Introducing...

Oona Mary Elizabeth Pirate!

Born on the day I saw the very first daffodils of spring (while walking to McDonald's for lunch while I was in labor!), and Pirate saw the first cherry blossoms (while walking home from work to take me to the birthing center).

And yes, that is a Star Wars T-shirt I'm wearing. I used the Force. It helped.


She weighed 8 lbs, 7.5 oz. Don't ask me how long she was, they don't do that measurement here so I have no idea.

We didn't go to a hospital, we we went to a midwife-led birthing centre. It was marvelous and peaceful. I was the only mother there, and I was waited on hand and foot by two fantastic midwives who had been working as a team for 30 years, knew each other inside and out, and had great humor and bantor, and by a materinity assistant, who did all the non-medical stuff like make me tea and draw me a bath after. I couldn't have received better care if I'd been the queen.

I stayed overnight with Oona in bed with me. They offered to let Pirate stay as well, since he was falling asleep on the tile floor of the delivery room. Poor wee Pirate; he was all pooped out after 11 hours of labor! *snort*

I'll post the whole story with the gorey details later, if any of you maternal vultures are interested. Right now I have to put the bed together for my maternal pirate-in-law, who is coming to stay for a few days to lend a hand so Pirate can go back to swashbuckling.

Weekend musings

All through this weekend I kept having the thought, "ooh, this is SO going on the blog!"
and now I can't remember what half of it was. I'm sure i thought it was important at the time. What is important now is that my faulty memory has become my editor, so you're getting the benefit of reading the condensed version, with all the extra, unnecessary bits conveniently forgotten.

Friday
Cycled to the Pirate's after work. The first 16 miles is more or less level, but of the last 9, 6 are uphill. Ouch.
Cool Thing That Happened On The Cycle Ride, Part I:
I was leaving Bristol via the Bristol-Bath Cycle Path. I was still within the city, and up ahead of me I saw a motorcycle. There were 2 teenagers on it, and a third climbing on. Fucking punks. Motorized vehicles are NOT allowed on the path. If I wanted to play chicken in traffic I'd use the fucking roads -- they're a lot more direct. I passed by them, trying not to make eye contact. Then I heard the engine rev behind me, and they came tearing past me. They disappeared quickly into the darkness, since they were moving fast and had no lights on. I stopped and got out my mobile phone.
"999 emergency. What service do you require?"
"Police"
I waited while they connected me.
"Avon and Bristol Constabulary. How can help?"
"I'd like to report 3 youths riding a motorcyle on the Bristol-Bath cycle path near Whitehall road."
"3 youths on a moped?"
"Not a moped, a full-on motorcycle. Traveling east-bound at approximately 25 miles an hour, with no lights on."
"Can you describe the youths?"
"No, but would you like the number plate?"
"You got the registration number???"
"X-ray eight eight niner, bravo alpha mike."
"Ah. That motorcycle was reported stolen this evening."
After a few more details, describing the teenagers, giving a more precise location, and my personal details, I hung up feeling a tad smug. Also a tad nervous, as they had headed up the path in the direction I was traveling and I was worried about encountering them again.

And I did.
About 10 minutes later I head the whine of a motorcycle engine coming toward me. I knew they were riding without lights, so I immediately pulled off onto the grass. A second later I saw them. They whizzed past me and made a sharp right turn, off the cycle path and onto a road. I didn't know the name of the road, but there was a middle-aged couple walking nearby.
"Excuse me. Do you know the name of this street?"
They did, and the nearest cross street. I got out my phone again.
After the momentary rigamarole I said to the operator "I just phoned a few minutes ago about a motorcyle on the Bristol-Bath cycle path."
"Yes," said the helpful operator. "I remember you." Thank heavens. By a stroke of luck I'd got the same woman.
"I just wanted to let you know that I've seen them again. They came back on the cycle-path west-bound, then got off it and are heading west-bound on Colston Road from [whatever] Street."
"Oh! Super! Thank you for that information."
"You're very welcome."
As I hung up the phone I heard a siren go on not more than 2 blocks away from me and heading in the direction I had described. Yes!!! Go get 'em, Smokey! I let out a cheer. I hope they nailed those little shits to the wall.

