views and my husband

It occurred to me two or three nights ago that it can't be easy living with a person with such, ah, vehement opinions.

Well, it either occurred to me or was pointed out.  P hissed 'I swear there's just no pleasing you, A', as I launched what I thought was quite an incisive take-down on a terribly retrograde opinion he expressed. 

I'm full of opinions and I just want to share them with P, my nearest and dearest.  'Share'; 'brainwash' - basically the same thing.  I desperately want him to agree with me in all things and I use rhetoric to such devastating effect that he can't help but come round, right? 

Well, no.  Wrong, actually.  I have thought about all of this further while picking lint out of my belly button or something similarly productive, and I have realised:

• When P ventures an opinion on a topic I feel strongly about, I either agree vehemently or disagree with, well, malice.  What I have been believing are 'spirited discussions' may in fact be just me working on my manifesto, while P tries to interject.
• When P ventures an opinion or poses an argument on a subject I am more ambivalent about, I am just as likely to say 'I can't be bothered right now'.
• If I am concerned that I'm going to find P's opinion on any given topic offensive, I either launch an offensive or shut the conversation down entirely.

Hmmm.  Sophisticated reactions, no?  I probably ought to work on this.  It *might* just be possible that I'm not the be all and end when it comes to having views on things.  I don't know everything, much as it pains me to admit it (AND IT DOES. It hurts so bad.)

Don't ask me if I've apologised.  I'm afraid the answer might embarrass us both. 

bookish

Ugh, all that crap about my urinary tract and peeing in leaky cups has got to get off the top of the blog. 

Um.  Um.  How do you follow a diatribe like that up?

[I've sat on the above sentences for 24 hours now.  Following it up was really, really stinking hard]

OK.  OK.  Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood.  Bought this last Friday as a wee treat, finished by Sunday.  Enjoyed is probably the wrong word - there's some very disturbing content, but I think it's a wonderful, thought-provoking commentary on modern day issues set in a dystopian future.  I'm still not sure I get the ending; going to have a bit of a re-read and then plunge on with the next in the series.  I really want to recommend it to P, but I think he'll reach the child exploitation bits and freak with horror. 

I also picked up a copy of I, Claudius by Robert Graves.  I have listened to this on audiobook before - I forget who narrated it but he has a very distinctive tone and I'm very much enjoying him as my mental narrator as I slurp up the words on the page.  It's just interesting, that's what it is.  I haven't read that much about the Roman Empire post-Caesar and I love a bit of intrigue and scheming so this is perfect for 10 minutes pre-sleep reading.  Livia is a nasty firecracker and I love it. 

What else, culture-wise?  I'm going to see Hollie Smith perform this Saturday.  Yup.  That's probably about it. 

That's right - I have had Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (Susanna Clarke) sitting on my bedside table for an aeon.  I was reading Julia's archives the other day and she mentioned that while she felt like she should enjoy it, she just couldn't get through it.  I have had this exact experience with Jonathan Strange.  I even took it to the bath a few weeks ago and, well, gave up again afterwards.  If I can't get into a book in the bath then there's something seriously wrong.  To be fair, when a book is that hefty it isn't ideal tub material...but I'm usually still willing to cut it a break. 

edumacation

Hallo, have been AWOL, work + insurance + post redirection + power + inspections (oh mi gawd it was still awesome even if the current owners' cat litter smelled a little...funky) + interest rates + you don't really care, do you? 

Things what I have learned this week:

• My boots aren't as waterproof as I originally believed (damn you Jones the Bootmaker).  However, they make satisfying squelchy noises.
• My umbrella (pilfered from my brother in law, possibly - I found it in the back of our car) is useless (karma?  Probably)
• Auckland's definition of a seriously cold winter is laughable, but the breeze coming in my office window on the 21st floor is a disturbing wretch, tickling the sides of my neck.
• My husband's version of sleep talk/walk can only be batted off with a firm slap in the chest (last night, he was insisting on tickling me and cackling in a way I've never heard before.  After I pushed him off with a slap, he knocked the lamp into the bed and was surprised to find it there several hours later.  He remembers neither of those episodes this morning.)
• If you think you don't NEED the Milky Bar but you WANT the Milky Bar you will REGRET the Milky Bar
• $50 high heels will scuff on the first wear, badly.  That is why you should spend more than $50 (don't worry, I'm taking them back and will no doubt replace them with...another $50 pair.)
• Don't scratch it.  Just, don't. OK?
• New tights are the business.
• Mums are the best. 

That is all.

bad prose on poetry

Oh hallo Blog.  There you are!  I missed you while I was absent for five or so minutes.

