that’s very kind. Hope you had a good easter.’ (Deliberately ended the convo and avoided the question hoping he’d get the hint. Nope.)

Him: ‘Yeah I know what you mean, are you at uni? It’s the same here, I’m half here half in —-. No worries, you have any particular music favourites  like? Yeah my Easter was good thanks, kinda got roped into preaching next week though which makes this week interesting :0’

Me: (inner swearing at him but unable to bring myself to blank him because I am too polite): ‘Piano, I’ll play anything. I like classical too. Music, I like punk, 1970s rock. Cool, what are you doing at —? good luck next week, what are you speaking on?’

Him, a day later: ‘Ah nice! How long have you been playing the piano? 70s rock is big in our house, I can defs appreciate it 🙂 Cheers, I’ll be speaking on the perfection of faith in the disciples. Will I see you around?’

Me, ready to jinx him: … silence, I think I’ve decided to blank this one. I have all sorts of comebacks I can’t actually say. Like ‘How long have you been playing the piano?’ ‘Almost as long as you’ve been alive’, sort of thing. Or maybe ‘Roped into preaching? Sounds painful.’ Oh, and obvs just sending Shania’s glorious leopard-print outfit, a thought which fills me with joy. It came so, so close. I know there definitely is the perfect gif because my fingers hovered over it for a second… Do you think I could just drop little nuggets in like ‘Do you have a comb up your sleeve, just in case?’ Mind you, he’d probably just think I was very very strange, he’s probably not old enough to catch the joke. If it gets awkward I could finish it with ‘Don’t get me wrong, yeah, I think you’re all right…’

 

Oh literally as I’m writing this I get a notification. ‘John likes your video.’ Oh great.

Do you know what I mean, though? I’ve never spoken to him. I don’t want to speak to him. I don’t care about music particularly and it’s the worst conversation opener ever. But he hasn’t done anything WRONG. He’s been totally polite and nice. Why is he so annoying? My best pal is 9847 x more chill than I am and I can almost hear her now saying ‘Why are you like this? He’s done nothing. Just talk to him. Maybe he’s lovely. He just wants a friend. Why has he annoyed you?’ Dear, I know. I don’t understand either. He just has. Male entitlement I guess. And because… I feel like he’s led in with the intention of asking me a question I do not want to have to listen to. And then I will have to give an answer and it will all be horrible. Just leave me alone pls. Ah this dance of politeness… It will only cause embarrassment in the end. Thing is, I can’t even head him off early with ‘I’m seeing someone else’ because what if he isn’t heading to the inevitable place I think he is? It is a lose-lose.

OK chatting it out with an invisible, possibly imaginary, audience has made up my mind. I’m gonna ignore him henceforth.

I’m pissed off for a few reasons really in that a) he’s taking up my time and b) I’m worrying about hurting his feelings already and c) why do they not get the hint and d) if you can’t speak to me in person don’t ask me weird questions on the internet and e) I really don’t care boy bye. FEMINISM. No time any more. I want to claim my own space.

Huge overreaction probably but I have almost no fucks left to give.

So anyway guys, thanks, you were all really helpful J I’ll keep y’all updated if anything interesting happens, or anything that’s enough to push me over the edge into sending him Shania in her absolutely fucking iconic leggings and matching suitcase.

Yours not-very-impressedly,

Georgie

 

In other news, taking the piss is like breathing in our house

I went out with my parents. We’d gone out for a pub dinner and when we came back I was so stuffed I announced, “I am going to have to undo my flies.” Mum looked at me with such utter disgust. I said, “What? I got genes from both of you.” And we laughed madly.

My dad alternates between calling himself an ooooold man and telling us how he rowed 10,000m in 42 minutes this morning. He is funny, generally. He still makes my mum giggle madly after thirty-five years. Goals.

Anyway he just said something about not being able to get up in the morning (even though he’s retired) and obviously we started rolling our eyes.

Mum goes, “Behind every great man, there is a woman – taking the piss.”

Then me and Dad had a disagreement over who won our game of Name That Tune yesterday and he turned to my mum and said, “She’s got such an irritating character… just like you.”

Now Dad’s winding her up and she goes, “Get OFF I told you, otherwise I will poke you in the eye!” we started sniggering again and Dad huffs, “Oh, yeah, and then you’ll hurt your finger, and that’ll be my fault an’ all.” They are really funny.

