Fringe Bingo

After last year's storming success, Pirate and I decided to go back to the Fringe this year. It's not a cheap 3 days, but is seriously good fun. There is loads to see, but inevitably there are dead spots during the evening when you are between shows, have already eaten dinner, and need to kill an hour when the museums and galleries are closed. This is where the real Fringe entertainment happens.

The Edinburgh Fringe is, no doubt, one of the best places for people-watching on the planet outside of NYC. There is some serious variety, and some proper weirdos.

But Pirate and I, being competitive by nature, found a way to make people-watching a contest. Enter Fringe Bingo, stage left. Plonk yourselves outside a pub or cafe' on the Royal Mile, pull out your FB cards, and go to town. I have provided a sample card below. (Obviously if you are going to play you need to print out 2 copies, but cut one up and rearrange the squares to make the second copy.)


From the Fringe veterans I would love to hear your suggestions for adding to the card for next year.

In the news...

Cycling, whistling grandmother from 'Bellville Rondezvous' ** given high military honours for leading French resistance during WWII (see photo, left).








**'The Triplets of Bellville,' American title

It's time to stop taking Islam seriously

I used to be a flaming liberal, always ready to defend the rights, freedoms, and thoughts of anyone. I felt that all cultures were equally valid and no one had the right to criticize anyone else's culture. Our Muslim friends and neighbors have finally convinced me I was wrong. (Oh, the irony.)

I thought the whole Danish cartoon scandal was rediculous, but those sympathetic to the over-reacting Muslims did have one good point: the cartoonists were deliberately poking fun. Now most people can take a joke, and even those of us who can't will usually just sulk for a while. We certainly don't go around calling for the public decapitation of the person who made the unwelcome crack. And yet a bunch of "extremist" Muslims did just that.

But this time, this time there is no excuse, no defense, no justification for the insanity. The cartoonists may have sparked riots, but the fact is they did intend to be insulting (that is the point of a satirical political cartoon.) Mrs. Gibbons plainly had no such intent. Hers was a well-intentioned, if slightly (and only slightly) misinformed act. (I say 'slightly minsinformed' because apparently the ban on using the name isn't universal -- for several months kids took the teddy home before a parent complained. Clearly the parents of all the other kids were as blisfully ignorant of their religion as Mrs. Gibbons.) And now there are riots calling for her execution.

I refuse to resepct any culture/religion/ideology/whatever that suggests death (or even 15 days in prison) is an appropriate punishment for an accidental insult. Mrs. Gibbons harmed no one. She hurt no one. No property was damaged, no lives or reputations unraveled or destroyed. This is out of all proportion, and we are under no obligation to respect it.

I'm sure that the government and some other prominent individuals will be reminding us shortly that this isn't the majority of muslims, it's just a crazy "extremist" minorty. But is it really? Where are the protesters telling the protesters to shut up, chill out, and go home? Where are the MUSLIM voices crying out that this is nuts? They are conspicuous by their absence.

Ben Macintyre of the The Times would like us to believe that the Sudanese government is using Mrs. Gibbons as a pawn in their political games. That's probably true. But if it were only a few corrupt and nasty government officials who were making a scapegoat of Mrs. Gibbons, the incident would be much smaller in scale. The problem is that thousands of people agree with the goverment. The Sudanese people are not crying "Our corrupt goverment is using an innocent woman to maniuplate our support! They are shit and we will oust them!" No, they are crying "Death to the infidel! They are as happy to make Mrs. Gibbons a scapegoat as the government is, and that makes them just as crazy and just as extremist.

And this isn't just a few nutters in Kartoum. There is slilent complicity all over the world. Middle Eastern nations should be condemning this for the insanity it is, repremanding the Sudanese government for making Muslims the world over look bad. Where is the outrage from other Islamic nations?