Manhire to Music at the Auckland Writers and Readers Festival last Friday was excellent.  Bill Manhire's poetry is lovely, redolent of place/whimsy in a way I found delicious. 

I love this, for example: 'On Originality' Bill Manhire, via New Zealand Electronic Poetry Centre (I can't reproduce without permission, so I won't.  But please to follow the link and enjoy for yourselves.) 

They closed the piece with Hone Tuwhare's 'Rain'.  I can't find a link that doesn't make me feel all suspicious about copyright/attribution, but I walked past that poem every school day for the five years of my undergraduate study, and I think it's eaten it's way into my skin, living in the subcutaneous fat, an unacknowledged part of me.  That's also probably a breach of copyright, but then, nominal damages only?  It's beautiful. 

(oh - the Hone Tuwhare Charitable Trust site is here and features a copy.)

It was lovely to have the poet read aloud, lovely and emotive to hear those words set to music.  But I also wanted a copy of each poem in front of me so that I could devour the shape of it, study it further, use more of my senses.  Goes without saying I bought the book, hey? 

while i'm gone

Something to chew on: I hated the Great Gatsby.  Not so much because I abhorred the writing (I didn't), but because there was not a single thing I liked about Daisy and Gatsby (I felt a little sorry for Nick, but that was it).  I haven't been able to bring myself to reread it since sixth form, when I was poisoned by F. Scott Fitzgerald.  This article by Kathryn Schulz in New York Magazine has finally given me to understand why that might have been: not a skerrick of the emotional connection between them hits the page. 

happy little kiwis

Oh you guys, I watched Parliament TV last night.  It was worth it (as opposed to when P made me watch a repeat of Question Time later to back up his assertion that Parliamentarians are a bit monkey at the zoo-ish.) 
I couldn't stop smiling in the latter stages of the debate and as the personal vote was cast. 

New Zealand has marriage equality. 

It's awesome and about time.    

So many of us are bursting with pride today about what that vote says about our society.  I'll admit, Pokarekare Ana sung by the press gallery may have jerked a tear.  Speaker Lindsay Tisch's very strong Kiwi accent made me cringe but also recognise the glory of the representative process - sounded like my great uncle, right there on the telly.  It's a really good day to be a Kiwi.

It means so much to my family personally, but I can't separate that very personal joy from the joy and pride I feel about being part of a nation that wants to recognise love.

A very good day. 

shop-window mannequin

Hilary Mantel smashed this one, in the London Review of Books, out of the park.  An excellent speech, terribly misinterpreted and twisted by the Daily Mail.  Gynaecological history and press scrutiny are beautifully eviscerated.  It’s not just the thesis but the fascinating content that compelled me (Henry VIII’s ulcerated leg; Prince Charles and a room full of stacked chairs; Diana’s crumpled wedding dress; the Queen and piles of kebab sticks.)

P bought me Bring Up the Bodies for our anniversary – I’m going to get my sticky mitts on Wolf Hall now, as having read this speech I suspect I’m going to enjoy Mantel’s writing very much.  Yeah, I’m sure she’s grateful for the praise from me, despite the validation from that whole Man Booker prize x 2 situation…I’m extremely late to the party, per usual.

easy, tiger

Today’s inspiration is brought to you NYMag, usually an indefatigable purveyor of snark: an article in a womens' issues column about the sexlessness of lifestyle blogs.

I don’t count this as a lifestyle blog, but Lauren Sandler refers to “the blogosphere” more generally, saying it “…is about intimacy, not international market share; memoir, not magnates.”  To the extent my blog is about memoir (who enjoys reading my old posts better than me, in a sadistic sort of a way – oops, accidental sex reference!),  then I guess Lauren’s extrapolations apply to this blog too. 

She’s right, in that we’re becoming obsessed with curating a gorgeous life that is perceived as desirable by others.  She’s right to quote the statistics about women and sexual dysfunction.  But I have trouble imagining that these things are linked; other than that they are activities engaged in (or omitted) by women.  I think it’s wrong to generalise that women are enjoying shopping for sheets more than what goes on between the sheets for a number of reasons.

Tahi.  I’m not convinced women enjoy shopping for sheets.  They enjoy having nice sheets for aesthetic as well as sensual reasons.  Well, that might be just me, but don’t worry, plenty more blatant generalisations ahoy.

Rua.  Many blogs – lifestyle or otherwise – pick a particular focus and sex may not be even on the periphery of that focus.  As far as memoir goes, there is often a nod to sex (in fact, I would venture to suggest that hinting that you have a wild, romantic, regular and satisfying sex life is part of the image that many bloggers seek to portray, striking envy in the hearts of many.  Much easier to do with hints and pictures of your bearded lover than with a blow by blow or even a generic discussion).