 

Me Too

‘Me too’.

But who hasn’t?

Every woman I know has had it.

I complained to my mum after I came back from a day out at a lovely old ruined abbey. I was alone, and sat down at the end of my stay under a tree and got out my book. I was so comfortable, nestled between two large roots, utterly at home in my twin paradises of trees and a good novel, completely engrossed, and otherwise dead to the world. And then two massive pricks came over and yelled at me to smile and it fucking ruined my day because I was in my own little world and they felt like they had to come over and shatter it because they didn’t like the expression on a stranger’s face. Totally shocked and immediately furious, I shouted back, “Would you say that to a man?” I might have said something else, I can’t remember, or maybe it’s wishful thinking from replaying the whole infuriating scene over in my head countless livid times afterwards. He yelled again, “Maybe if you weren’t such a miserable cow you’d have a fella,” and I literally wanted to stab him I’m not gonna lie. What a fucking cocking imbecilic self-important ego-tripping cruel and STUPID wanker.

Anyway, so yeah, I got home from my idyllic day out, day ruined, basically. Complained to my mum. She sighed and said, “Did you call it out?”

“Yes, but it makes me so ANGRY.”

“And it should, and it does, but you have to make the choice; call it out, or ignore it,” she says, “And often we ignore it. Maybe we shouldn’t, but we do. Every woman has to ignore it. It just happens.”

“IT SHOULDN’T HAPPEN.”

“I know. But it does. It happened to me yesterday. I was taking the kids out to a café (she works with differently abled kids and they do day-to-day self care stuff more than lessons) and I went up to get the drinks and this old man slid his way down the counter to me and asked if he could give me a kiss. And I was like, ‘No, I’m all right thanks,’ and he told me I was a mardy cow.”

Wtf. Fuck off, old man.

I could list zillions. Just me and my immediates.

First: Aged 11

Most serious: Aged 15

Scariest: Aged 20

I’ve literally watched my best friend get groped in a bar, absolutely shamelessly, by a laughing man flanked by two friends. I’ve seen a very close friend’s life disrupted by guys who think it’s OK to hound women. I’ve friends who have been raped and abused.

My favourite one – if that’s possible (and it SHOULDN’T BE, bloody hell) was when I was in my very quiet village pub with a group of girlfriends and that one sad, creepy old man who props up every country bar in England decided to comment, “What a lot of nice-looking young girls, very pretty… If any of you get lonely, there’s always room in my bed …” And my smallest, quietest friend said, loudly and straight off the bat, “I’ve got a teddy bear you can borrow.” How we laughed. He shut up, the barmaid grinned at us, and we were henceforth undisturbed. And that little line entered into my brain’s line up of Greatest Hits.

My brother once said to me re: harrassment, “Yeah, I know, drunk women are the worst! One tried to grab my bum in a bar.” Yes, and that is also horrific, but somehow I don’t feel like it’s the same as feeling your actual life is in danger because of your perceived gender. And he said, “If you want it to go away, you have to put your money where your mouth is – actually fight them, then!” Well, I’m not six foot of pure muscle, so I probably won’t, thanks, but I’m not subscribing to that invalidating my experience either, pal. (Must add – this was several years ago and my brother has woken up since he joined the rape investigation team of the police, and he is very good at his job and I’m immensely proud of him).

Also read something very interesting today about the language surrounding these experiences – ‘women’s issues’, ‘women get raped’, ‘the abuse of women’, ‘violence towards women’, ‘girls get pregnant’, and the article pointed out that NONE of these actually address the perpetrator which is almost always (I mean, 100% in the impregnation department, presumably) a man. It’s victim-centric, without calling it victimisation. It’s not ‘How many men rape women’ or ‘men abuse’ or ‘how many boys impregnate people’. They manage, once more, to avoid being the topic of discussion even though they are precisely, but precisely, central to it.

The language we use does perpetuate rape culture and it is so very deeply ingrained.

Anyway, I don’t know about you but I feel like this is all I’ve read about this week and I am Sick. To. The. Back. Teeth. Of. It.