Now, before you go and delcare a fatwah on me (oh hell, go ahead and delcare it anyway; nothing I say to you will make any difference if you're of the fatwah-issuing mindset), I'm not saying that every Muslim is a crazy extremist. Just the majority of them. Why? Because Islam itelf it inherently irrational. Built into the very fabric of the relgion is intolerance, over-reation, extremism, impatience, suspicioun and contempt. No rational, thinking being would view the reaction to Mrs. Gibbons faux pas as appropriate. End of. The people calling for her death or imprisonment are not rational and they don't think. Furthermore it appears that this is the majority of Muslims.

If you do not behave in a reasonable manner, I am under no cultural obligation to accept you as a reasonable person. And if you follow a philosophy that condemns reason, thought, and rationale, I will dismiss you as unreasonable, thoughtless, and irrational. Political correctness be damned.

Frivolous II: The Guilt Strikes Back

Seeking advise from those I trust most, here are the words of my dear pater:

You may want to read Ann Rand's book on selfishness for a bit of philosophy on human nature and why it may not be so bad as it first appears by my and your Christian moral heritage. Also, there is an issue of pleasing the father and looking accomplished in his eyes, but that's probably well buried deep in the Pirates's sense of worth or accomplishment. I bought a Rambler sedan rather than the Jag I really wanted when I came home from Vietnam, looking back I would have been no worse off and would have had many happy hours cruising in the Jag vs the more rational Rambler. You have a limited time on earth so perhaps, when you're young is the best time to reach for the brass ring and damn the consequences. Enjoy the ride, don't worry too much about the trade-offs.... both his and your economic potential over the next 50 years is very substantial, you are poor as a church mouse now, but that is a temporary affliction.

Love,
Dad

Perhaps a touch of hedonism isn't a bad thing. Again, as with all things, it's a matter of scale. Dad is also of the ilk that my feelings are the result of my temporary poverty, and such feelings will disperse when I'm back on a more sound economic footing. This may be partially true, but I'm pretty sure that even if/when I have that kind of money, I would still consider that level of luxury unecessary and decadant.

I've been giving this whole issue a LOT of thought lately, in an attempt to understand exactly what is upsetting me, why, and what steps, if any, I should take. Here are some ideas that have occured to me:

It may simply be human nature to view all those with less than us as unfortunate and underpriveledged, while those with more than us are spoiled, greedy, mean, priveledged, etc. I think every one of us feels that our personal balance between frugality and indulgence is an appropriate balance, and anyone differing significantly from out own spending habits is in the wrong, one way or t'other.

It may also be partly due to the fact that growing up in a very working-class and pro-labor household I was taught to resent on some level those people who were more affluent than myself. Furthermore, such people were often described in terms of their material wealth, such as "people who live in houses like that X___." or "people who drive cars like that Y___" etc. I think the unfortunate coincidence that Pirate has purchased an item which in my youth was made out to be an indicator of greed and selfishness is, when I really think about it, at the bottom of what's troubling me.

So I'm left to reconcile the apparent paradox that either my parents were wrong and wealthy people with unnecessary and expensive cars aren't necessarily the greedy bastards who are the source of all the world's ailments,
or
I have critically misjudged the Pirate and actually he's not the amazing guy I thought he was, but actually he's one of the rich, greedy baddies. (I am exaggering slightly for the sake of clarity, but I think you can forgive me for that.)

On the surface this doesn't appear very difficult. The first statement assumes a lot of absolutes (all problems are caused by rich people, all people who drive nice cars are rich, it's easier for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle, etc.), and absolutes are rarely true. So it should be easy to write an addendum to that philosophy pertaining to exceptions and accept that my parents are not always right and that wealthy people can be good people.

It should be easy. But accepting a change in your views, a change in a philosophy that has colored the way you've seen the world since you were old enough to open your eyes, rarely is. In some ways it would be easier for me to admit that I was wrong about the Pirate, because that's a view that I've only had for a year, as opposed to a lifetime. Furthermore, changing your view about one person does not shatter one's whole socio-economic mindset.

But of course I love the Pirate deeply and I don't want to be wrong about him. I want to continue to believe that he is a good, moral, ethical, generous, honest man. As I've often pointed out before, though, wishing don't make it so, and wanting to believe something, even believing it, doesn't make it true.