Toru.  Many bloggers have privacy concerns (should my blog mix with my family/friends or my work/colleagues?), and discussing more neutral matters on their blog is part of an image protection scheme should the different spheres merge.  Also, there are usually two people involved in a sexual act – privacy extends further than for the blogger her or himself. 

Maybe this just stems out of the problematic definitions of the word “lifestyle”, which Lauren notes was once a crap-mag euphemism for sex? 

I thought about inserting a HOTTTTT XXXX RACY assertion/dissertation about my sex life here.  It is an important dialogue for women to have, no doubt.  But P would kill me.  And clearly, I’m too bound up in the New Prudism. 

By the way, did I tell you I have a new set of sheets? 

this stupid little girl is cross

Go jump in the lake, you stupid little girl?  Pimply little girls in the newsroom?  WHAT HAVE PIMPLES GOT TO DO WITH IT, MR TAMIHERE?  Or Paula Bennett’s size, for that matter?

Do you think John Tamihere’s latest is:

 

(a) A blatant attention seeking move;

 

(b) The product of bone-deep misogyny; or

 

(c) Both?

Well, he’s drawn blatant attention to the fact that he’s a bone deep misogynist, that’s for sure.  If there was another point he was getting across (I’ve got all the time in the world for interesting discussions of journalistic integrity*), I’ve totally missed it. 

 

It's not like we didn't see this coming.  He's got a track record (see the section "Controversies and Loss of Seat in 2005" in that link for some real gems).  Don't worry ladies, he's also got it in for most minorities as well.  You are in good company. 

*Side note – watched The Insider for the first time on the weekend.  You know…that movie about the 60 Minutes article on Russell Crowe spilling Big Tobacco’s secrets?  Yeah, just watched it nearly 14 years after it was first released.  Anyway, it still seemed relevant, even if we do make fewer pay phone calls these days. 

in which i post an earnest link to a discussion of happiness and try to avoid sarcasm

AUCKLAND, LAST FRIDAY

"Happiness should be serendipitous, a by-product of a life well lived, and pursuing it in a vacuum doesn’t really work." - Ruth Whippman in the NYT

frost

I haven't got a lot for you today - just a link to a fab article by Kathryn Schulz on Robert Frost. 

When we were living in the States, we went on a wee roadie through New England, pitching up in Vermont to visit Robert Frost's grave.  I'm not usually a cemetary groupie (I don't seek out the tombs of the famous or infamous; though I love the history of a graveyard, celebrity spotting in this manner leaves me dead - no pun intended).  However, there is something about Frost's poetry that made we want to see where he was buried.  It was leaf-peeping season in New England - he is buried in a quaint, quintessentially colonial graveyard on a hillside, looking down onto a tree-lined valley in Vermont.  It was perfect.

FROST VIA.  HE ALWAYS SEEMED KIND OF CURMUDGEONLY TO ME (THROUGH HIS WORK), SO THIS PIC FITS THE BILL, EVEN THOUGH THE EXPRESSION IS A LITTLE SOFTER

Grandad loved Robert Frost (though he loved Burns even more.  Scottish heritage was big for Grandad T).  He was thrilled when I could recite Frost's poems to him verbatim as an 8 year old.  They used to make me feel a little hollow - his poems were so rhymey, conjuring very distilled scenes. However, they have very happy memories for me now on reflection - and this fantastic article made me see the cleverness of that crystal feeling of hollow articulated by Frost. 

Anyway, more words than expected on a dead poet.  And miles to go before I sleep. 

books

I love this tumblr.  So much.

FUCK YEAH, BOOKS AGAIN, VIA

I'm a book whore.  Will read and reread over and over and I love to get my sticky mitts on something new.  A friend recently suggested I get hold of the short stories of Haruki Murakami.  Wow, these were seriously emotive and just beautifully composed.  After reading them I spent a few days all horrendously introspective and, y'know, DEEP.  I felt incredibly disjointed and weird afterwards; next time I'll dole out the stories one by one instead of swallowing the collection whole like a glutton.  I don't think I've felt that unsettled since I read The Bone People.  You don't get that from a Marian Keyes novel, let me tell you (I'm not bashing Keyes or Murakami or, indeed Keri Hulme - I read and enjoy them all in different ways).

All in all a lengthy way of saying I'm looking for some new booky inspiration for my trip away this week.  Tomorrow evening we're on a plane to Croatia; very much looking forward to it.  I've got my fingers crossed for some sunshine as we are hopping on a boat for a substantial chunk of the trip.  I'm not the most seasoned of yacht passengers, that's for sure.  I will do my level best to keep the vom under control - wish me luck!