(I'm kinda bummed they never called me in to ID a line-up, though. That would have been cool.)

Now feeling extremely, insufferably smug, I continued on my way. It was completely dark before I even left the house, and eventually I came out of the city bit, where there are street lights illuminating the path, and into the more desolate suburbs. Further and further into the countryside I traveled, and the darkness became more and more complete.

It was cold; very cold. Only 1 degree C by the thermometer, and wind chills making it feel below freezing. All I could see was the cone of light from my (amazing, utterly bust-ass) headlamp shining on the path and the trees on either side of me. I looked up and saw a full moon shining above me in a barren, cloudless sky. That gave me an idea. I turned off my headlamp.

It wasn't dark at all. I could see quite well by the moonlight. Everything was beautiful shades of blue and grey, the moon casting stark shadows of the bare tree branches across my path. ("Whose woods these are, I think I know...") Without my headlamp, the rabbits and foxes paid me no more heed than were I a passing deer running deftly through the woods, and they did not flee from my approach. I passed over the river several times, and saw it create a perfect, silent, unmoving black line through the white fields, which were already becoming bright and shimmery with frost. ("Between the woods and frozen lake...") It was beautiful and haunting. I felt as though I was the only person alive on the planet, and not in the least bit afraid. I was exhilerated by the sheer emptiness, the vacant, life-less feeling of my surroundings.

Finally I began to put some effort in to warm my body up. I had layers upon layers, but I knew I would get chilled if I didn't keep working. I still had more than an hour of riding before reaching the warm arms of the Pirate. I put my headlamp back on and put the hammer down. (And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.")

I went on a pub crawl last night with the Atheist, Agnoistic, and Secular Society. The theme was "myths and legends." I went as Eve. That's Elrond's ho on the left about to do something lurid.

How d'y' like them fig leaves!

I did have an apple earlier in the evening, but I ate before this pic was taken. Sorry.

Why black Americans should support the gay rights movement

This is so good I'm reproducing it in its entirety. Thanks to Joe for putting it up at his place. Spread the word, mis amigos.



"Gay and lesbian rights are not "special rights" in any way. It isn't "special" to be free from discrimination – it is an ordinary, universal entitlement of citizenship. The right not to be discriminated against is a common-place claim we can expect to enjoy under our laws and our founding document, the Constitution. That many had to struggle to gain these rights makes them precious - it does not make them special, and it does not reserve them only for me or restrict them from others.

When others gain these rights, my rights are not reduced in any way. Luckily, "civil rights" are a win/win game; the more civil rights are won by others, the stronger the army defending my rights becomes. My rights are not diluted when my neighbor enjoys protection from the law – he or she becomes my ally in defending the rights we all share.

For some, comparisons between the African-American civil rights movement and the movement for gay and lesbian rights seem to diminish the long black historical struggle with all its suffering, sacrifices and endless toil. However, people of color ought to be flattered that our movement has provided so much inspiration for others, that is has been so widely imitated, and that our tactics, methods, heroines and heroes, even our songs, have been appropriated by or serve as models for others.

No parallel between movements for rights is exact. African-Americans are the only Americans were enslaved for more than two centuries, and people of color carry the badge of who we are on our faces. But we are far from the only people suffering discrimination – sadly, so do many others. They deserve the laws' protections and civil rights too.

Sexual disposition parallels race – I was born black and had no choice. I couldn't and wouldn't change if I could. Like race, our sexuality isn't a preference – it is immutable, unchangeable, and the Constitution protects us all against prejudices and discrimination based on immutable differences.