Maybe we’ll start seeing change, I dunno. I hope so, it’s about bloody time. But I’m also aware that what I think is change probably isn’t because my social media is about 87% feminism and 12% memes and 1% gifs I don’t understand, so my social inclusion/media consumption undoubtedly skews my world view, and I forget not everyone reads as much intersectional feminism as I do and that there are actual people in the world who require their wife to accompany them to every single social event which has food and/or alcohol, so they don’t start frothing at the mouth and lunging their cock towards every unsuspecting woman in sight. As a random example.

Anyway, I was supposed to be studying my Msc in Saving the World so toodle oo my chums and remember you are never alone and women are fucking WARRIORS.

Yours battle-readily,

Georgie

In Other News, Laughter

It was AGES since I’d had a good laugh, so when I came home from the pub drunk on Sunday night (two whole pints, yessir) feeling a bit low about the general state of the world, I put Greg Davies on YouTube and literally laughed so much I had an asthma attack, which I hasn’t happened in about five years.

Would recommend.

Greg Davies, not the asthma attack.

Just roll with it

Dear friends,

Today me and my gran went to ‘Café Church’, which opens with very cheap tea and cakes on a Wednesday morning and is mainly frequented by the elderly.

We picked up a good slice of cake each, and went and found a table, which are large and few rather than small and many, to encourage people to make friends. I sat beside an old man I’d never met, who was dozing over his walking stick. As I sat down, one of my friends who helps run the café came over and introduced us to the others around the table, including this old man. He opened his eyes, looked me over, and this was literally all he said to me:

“You want to watch your figure, eating cake like that.”

I had to fight down several responses, including, “F— you,” “I don’t have to do that till I’m your age,” and “Me watch my figure?! You watch your mouth.”

I didn’t say this, obviously, as I was in church and I was brought up properly (unlike him) and am not rude to strangers. And, you know, men can be rude to girls but never, ever, the other way round… So I said, “How very rude,” and ate my cake and ignored him henceforth.

And, not that this should even matter, because you shouldn’t say that to anyone, but I really don’t have anything to worry about.

But SURE old man, just tell a perfectly slim, healthy woman about fifty years younger than you that she needs to make sure she adheres to all those rigorous beauty standards.

SOME PEOPLE. I don’t even know what to say. How can someone be SO BLIND. And SO RUDE. I just do not have time for it.

I was sitting in a very funky bar having some funky cocktails last night and I don’t remember how we got onto this topic but we were talking about weight and body issues. We both talked about our mums. You can savage magazines and adverts and stupid ‘reality’ TV and Hollywood and stupid films full of airheaded women in heels who are beautiful and smooth and skinny and stupid and silent, yes you can, and yes they’re shit. And for more reasons than that. But we both cited our mothers as the root of our biggest insecurities – by dint of their own.

Her mum – a woman who, I have to say, is model-esque and tall and beautiful – has a (pretty low) weight goal where if she’s under, she feels good, and if she’s over, she feels bad. This is contagious. As much as you can try and impress body positivity on your kids, if you show your own insecurities, you can tell your kids they’re beautiful till the cows come home but they’ll have picked up everything you impose upon yourself. With my mum, she’s thinner than me, has a great figure, great legs, but she’s always saying she has fat rolls (she doesn’t) and lamenting her figure because she ‘doesn’t have one’. So how can I believe her when she says I have a good figure, when so many things about having a traditional figure (weight, shape, whatever) are so deeply ingrained in us both and I think she meets them but she says she doesn’t? She’s creating even harsher standards to hold us to. It’s just depressing. No-one will ever be happy, because we just keep inflicting smaller and smaller magnifying glasses on ourselves.

I find it quite easy to be like ‘This is bullshit!’ but it’s much harder to put that into practice.

I said to my friend last night, “But it’s fine! We’re supposed to have a pad of fat on our lower bellies, and stretch marks are normal, and we actually are all cute and gorgeous.” And I fully believe this. I also believe in health – like always be cool with yourself and happy but also be healthy. Even if you learn to love yourself while enacting change if that’s what’s best for you.

So anyway, as we were discussing all the DEPRESSING standards so aptly displayed by that throwaway comment by that old man this morning, including the stupidity of analysing fat rolls (whether real or imagined), my friend came up with a beautiful sum-up, a motto for life, if you will. She sighed, sipped her cocktail (called a ‘Strong Gindependent Woman’) and said,

“Hey. Just roll with it.”