Do I really think that buying a car suggests that I've grossly misjudged the Pirate's character? No, not really. I'm just trying to explain to you lot why this whole situation has made me squirm so much. Fundamentally it boiled down to me being wrong about something, either the strong, anti-money values I'd been raised with, or my assessment of Pirate's character. And that, I think, is what this whole thing is all about. It's forced me to confront and re-evaluate some of the assumptions I make about people and the world regarding material wealth. And questioning one's fundamental assumptions about the world is a very squirmy process indeed.

Cop out

Hi. I'm not back yet. I'm blogging from the parental home of the Pirate. This is just to say that we had a fabulous time. Details will be forthcoming.

In the meantime, I would like to suggest some entirely unoriginal entertainment. I know Billy and Spinsterella have done this, but I'll be buggered if I can find the right links in their archives. What I propose is that you all write a short post in the comments in the style of my writing. Pretend to be me. Write what you think my holiday blog post will be. When I get back I'll pick a weinner and send him/her something. Don't ask what, I havn't thought that far yet.

So for the next 48 hours you all get to be Chaucer's Bitch.

On you keyboard...

Get set...

Take the piss!

Needing a new avatar

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?

Dear Enquiring Minds,

The following post contains All You Want To Know about my first visit to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Pirate, as well as few things you'd Probably Rather Not. But that's the sort of sordid detail you've come to expect from Mental Excrement. If nothing else, this blog lives up to its name, doth it not?

The train trip was uneventful, save for the profound nuissance of the cosmically rude 11-year-old female chavs sitting across the isle from me. Had it been a more boring weekend I might trouble to write an entire post on them and what I would have done if I was their mother. But we have more interesting things to discuss, no?

The Pirate picked me up and took me to his parents' home, where they met me at the door with an enthusiasm that can only be described in terms of Golden Retriever-level glee. I expected a polite handshake, a "Welcome dear it's so nice to see you how do you take your tea" kind of welcome. I did not expect to be crushed in the arms of two people simultaneously as they vied to be the first to hug me and kiss me on the cheek, exclaiming in full voices "Welcome, welcome, welcome! We're so glad to finally meet you! Do come in! How was your trip? Are you hungry? We've heard so much about you, we're just thrilled you've come all this way to visit!..." and so on and so forth. They are absolutely lovely people, and I can't create enough nice things to say about them.

They are also walking charicatures of the English middle class, stereotypical casting rejects from every British comedy ever made. She's warm and lovely, very sweet, very high-strung, and fusses over one constantly. "How is that, dear? Would you like some more? Do try a little of this. No, no, I insist. While you're here you absolutely must..." etc. The word "no" isn't in her vocabulary, except when she is refusing to accept any sort of assistance. She bent over backwards to make me feel at home (and I would have, if I'd been raised at the Four Seasons), and was absurdly enthusiastic about absolutely everything I had to say, be it about my work, my family, my past, my future plans, whatever. It's easy to see where the Pirate gets his joie de vivre. I loved her instantly.

Mr. Pirate was large, silver-haired, jolly sort of man with heavy jowels and fat lower lip which he mashed against my cheek in a sloppy kiss of greeting when he hugged me. (I didn't think English people hugged total strangers. Any thoughts?) He's the sort of man who says things like "God show, old boy" and "Gosh!,"and sprays spittle when he says them. He has a tremendously strong sense of propriety and How Things Should Be Done (you could almost hear the longing in his voice for the days of the Empire). When we could have a conversation (ie when Mrs. Pirate was out of the room, because it's near impossible to get a word in edgeways when she's present), we talked politics, history, cricket, and wine. He interrogated me very sublety and very effectively about my future plans and intentions, and I was left with the vague unnerving feeling that I'd said rather a lot more than I intended. It's easy to see where the Pirate gets his brains. Terrific fellow; we got on swimmingly.