Many gays and lesbians, along with Jews, worked side by side with me in the '60s civil rights movement. Am I to now tell them "thanks" for risking life and limb helping me win my rights – but they are excluded because of a condition of their birth? That they cannot share now in the victories they helped to win? That having accepted and embraced them as partners is a common struggle, I can now turn my back on them and deny them the rights they helped me win, that I enjoy because of them?

Not a chance."


Julian Bond, Chairman of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People

Spring Flowers

I know I promised you photos of my new gown and fish (how often do you get to say that???), but I havn't got round to taking them yet. I will also be writing shortly on the appalling lack of proper etiquite in English bowling alleys, but I've been too busy. In the meantime you may amuse yourselves with these images I snapped around campus in the lovely spring sunshine.

Pink hyacinth in front of the cathedral:

A hillside covered in wild primrose:

A magnolia tree and daffodils behind the Russian Studies department:

Magnolia stellata somewhere on campus:

Flowering quince somewhere on campus:

The Scone Also Rises

Pirate is coming home late tonight, and I will see him tomorrow morning. He's been gone for two weeks, and so will have no food in the house when I rock up to his place. Ergo, there needs be baking.

Thanks to Hendrix Cat I have a fabulous new recipe for treacle (molasses) scones. I've been living in England for a total of 2 1/2 years, and have spent the entire time complaining that I couldn't buy molasses anywhere. Then I get this recipe, go to the store, ask the clerk where the treacle is (having no idea what it is), get it home, open it, and voila! It's molasses! Who knew. Damn transAntlantic language breakdowns. Anyway, here's a picture of them:



"And I beheld when he had opened the sixt seale, and loe, there was a great earthquake, and the Sunne became blacke as sackecloth of haire, and the Moone became as blood."
-- Revelation, 6:12



Tonight there was a total lunar eclipse. We were priveledged to see it, not only because it's such a rare occurance, but because this is the first clear night we've had in months. Stargazing is not a popular past time in England for obvious meteorological reasons.

It was beautiful. I've never seen one before. I had no idea the moon would be so red. Now I understand that verse from Revelation. One can only imgane what the ancients must have felt when they saw the moon darkening, disappearing in the sky before their eyes, and emitting that erie, garnet glow. No wonder they thought the world was about to end.

Spring sprang!

The crocuses are running riot, the daffodils are smiling up at the sun, and the delicate, fluffy cherry blossoms observe the scene.

Pictures tomorrow.

Why Nasty Stereotypes Can Be Good

or
Raising the Bar on Already Unattainable Standards of Beauty


An article over at GSE's prompted a discussion between my flatmate and I on the questionable ethics of elective cosmetic surgery (as opposed to reconstructive cosmetic surgery, which, I think everyone agrees, is kosher). The article is about an extremely unfortunate woman who has spent years of her life and nearly 200 thousand pounds in an attempt to make herself look like Barbie (c), the plastic doll from Mattel. This sad woman (that's sad in the sense of pathetic, not unhappy) has based her entire existance around the singlular premise that no one will love her unless she is beautiful; and not just any kind of beautiful, mind you, a specific kind of beautiful defined by a narrow and physically impossible formula, the basis for which is the aforementioned doll.

The woman, the self-described Real Life Barbie, views herself as an ambassador between beautiful and "ordinary" people. (Clearly ordinary people can't be beautiful.) Her goal is to eliminate the stigma surrounding people who elect to undergo cosmetic surgery and get them the "respect they deserve."

I have several problems with this. I don't think I need to pursuade pursuade people too much to point out that spending money on surgery is no more worthy of respect than spending it on any other luxury status symbol -- admiration, perhaps, but not respect. People, all people, are deserving of basic human respect, regardless of whether or not they are superficially beautiful (and when I say "beautiful" here, I use the word according to RLB's definition). Her comment seems to suggest that us "ordinary" people (her word), are less worthy of respect, a notion which is obviously bollox.