🙂

Yours cheerily,

Georgie

 

In Other News: This Is Very Serious

So this thing happened to my bro which literally made me cry with laughter. Three times.

He has a very serious job. He was escorting a witness to make a statement with regards to a serious crime. He put his car keys in his pocket and then kept his hands in his pockets, to try and look cool. Did I mention he wears very, VERY tight trousers?

And he tripped. Full length. Hands in pockets. Flat on face. In front of witness.

Now, this is bad enough.

What makes this so much better is his trousers were SO tight, he was unable to remove his hands from his pockets while lying prone on his face. Hahahaha.

So he attempted to do a sort of worm dance on the lino, trying to free his hands. It didn’t work!

The witness just didn’t know what to do with herself – she was too embarrassed even to laugh, instead looking down at him wriggling on the floor and asking, “Erm – do you need a hand?”

“No,” my brother grunted, “I’m fine.” Obviously.

Still worming (he said it felt like an age), he managed to bring his knee up to his chest in an attempt to loosen the trousers round his hips enough to pull his hands out – and promptly split his trousers up both side-seams.

Staggering to his feet, he noticed the CCTV camera right above him.

Apparently someone had seen the whole thing, and invited all of his colleagues to come and review the footage.

He then had to conduct an interview with this witness with his trousers gaping wide open, getting a nice breeze round his pale thighs.

He’s gone to buy some bigger trousers.

Feminist Interview

Hey guys! HAPPY NEW YEAR (for tomorrow)!!! Last post of 2015!

Seriously, where has the year gone?

I did my 2015 round-up last week, so back to a fairly normal topic for me, inspired by talking feminism down the pub with my mates.

Here I am, interviewing myself with hopefully relevant questions to people who aren’t sure about the point of feminism. I’m like a sad teenager with a teddy bear and a hairbrush, talking to myself in the mirror. Here goes (it’s a long one).

“Do you describe yourself as feminist?”

Yes. There is a general view that women are equal now, which we aren’t. People believe women have the same rights now, so they pay less attention to ingrained culture and media portrayal of gender roles, stereotypes and body image.

“Is it right to ban the Sun from SUs and campus shops because of page 3?”

Nobody is forced to read the Sun. I think it is a terrible newspaper and Page 3 is degrading, but you need to educate people to make their own choices rather than banning it for them – that way they don’t learn anything and dismiss the feminist cause as a killjoy. But seriously, people who still read that need to ask themselves whether it gives a message they want their sons and daughters receiving – that it’s OK for boys to ogle girls, because that’s what they’re there for. Yeah, healthy…

“Do women shave their body hair due to pressure from men?”

Yes, but men are often influenced by what they see in porn and the media. And I think women are more influenced by competition from other women and their beauty standards, who are influenced by other women in magazines and TV. I’ll never forget one of my close male friends saying once, “I think body hair on girls is just gross.” Why?? Do you not see that that’s really hurtful – and purely from social conditioning?

“So – porn?”

I think it’s probably OK in small doses as a healthy functional adult – but I’m really worried about kids watching it, seriously, the idea really freaks me out. The general aim of porn is to get a guy off as quickly as possible – no actual pleasure, the woman is frequently dominated or even abused, it’s full of smooth hairless bodies, there is no emotional bond, and the sex is not real sex. If this is what kids are using to learn about sex, it’s so messed up. And don’t watch too much of it, please. As an adult, you need to be aware of all times what’s real and what’s not. And porn, definitely, is not.

“Should boys be taught in school not to rape?”

Yes. Women are taught not to get raped – don’t go out alone, don’t walk at night, don’t wear revealing clothes – when they are perfectly entitled to walk around safely, whatever their situation. People don’t really say look out for women and respect them because they are people. Men are taught that their desires come first, and that masculinity is virility. This is so wrong. It does not even give men credit for being able to control themselves – it teaches them not only that they can’t, but that they don’t have to try. Women are blamed for men’s lack of control – but men CAN control themselves and it’s insulting to suggest they can’t. And it should be taught not just in school, but from birth, that boys and girls are equal, equally deserving of respect, and that neither sex has any superiority over the other, despite historical views (which also need to be taught, and then explained why they are wrong).