The Great Controvertial Pie was a hit. Mr. Pirate went back for seconds and thirds, and Mrs. Pirate explained that she had been reading in a Bill Bryson book about how Americans always show up with pie to welcome a new family to the neighborhood and she was thrilled beyond words to be given a Genuine American Pie made by a Genuine American. Seriously, she was beside herself. (She even asked if I'd picked the berries, which was great because it gave me a chance to say that yes indeed, I had. Class.)

On Sunday the Pirate and I went for a long walk through some woods, along a babbling river, and up and over the moors. The heather was in bloom and the hills were aglow in the sun with purple and rust and gold. Glorious countryside. He took me for lunch in, well, it would be a criminal understatement to call it a pub, but let's face it, it was a pub. And criminal understatment is a national pasttime here, so what the hell. But the chef was a gourmet chef (even has a Michelin star), and the food was unbelievalble. Damn that swashbuckler knows how to eat well.

After our huge and leisurely lunch we wandered into the empty field next to the pub with a cricket ball and a couple baseball mitts. Thus began the Pirates crusade to make me into a first-class fast bowler. He insists I've got the right physique and natural temperment. There's just one problem: I throw like a girl. Well, I used to, anyway. A long hour in that field under the encouragement and watchful eye of Speedy McSpeed and I made rather significant progress. (Now I throw like a large girl.) I did rather enjoy it. I'm looking forward to working on my technique more with him. We had a lot of fun.

After that we came home, got out the chessboard, and put on the radio, listening to the drama of the scandalous England-Pakistan test match as it unfolded sunday evening. Then dinner with the 'rents, coffe in the sitting room, evening constitional to aid the digestive process, news on the telly, and finally curl up on the sofa watching The Magnificent Seven. Somehow I managed to fall asleep with 30 minutes to go of the movie. It must have been a combination of the happy exhaustion, full stomach, and warm Pirate reclining comfortably against my chest that sent me to dreamland just as the film was getting really exciting.

Monday we wandered into the village where we admired the explosive assortment of hanging baskets and window boxes, perused an art gallery, a bookstore, and few gourmet delis. I bought a load of Christmas gifts for my family, and the Pirate (operating under orders from his mother) bought me a small wheel of good, local cheese. Yum! We met Mr. Pirate for lunch at the nearby golf club, where he (not the Pirate, Mr. Pirate) invited me back for Christmas. Very touching.

Then off to the train station where the Pirate waited with me on the platform, kissed me passionately and appropriately as the train rolled in, didn't let go of my hand until the last possible second, and stood there, waving, until I was completely out of sight. Eat your heart out, Bogie.

I think the weekend was a smashing success. No once was anyone offended, accidently or otherwise (that I could detect), both Mr. and Mrs. Pirate appear to absolutley LOVE ME (yay!!!), and as far as I can tell I've been compeltely welcomed to the family. They were wonderful people, real people, with a house full of photos of the boys (Pirate and his brother), trophies and certificates, models of ships and airplanes, souveniers of family holidays, threadbare, mismatched rugs, shelves overflowing with well-read books, and a healthy layer of dust that suggested the inhabitants had better things to do with their time than run around all day with a feather dusters in hand, preening and cleaning the Household Memories. They're a strong family, justifiably proud of their offspring, supportive but not overprotective, and not unwilling to let them take their own risks and make their way in the world. (Very much like my own family, really.) Love 'em. Love 'em six ways to sunday. I couldn't ask for better in-laws.

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.

At Herebe Monsters's Request

English Men

First date: you pull

Second date: you have wild, hot, slippity, slappity monkey sex.

Third date: He tells you to bring him a beer and shut up so he can watch the match.

Scottish Men

First date: you pull

Second date: you find out what's really under that kilt

Third date: he leaves you for a sheep.

American (white) Men:

First date: he buys you an expensive dinner

Second date: you fumble around in the back of his car and it takes him 30 minutes to figure out how your bra works

First anniversary: you kill yourself because you can't mangae the incredible debt you've accrued from the unnecessesarily large suburban house and minivan you purchased to house and transport your 1.5 kids who have both been shot while on duty in Iraq anyway. Hubby comes out of the closet while in drug rehab.