Even though her statement suggests that, I don't think that's what she means. I think she's trying to undo the stigma attached to people who have boob jobs and lipsuction and botox etc. Sure there's a stigma. I know when I am aware of a woman who's had botox or breast augmentation my first reaction is to roll my eyes. I make certain assumptions about her character, judgement, values, and personality. I assume such a woman is of weak character, that is, easily swayed by external influences such as media images, lacks the judgement to determine the most judicious use of her money, values appearance over substance, and is insecure and/or vain. Am I wrong?

Some would argue "yes," that it is precisely that stigma, those stereotypes and assumptions, which are detrimental to surgically "enhanced" people and society as a whole. RLB wants to eliminate these stereotypes so that more people feel free to have cosmetic surgery. And therein lies the danger.

I'm about to argue that some sterotypes, stigmas, perceptions, and social pressures can actually have a positive, normatizing effect on society.

First, lets imagine a world where RLB gets her wish: cosmetic surgery is the norm, every woman over the age of 16 has a D-cup, a 25-inch waist, no cellulite, and a pert little nose. No woman over 40 has any wrinkles, grey hairs, or the capability to express emotion through facial expressions thanks to botox and face-lifts. The horror of living in such a cookie-cutter world scares the crap out of me. Why would we all want to look the same? More importantly, why would we all want to look the way someone else decided was attractive??? On a fundamental level, that's what we're talking about: trying to squeeze ourselves into a mold of someone else's notion of how we should look.

"Yeah," you say, "but we already do that. It's just a matter of degrees. Women wear makeup, dye their hair, spend hours styling it, follow fashion trends like hounds behind a bleeding rabbit, wriggle themselves into body-shaping undergarments, shave their legs, arms, and often pubic hair, endanger their health on extreme diets, develop eating disorders, and all in the name of trying to look like a supermodel. Why is surgery any different?"

You're right, it is a matter of degrees. You're right about another thing: in many ways, surgery isn't much more extreme than many of the things we already do. That doesn't mean surgery is a good idea; it means that we should seriously consider curbing many of the things we already do!

By putting cosmetic surgery in the same category with makeup and shaving, you're adding it to the norm. You're including it in the things that every woman is pretty much expected to do in order to attract male attention. You're saying, "You're waxed, made-up, tressed and dressed. Great. Now do something about those tiny tits."

I've gone on before about how I thing shaving all your body hair to be sexually attractive is creepy, but that's not all. It's a fairly extreme measure. Think about it. It takes time, effort, money, and if you're a waxer, pain. Regular pain, every 4-6 weeks. That's more than just running a comb through your hair. That's pretty hard core when you think about it. And it considered normal. It's standard, expected. The men who are willing to tolerate pubic hair on a woman are few and far between (and, I suspect, mostly over the age of 40. For women of my generation, finding a mate who's happy to work through the fuzz to eat you out is nearly impossible.) Men willing to tolerate leg or underarm hair are beyond endangered, they're nearly extinct.

So what happens if we remove the social stigma from cosmetic surgery? We raise the already unattainable beauty bar that much higher. We add it to the list of standards. We de-value the rarity of the one-in-a-million Barbie build, and make it a requirement. In the same way that sending every Tom, Dick, and Harry to a cheap state university devalued Bachelor's degrees, thereby requiring everyone to get one just to stay in the game, if RLB gets her wish, we'll all have to be 36-25-40 just be considered not ugly.

I already resent the fact that I have to shave my legs and put on make-up to be considered not ugly. When I was lonely and dateless you wouldn't believe (or maybe you would) the number of people who told me I needed to "make more of an effort." I shudder to think that my daughter might have to grow up in world where making "a bit of an effort" starts with body-altering surgery.