“Do you have a feminist idol?”

I don’t have just one. I respect and admire all the women (and men) who have worked for women’s rights, from when that was gaining the vote and constitutional rights, to being able to wear trousers or choose who, and whether, you marry, and now trans and racial feminist issues – these aren’t separate and the movement is widening (hooray!!). I think Jesus comes pretty high – he was the original feminist in Westernised culture.

The Mighty Girls page on Facebook is great for learning about feminist role models and game changers.

“Is lad culture a problem at university?”

The drinking culture, ‘beer goggles’, the groping in bars – ‘lads’ think that if a woman is in a club, she is there for their entertainment. If they buy a girl a drink (whether she wants it or not) they think she owes them sex. They take conversation as a green light for snogging/groping. They brag about who they’ve slept with and call them slags or bitches, and I find their double standard infuriating – they gain status while women lose it for exactly the same behaviour. They egg each other on to see who can be the most degrading towards women. They think they are God’s gift to women, but they deliberately target girls with low self-esteem because they believe they’re more likely to get them into bed. They treat women as sex objects, not people. This is fuelled by male competition and alcohol, on top of a lack of basic understanding. They will try to excuse their behaviour as ‘banter’ without realising the damage they do. So yeah, it’s a problem. And not just at university.

“What is the overall reputation of feminism?”

It’s still got a negative connotation (man hating, bra-burning, no fun, ugly, lesbian… all used as insults) but perception is changing, with a new wave of young, intelligent women, and popular culture figures identifying as feminist. A better understanding of the issues being fought for is coming through. People are beginning to realise there is still a problem. However, feminism still causes people to judge you, feel it’s OK to ask you personal questions, or deliberately insult you to get a rise. And many people, bizarrely, even if they agree with your argument, have a problem with the word ‘feminism’. I think this is very odd – and if someone has an issue with the name of the movement being female-centred (after its inception and history) it just proves how much work there is still to be done.

“Are most men sexist?”

It is frequent, but they don’t actually realise it – but so are many women! For instance, a man buying a girl a drink and then sticking to her all night – and the girl expecting a guy to buy her a drink. My dad lets my brother do things he’d never have let me do – biking, camping with friends, going out alone. Sometimes women have this terrible double standard of accepting sexist behaviours which might fall in their favour (opening doors, paying for dates) which really aggravates me – you want equality, or you don’t; you can’t pick and choose. As for the gallantry side, which is seen as ‘positive’ sexism – well, can’t you just do those things for everyone, regardless of gender? Traditional gender roles remain strong – in my house, my mum and I do all the cooking and cleaning. The roles are even present in my flat. There are sexual double standards regarding ‘numbers’. Adverts appeal to men using women in revealing clothes, or in subordinate physical positions, and men respond to these. Men, and women, are so conditioned to these roles that it takes someone to call it out before anyone normally even sees it.

So I’m here to call it out!

Thank you for reading this far, maties.

Yours feminininististly, Georgie

In Other News, No Make Up

I’m a bit iffy on the area of make up to be honest. I’d rather everyone agreed it was just fine for us all to wear it, than for someone to take away my eyebrow pencil because as a feminist I should stoically stand up for my eyebrowlessness, because I should not be judged for my exterior…

So anyway, new boyf about to see me without make up for the first time.

“Are you ready to see me without eyebrows?”

“I don’t know – it can’t be that much of a shock, can it?”

“Well, I don’t quite turn into Sloth Fratelli when I take my make up off, don’t worry.”

“I have no idea who that is,” he says, smiling.

He wasn’t smiling for long when I told him to Google it.

Starting With My Rucksack

My Rucksack

My rucksack is designed for dudes,

It won’t do up across my boobs.

I want my wellies green, not pink

Unlike the shop girl seems to think.

My heels come in less than tens,

While waders sizing is only men’s.

Science stuff is aimed at guys,

It’s visible to all our eyes.

Yes, I like to wear a skirt,

I also like to dig in dirt.

I’ll decorate my notes with hearts,

But I can practise martial arts.

Don’t tell me I run like a girl,

That saying makes me want to hurl.

I can cook and clean but I want a life,

Not to ‘make someone a good housewife’.

Don’t assume, but ask, instead,

Better to get inside my head.

I’m me, you’re you; equality rocks.