American (black) Men:

First date: He buys you an expensive dinner

Second date: You discover the orgasmic truth of the saying "once you go black you never go back."

Third date: his funeral. His other girlfriend found out about you and capped his ass.

Jewish Men:

First date: You have dinner with the family on their plastic-covered dining room furniture.

Second date: His mother asks you why she doesn't have any grandchildren yet.

Third date: You dump the mama's boy.

Italian Men:

First date: He buys you an expensive dinner at the Resturaunt owned by his family.

Second date: Same resturaunt. You accidently overhear a conversation about where they dumped the body.

Thrid date: You marry him because it was either become part of the family or get dumped with the other body.

Jamaican Men:

First date: Do a little dance, make a little love, smoke a few joints.

Second date: Get the munchies.

Third date: Where are we again?

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree

So i was out with my mom this morning walking my dog through the park and taking some photos of the stunningly beautiful autumn vistas. I mused that the only thing I don't like about the camera is the time it takes to warm it up and turn it on, and though my old point-and-shoot is considerably less sophisticated, it's handy because you can pick it and push a button and it goes off.

My mother's reply to all this was (and here's where it gets scary), "your digital must be a female camera, if it takes forever to turn it on. Obviously, point-and-shoots are male; less sophisticated and always ready to go."

And people wonder where I get it.

Presidents, golf, and evolution

The game of golf is an evolutionary inevitablitiy, invented by a woman. It has a very clear evolutionary function: to keep men from getting under foot. Ask any wife whose husband has retired if she likes having him around an extra 40 hours a week, and she will no doubt exclaim that while she loves her husband dearly, he gets in the way more often than the 2-year-old twin grandchilden, and she is perpetually having to invent little jobs and games and errands to keep him occupied and out from under foot. Golf is one such game.

This goes back to the days of Neanderthals. When an old Neanderthal grandpa (let's call him 'Ugh') got too slow to keep up with the group hunting mastadons and turned into a safety liability (proto-lawyers and insurance salesmen who had recently appeared on the neolithic scene were already displaying disturbingly successful adaptations), the hunting party left him behind in the cave to annoy the crap out of his but-ugly yet extremely capable wife, Mumph.

Ugh: what's this?

Mumph: put that down, you'll break it.

(Ugh picks up something else, fiddles with it for a moment)

Mumph: Leave those tyranosaurus bones where they are; i put them there for a reason.

(Ugh wanders over to another part of the cave)

Mumph: you kicked up a corner of the bear rug; fix it before i trip and kill myself on it.

(Ugh bends over to fix the rug and notices something)

Ugh: hey! there's a giant bug with a bazillion legs hiding under the rug! Cool! (begins poking centipede with stick)

Mumph: That's it! Out with you! Out! (thinking quickly) Here, if you take these two sticks and rub them together for a really long time, something neat will happen. I promise. (snickers to herself)

Ugh: Really? what?

Mumph: uh, it's a surprise. (smirks)

(two hours later)

Ugh: Mumph! Mumph! look! I invented fire! Holy shit, i'm smart!

Mumph: (rolling eyes) Here, you want to be useful? Take these pelts down to the river and bang them against the wet rocks until they're clean.

Ugh: (crestfallen) ok, sure.

(returns)

Ugh: here you go.

Mumph: oh, for fuck's sake. look at them! they're ruined! Don't you know you can't bang a white pelt on a red rock? And this won't even fit the baby now!

Ugh: you just told me to bang them against the rocks. you didn't say which rocks!

Mumph: I've got an idea. why don't you get Blech and a couple sticks and see how many swings it takes you to hit a rock over the cliff? He's got terrible aim, couldn't hit the broad side of a brontosaurus from 10 feet away. That should keep you busy for a while.