What ever happened to variety, the spice of life? Glory be to God for dappled things, variation, and the differences that make us unique, wonderful, AND beautiful. Cosmetic surgery should not be admired, should not be a marker of respect, and should certainly not become the standard. But there is more you can do to help the cause than just rolling your eyes when you see a fake pair bounce past you on the street. Everything comes down to money (sadly), and the image of the Barbie body and the need for that kind of beauty is financially driven. So stop driving it. Don't support the image. Don't by glossy, celebrity mags where every page is a bunch of photos of semi-famous people surrounded by captions that do nothing more than offer approval or disapproval of the famous person's appearance. Don't put money in to the pockets of the media moguls who are doing everything they can to make you feel inferior just because you don't look like Paris Hilton. *shudder* Boycotts work, and if we all unite and say "fuck you" to the fashion, cosmetic, surgical, and Hollywood industries, wouldn't then the world be a nicer place?

Unnerswears

Why can't I buy sexy lingerie that's tasteful and isn't made for a 6-year-old? Why is this so difficult? Everything is all either neon pink plastic hollywood trashy crap that i wouldn't let my daughter wear even if she was a hooker, and the rest had fucking Disney characters on it! (well, not Disney characters engaged in the act of fornication, but you know what i mean.)

Why is it all either this:

























or this: (someone needs to explain to me how a grown woman dressing up in pastel-flowered cartoon character underwear is sexy. that Whinnie the Pooh bra just takes paedophilia to a whole new level as far as i'm concerned. making grown women look like pre-pubescent children is just creepy. like shaving your crotch.)










Why is there nothing in between!?!?!?!? mumph.

I have no dignity left

Of Confidence

and of Irony.

This post is inspired by The Great She Elephant, who is unbefuckinglievably beautiful. Seriously. I would.

I went for 9 solid years without a single date. For ages and ages I didn't know why. I didn't think I was especially ugly. I'm no Catherine Zeta Jones by any means, but I've seen far uglier women get asked out. I just didn't understand. I despaired. By the time i was 25 i absolutely believed i would alone forever. No one in my life had ever fallen in love with me, and no one ever would.

Sure, there were people I had been close to in that time, people I had cared about tremendously, people I had been attracted to, and even managed to fall in love with a couple of them. But none of them ever came close to returning my feelings. I declared myself the Queen of Unrequited Affection, and reveled in my misery. I consumed it like dark chocolate mousse, and it returned the favor.

I came to Bristol with bright, new hopes of salvation. I thought, "This is it. This time, something will happen." Of course, I thought that about Manchester, too, and thought I didn't find the love of my life, I did make one wonderful, intimate, enduring friendship, so it wasn't a total loss.*

Maybe my expectations were too high, but by Christmas I was totally depressed again. Every single one of my flatmates was in a relationship. One of them had even managed 2 boyfriends in that space of time. I thought "How does she do it? How does she meet people? and WHY THE FUCK CAN'T I????" I had no answers, and I was miserable.

Que the New Year, and my birthday. Aforementioned flatmate and I went out, ate food, drank alcohol, and danced. I met the Hot Scot. I snogged for the first time in my life. It was my 27th birthday. And I got a taste (rather literally) of what I'd been missing.

That was when I decided to take, erm, matters into my own hands. I couldn't bear to sit idly and wait any longer. No, i didn't buy a rampant rabbit. (yet, anyway). I joined an internet dating service. My brother met his wife on eHarmony, so i figured I'd give it a go. I also joined Dating Direct, 'cuz it looked good, and I didn't necessarily want to meet men who were hard-core wife shopping. (Sorry this is going on so long. There really is a point to all this. I'll get to it eventually.)

And that was when I met the Hairy Man on Dating Direct. It wasn't love at first sight, it wasn't uncontrollable animal magnatism, but it was a good time. I really liked him (still do and miss him like hell), and eventually I, he, well, yeeeeeah.