Don’t try to put me in a box.

If you do, I’ll break it down,

I’m unique, feminist, and I’m proud.

A little feminism for you lovely folk again today – it’s been a while, hasn’t it?! My posts have been getting shorter lately. Today is my 40^th post – amazingly – I love doing my tiny little blog in a tiny corner of the nethersphere. Since I gave you a little poetry dig right there, I’m keeping it short (ish).

I was having a conversation with my housemate today – he’s lovely. Really nice chap. We were talking for literally so long – covering every topic from uni, psychology, grandparents, camping, religion, American politics, around to feminism, brought about by talking about our haircuts.

I spent a whole hour wandering round the city today, looking for somewhere to get my hair cut (just a cut! Dry cut!!) for under £30. You know what pisses me off? Those ‘Gents from £7, Ladies from £15’ signs. Why?? Why why why. We eventually came to the conclusion that it’s because dudes just won’t pay it, as a general rule, whereas women will. But, what I didn’t say to him was that women feel like they have to (for many reasons…). This is not for the highlights and dye jobs and extensions. Literally for the same cut. With the same scissors. And I know guys with really long hair down their backs. I have a pixie cut – my hair is actually nearly exactly the same as my housemate’s, amusingly. Why are you charging me double then? For having tits, or what?

And we got on to other stuff – y’know, sciencey stuff, education, how come feminism is called feminism, and particularly men’s impacts: he referenced seeing a cartoon about female superheroes with realistic bodies, and accurately pointed out about male superhero bodies being just as unlikely, and annoying, and pressurising to guys. And everything he said, I agreed with. Everything I said, he agreed with. But he doesn’t identify as a ‘feminist’ because that is a woman-centred term.

I just said this (except I didn’t explain it this well in person!), which is as I understand it: feminism began as a woman’s movement, because women were an underclass; but the term has changed meaning to cover all gender inequality and true feminism will fight all the stupid stuff floating about that encourages inequality in any group – any gender, no gender, any race or ‘minority’. That feminism began for women, and now women can have the power to make a difference – and they are using that power, not just for themselves, but for everyone. Everyone is welcome to feminism. That its name is female-oriented doesn’t matter any more, or at least, it shouldn’t. We need to get past this block about this huge, broad umbrella that is ‘feminism’, because when people really understand (and when it’s done properly), I don’t think there’s a massive amount to argue about.

Anyway, he sure sounded like a feminist to me.

Goodnight from Post No. 40!! Yours gratefully-for-still-reading-this, Georgie

In Other News: Texts from my Bro

Love my bro. He’s great. We were just texting just normally, and then this came through… This is how the conversation went…

Love you baba! Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That

Was

Not

(me) Hahahahahahahaha

For You

(me) Laughing so much

Fuck sake

The Mystery Of The Ladies Room: Explained

Good evening, all. Good week?

I’m jumping straight in. Here, I hope the ladies will sympathise. Men, I have news for you. Regarding those elongated bathroom trips you hate us for. Well.

Gentlemen. When we ladies are out with you, and the urge to empty our bladders comes upon us – either of us – and we dutifully make our way towards the area signposted for such requirements, we would really, really like you to know that this is not our fault. I mean, the hanging around, waiting, reading four newspapers, and running a marathon that you have the time to complete while we’re in the queue for the WC. Honestly. We really don’t mean it. We feel your anguish, as you languish outside the Ladies door, which is propped open by a queue of thousands, and as you sigh in frustration at our time-consuming antics, wastefully applying four layers of make-up, gossiping with strangers, possibly visiting an in-cubicle hairdresser’s, perhaps having lunch at a small restaurant at the end of the bathroom, or booking a holiday, test-driving a car, or bringing up a child while you wait impatiently outside the door for our return, having completed the entire process yourself in under four seconds.

Well, I am here to tell you differently.

No ladies-only, luxurious, spotless, scented, fragrant palaces of mystery are these. Oh, no. The journey begins with nudging open that door with a foot or an elbow, avoiding the bacterial plague lurking on every panel – unless, of course, it’s already propped open by the  Olympic-sized crowd waiting to get in. There is a vicious cycle in ladies’ rooms because we take a little longer than the men and there are just a few more of us needing to go at any one time, but as the cumulative effect multiplies it’s as though Glastonbury has landed in the public loos.