Ladies and gentleman: the game of golf. An evolutionary adaptation which saved the human race from premature extinction. Of course, having watched the presidential debate last night, premature extinction is sounding better and better. Hmm. one more reason to hate golf.

sad but true

I was walking this evening on my way to check my email (a pleasant 3-mile stroll from my current abode), when I met a lovely man named Gabriel. He smiled at me and asked for directions, which I was happy to provide. He was from Nigeria, and is studying info. tech. at the university. We chatted a few minutes, and he asked me, with his thickly musical accent, if he might accompany me on my walk. I told him I would be delighted to have his company, and we set off. He then confessed that he had been nervous about approaching me for directions, because most of the English women he has encountered have either crossed the street when he approached them, or ignored him, eyes fixed dead ahead so as to avoid contact at all costs. He said he only decided I was OK to approach when he noticed my Birkenstock sandals, identical to his own. He's never seen an English woman wear Birkenstocks, and he figured I must be foreign (a bizarrely correct assumption) and thought I might be less afraid of him.

We looked at our feet and laughed over the clunky shoes, but I was struck by how godawful it must be to go about your daily business with people constantly shying away from you because of your appearance (which in Gabriel's case is that of a well groomed, well dressed, rather attractive (if a little short) black man). His fear of frightening me explained his initail behaviour: for the first 5 minutes we had been chatting he stood extremely far away from me, as if I were a stray dog he was afraid to approach.

I'm sorry that my time in Manchester is almost up. I would have like to have the chance to meet Gabriel again. We exchanged emails, and hopefully when I return to England in January we'll be able to cross paths. In the meantime, here's a message to all you smug, white, bourgeois suburbanites: there are far more men out there like Gabriel, who have no wish to intimidate, mug, rape, or murder you then there are men like the ones you see on the evening news (which, incidently, is written and broadcast almost entirely by white people), standing in police mugshots or led by the handcuffs out of the courtroom. These images only serve to perpetuate racist stereotypes and fertilize a culture of fear, which results in disproportionate numbers of racial minorites being convicted and sentenced to unduly harsh punishment. So here's my challenge to you, to be carried out once every day for the next month. See if you can do it. Beat the system--smile at a black man.

Head Jobs

Let me preface this tirade by taking a moment to say, right off the bat, that I love England. I have had one of the most fantastic years of my life, met hordes of fabulous people, and pushed my academic, athletic, and social limits outward. It’s been a year of challenges, rewards, and satisfaction. That said, I have one minor beef (besides the weather, which naturally goes without saying): several of the members of the aforementioned fab horde have accused me on numerous occasions of playing mind games. I find this as ironic as I do irritating. Not only have I never before been accused, even jokingly, of such manipulative, juvenile pursuits, but most of my friends back in the Land o’ W have at some point insisted that the reason I have spent the last 6 years of my life in a lonely, dateless trance was a result of my very refusal to manipulate hapless men to my cave with deceptive feminine wiles and guilt-spawned mind fucks. But in America, a lone and righteous existence is the price one pays for refusing to stoop to the level of a Jerry Spring guest. So for all the men out there reading this, as well as for a certain acquaintance of mine, let me say this for the record:

Now hear this!!! Not all women are shameless, power-mongering succubi who use men to their pleasure until they’re nothing but dry, emasculated husks to be discarded with the other recylables. Contrary to popular opinion, there are a few of us out there who are dead honest, who will answer any question put to us with shocking and occasionally painful truth, who have no interest in manipulating people to get what we want, and WHO DON’T. EVER. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. PLAY HEAD GAMES.

There is a reason for this attitude, and it goes like this. If I were to lure a man, black-widow like, to my chamber, my home, and my life under the inherently false pretenses of emotional manipulation, it would be an inherently hollow and meaningless relationship. If I become romantically involved with another person, and I hope some day that I might, it needs to be because the other person WANTS TO BE THERE, not because they’ve been duped into a commitment they don’t really feel. Head-games, mind-jobs, and brain-fucks are all, therefore, ultimately self-defeating and a huge waste of time. I have better things to do with my pathetic, lonely existence. Thank you.

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.