And a strange thing happened (I'm getting to the point now. Yay!): people started to treat me differently. Men, specifically. When I walked into a shop, someone would open the door. Walking down the street, men would smile at me. I got asked out to dinner by no less than 3 chuggers, on separate occasions. I declined them all, as I was happy with His Hairiness, but it did exaperate me. I thought Why the hell didn't these sorts of things happen when I was single? They say men are like busses: you can wait for ever for one to come along, and eventually they all show up at the same time.

I reckon there's a lot of truth in that. Flatmate B has a theory, and the more I think about, the more I'm convinced it's right. The thing people find most attractive, regardless of appearance, is confidence. It's why women have swooned over James Bond for over half a century: he's the epitome of confidence. It's why we often fall for assholes and bastards (there's a fine line between confidence and arrogance). I didn't think I changed all that much after I started dating the Hairy One, but maybe I did.

I think the confidence I gained from that relationship changed the way every single person I encountered saw me. For the first time in my life, I felt attractive. And that made me attractive to other people for the first time. Somehow I'd been subconsciously conveying my insecurity and lack of self-worth in my mannerisms and everyday actions, and that is the biggest turn-off of them all.

So, GSE, I feel your pain. I completely understand what you're going through. I've been there, rather recently. You are a smart, clever, loving, beautiful woman who any man would be lucky be with. And the minute you start believing that, really believing it, the men will too. I promise. Go get 'em, tiger.

And the reason this is ironic? I broke the Hairy Man's heart when i met the Pirate, but if it hadn't been for my relationship with the Hairy Man, I would not have had that inner confidence, and the Pirate probably never would have found me at all attractive. It's a mad mad mad mad world.


*and a Master's degree, but who really cares about such trifles?

Hair of the Elephant

This one goes out to The Great She Elephant: genius, badass, and woman extraordinaire. This post is also for all the men out there who think that short hair makes a woman look masculine. News flash, folks: it just ain't true. There are scads of women out there with short hair; sexy women, feminine women, women you want to bring home to meet mom, women you wish were your mom, and yes, even women Every Man Wants To Fuck. I give you exhibit A: Mariska Hargitay
She's hot. She's uber-feminine. And she's NOT ALONE.

Brace yourselves, boys, this is going to be one giant photo shoot of gorgeous, short-haired women. Women who are not sexy despite the serious drawback of their dikey locks, but rather, women for whom short, choppy dos have always been a trademark.






No one would EVER accuse Julie Andrews of being a dyke, and here she is, in all her short-haired, girly glory; an icon of innocence and girly girl-next-doorness. And in her 50 year career in theatre her hair never went below her ears. (And they tell all actresses nowadays to grow their hair because no one will cast them with short hair. Fuckers.)










Sexy short-haired women come in all forms:

older women

She's smart, sixty, and very sexy. (I would.)










Black women


I don't think there's a man on earth who would deny the sex appeal of Halle Berry. (And I've seen photos of her with long hair and she looks crap.)







Crazy, badass, hardcore, rock women

I love Melissa Etheridge. Yeah, it was great when she headbanged on stage while she was playing and her long blonde hair went flying everywhere, but seriously, how cute is that cut!?!? She looks so much MORE fem now. I love it. And I love you, Melissa.







Then you've got your hordes of cute, blond chickiedoos.


Melanie Griffith

(and she landed Antonio Banderas, yo! I find it reassuring that the Sexiest Man on Earth is baning a chick with short hair. I also find it tragic that that chick isn't me.)





AMERICA'S SWEETHEART: Meg Ryan








And the ever-cute (lets face, when she's 50 she'll still look like a 10-year-old), perpetually popular, Drew "Dimples" Barrymore.










Think that's it? Oh, I'M JUST GETTING STARTED!




How about the woman whose legs are insured by Lloyds of Llondon for 20 million dollars? Yep, it's Hollywood's Scream Queen, Jamie Lee Curtis, who's as hot as they come.





Still not convinced? Try the woman who was cast to be the face of She Whom No Man Could Turn Down, Tinseltown's most famous femme-fatale, Sharon Stone. She's sexy even when you can't see up her skirt!