Slowly, slowly, we edge nearer the prized front space of a queue, with a curious unspoken conformity that the person at the front stands a little away from the rest of the rabble, as though to distinguish her honoured position. She dutifully checks that every lock is red, every door has feet or a handbag protruding from beneath. There are moments of excitement when someone exits a cubicle, only to announce, “No loo roll,” and if you don’t fancy a drip-dry, you must wait. Likewise the woman who exits hers to announce apologetically, “It doesn’t flush,” and this one will be avoided for another eight people, until someone brave who hasn’t heard the Chinese whisper will investigate and then lurch back with an expression of disgust and calmly rejoin the queue.

Eventually we will lurch our way to that coveted spot, and eventually someone will barge out from a cubicle with a long trail of loo roll attached to their shoe, and we breathe in and squeeze sideways into a cubicle clearly designed for toddlers but which has been forced to accommodate us, a toilet, and a sanitary bin in about four square inches. We close the door, and discover it doesn’t lock. Well, things are too desperate now, this will have to do. Holding it shut with one hand, we turn to look at the seat and find it splashed all over – how? ALL OVER – with a mysterious substance we don’t feel much like sitting in. So we budge our jeans down, one-handed, and perform what is known in the inner circle as ‘The Hover’, where you squat over the toilet, making no contact with any surface, and proceed to pee standing up. When we were little, our mums would have taken us in, mopped the seat with a tissue and laid down a little safety barrier of loo roll all round the seat for us to place our delicate little bottoms on. But time pressures, and increased height with age, have rendered this a rarely-used trick.

We turn to the side and stick our hand inside that loo roll dispenser. Nothing. Other side. Nothing. That woman in here before us must have the very last bit still stuck to her bloody shoe! We’re in it up to our elbow, weirdly squatting, one hand still pressing that door shut, red-faced with unaccustomed thigh-aching effort now, handbag probably round our neck because the peg on the back of the door is broken and we daren’t put it in what unholy filth is probably swamping the floor. We quickly perform a hand-swap to rummage in the bag for a tissue, and we have probably run out, or maybe there is a lipstick-stained crumpled half-tissue in the bottom, maybe with a little bit of old snot on it, who knows. We do the business and as we do – crack!

“AARGH!”

“Sorry!”

We slam the door shut again on the over-eager person on the other side, and, having lurched slightly forward with the shock, may have peed a little bit on the seat, but, as we look at our crumpled half-tissue, our butt takes precedence over the next toilet user and we just have to hope that they also have the Hover routine in their repertoire. Sorry folks, needs must.

So as we nudge up our jeans, first with one hand, and then leaning with our backs against the door to keep it closed with our bums and legs far forward to haul up the trousers, we are back in harness and ready to go. The flush may or may not work, the lock is faulty, these are facts which must be passed on to the next in line, and then at the sinks the cracked mirror reflects the stress of our sweaty faces in the overheated bathroom. The first tap we try doesn’t work, the soap has run out, and the second tap splashes us with the force of a Boris water-cannon at kettle temperature. We proceed to the hand-dryer, but, after deciding that an asthmatic hamster could sneeze our hands dry quicker than that fossil of a machine, we abandon all hope of it drying out the inappropriate tap splash on our crotch area and wipe our hands on our jeans.

Gasping, we elbow open the door and gain sane ground once more and there’s you, just looking at us like “You were ages.” Yes. Yes we were. It wasn’t deliberate, believe us. It’s a flipping adventure obstacle course in there mate.

It would be so much easier if we all had a fly-hole, but as it is, yes, we will be taking a while. Sorry.

Yours unapologetically,

Georgie.

In Other News: Work Is Cold

It’s my last day of work tomorrow whooooo! (It’s really not a fun job. Really really.) I start at 6am, and I was at my locker at 5.50 am, shoving my hair in an ugly hairnet and irritably buttoning my overcoat when an old lady stumped by. She was very rotund, flat-footed, and so grumpy she had a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. I have never seen, nor spoken, to this lady before, but as she approached me, she started my day off on a good foot.

“Why is it,” she demanded, “That one day in here they’re trying to freeze your tits off, and the next they’re boiling you alive?!”

I really don’t know, you wonderful old lady, you.