Prefer brunettes? They say gentleman prefer blondes. I guess that means that assholes and jerks prefer brunettes. (That would explain me, anyway.)

I got your brunettes right here:



Let your eyes feast on Catherine Bell, of JAG fame, and Neve Campbell, who needs no introduction.









That should be more than enough to convince you that short hair can be just as sexy, beautiful, and feminine as long, flowing trusses. It can be sleek and elegant, choppy and funky, or just plain simple and practical. (Yeah, I'm still drooling over that pic of Neve.)

But just in case you require more evidence, Im laying my trump card:

Winona Ryder.





'Nuff said.

romantic tongue

disclaimer: please forgive the attrocious spelling and punctuation: french keyboards are even nuttier than the italian variety

pisa; in case you were wondering; is a one-horse town: if you ever go there; for the love of god dont go on a sunday: these people keep the sabbath; and after youve gone to the tower and gotten another tourist to take a photo of you in a stupid pose intended to give the impression that you are knocking the thing over; there is nothing and i mean nothing left to do: so you spend 6 glorious hours sitting in the sun on the lawn with the rest of the tourists scatching your butt and wondering what to do next because EVERYTHING is closed:

then you hop a train to arles in the south of france; and you marvel at the morning glories growing by the train tracks that are so blue you think you have the mediteranean on both sides of you: then you arrive in arles; spend a few minutes being slightly annoyed that its much more touristy than youd hoped; but then you get over it and stop caring because you are in one of the most beautiful places god ever created on earth; magically preserved by our good buddy vincent:

then you eat a fabulous french dinner; drink too much wine; and attempt to blog the experience on a keyboard where the a; q; w; m; and all forms of punctuation are in the wrong place:

ps; how do you pick an italian man out of a crowd? easy: good shoes; bad shirt; tight pants:

peronal to HBM: glad the dry spells over:

Celulite Liberation

I'm an old-fashioned girl. I don't wear skanky, crop-top shirts, I don't wear mini-skirts with less material than your average bandaid, I don't wear low-rise jeans that are two sized too small, thus causing one's lager-induced love handles to ooze out the top. I do sigh when I see these unfortunate young women on the street and think to myself, "Did you look in a mirror before you left the house? What on earth made you think that was a good idea?" Maybe it's my deeply burried, New England American puritanism leaking out, or maybe I just have good taste and a sense of decorum, but we all have imperfections, and part of looking your best is recognizing those imperfections and keeping them appropriately tucked away and out of sight. To this end, I make sure I cover up all the white, pastey, dimply, jiggly bits (and I've got a few) before I go out the front door.

Until now.

I would like to announce, with great gusto and enthusiasm, the purchase of my first ever bikini.
So why on god's green earth, with all my white, pastey, dimply, jiggly bits and my Puritan propiety, did I buy a BIKINI*?!? I'll tell you.

On September 10th I will be handing in to the University of Manchester a brilliant, ground-breaking dissertation (no, I'm not counting my komodo dragons before they're hatched, I'm thinking positively) which is the culmination of a year of ass-kicking (that's my ass being kicked) MA-level work. It has been one of the most academically challenging years of my life (I say 'one of' because portions of my BA degree were even scarier) and I'm celebrating with a 3-week trip to Europe, my first time on the continent. I'll be spending a week in a lakeside Italian resort town, then a week on the Spanish riviera, then stopping in Paris for a couple days on my way to Amsterdam to finally get laid (this whole trip is a series of firsts, so I figure why not go for the whole ball o' wax).

Ergo, I am liberating myself. I am completing the most ballsy endeavor I have ever undertaken. I am travelling alone to exotic destinations. I am sloughing off the shell of fear and cracking the carapace of insecurity. I am no longer allowing archaic, cultural mores to dictate my self-image. I am successful, I am fearless, I am a woman. I am wearing a bikini.