Please excuse my bloggy absence for the next week; I shall return with hopefully abundant tales and pictures of interesting people and places. 

In the meantime, lay your fave holiday books on me...

on loss (people and dignity)

It's been a sad few days in many ways.  I know these are the topics-du-jour of the interwebs right now but I felt obliged to comment (when do I not?). 

• Maurice Sendak's death.  His work terrified me for years in the best way possible.
• MCA.  I don't have anything more to add, I'm just sad.  An era has ended (for me, personally and selfishly, his death kind of frames the end of my youth).
• North Carolina and the constitutional amendment: effectively a ban on same sex marriage.  Gosh this makes me terribly, terribly sad.  I can only hope that those who voted in favour of the ban are swimming against a strong tide. 
• This man's offensive, unsubstantiated and ill-advised comments.  I'm going to be all smug here - a few months ago, I commented that NZ politics often picks up the live issues in foreign politics like a kind of 'political hangover' - and what do you know?  Mind you, the same post commented that there wasn't yet an overt war on women in New Zealand - apparently I was wrong about that too.  Colin Craig can likely be dismissed as an attention gathering sideshow, but the free contraception debate in NZ is taking a really, really weird shape which makes me sad.  For some commentary, I recommend reading this.

Two cents, consider it contributed.

weathering the drought

Once again, I apparently do not care enough to conceive of and write something meaningful.  This is becoming a whingefest of pathetic proportions. 

Today's complaint relates to this drought we're having.  In London, buses and bus shelters are plastered with posters requiring us to conserve water.  The reservoirs are empty in the South, we are told.  This may, at least in part, have been because winter looked like this:

I SAW THE FIRST DAFFODIL BUDS THAT DAY

And yet, AND YET, my commute today looked like this:

TERRIBLE PICTURE: CAPTURES THE MOOD THOUGH.  1 MAY 2012, WOULD YOU HAVE BELIEVED IT?

My commute has been a wet, drizzly bonesoak, occasionally featuring proper downpours, for the last three weeks at the least.  Vanity aside (MY POOR HAIR), the rain was not unpleasant to start - it made the spring colours more vibrant; every shade of green imaginable amplified by droplets, viewed against a grey backdrop. 

However, the grey has lingered and worked itself into my bone structure, my cells are sodden with apathy.  I'm beginning to view the rain as a virus as the previously green leaves start to spot a sickly yellow with mildew and the aluminium window frames sweat damply with condensation. 

Not-long, not-long, squeak the soles of the boots re-earthed from the 'will no longer need it now winter's over' pile.  They're right, I know.   

The only hints of glee in the situation are the faces of the British as they discuss the weather over a steaming mug of tea.  Nothing more satisfying than the possibility of a washed out summer and how wrong the Beeb was about the drought (conspiracy theories abound: saving water for the Olympic pool?).  The joys of weather dissection; I am now able to use comparative reasoning (Spring '10 was fantastic but early Spring '11? Left a lot to be desired) and can splice my seasoned opinion into a weather discussion without being an obvious outsider. 

knee update

So, you may recall my Lumpy Knee from the previous blogpost, in which I was finally visiting a doctor and marginally excited about doing something about it.  Particularly if something involved syringing. 

Well, the visit to the doctor's office was one of the more shameful I've had in recent history. 

Scene: I left work early to get to the appointment and realised en route that I was wearing tights.  Not ideal for allowing examination of a bung knee and worse, having been in shoes all day the tights and my feet were a mite stale, shall we say (shame: I has none.  I just aired my grotty feet on the internet).  I arrived just on time, somewhat breathless having dashed from the bus stop.  I breezed through the waiting room - a brief transition during which the display flashed that the emergency waiting time was two and a half hours.  My speedy entry/exit from the room garnered me daggers side-eye from all the poor sickly types lining the walls. 

I explained my lump and the running soreness etc, following which I whipped off my tights on Doctor's orders. 

She took one look at said: "You realise you've got a matching lump on the other knee, right?"

So it turns out I'm a complete moron.  I made her compare the two and admit that Righty Lumpy was just marginally larger than Lefty Lump.  I loudly complained that Lefty didn't hurt.  She looked at me like I was a drongo and told me just to take some paracetamol before running on if Righty hurts when I run.  Yep, I felt pretty small.  Also now feel very self-conscious about my knees and their weird knobbliness and will be wearing midi-skirts only this summer so that people don't think I'm a freak show.

DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT ASKING FOR A PICTURE, invisible readers.  Too bad, so sad - it ain't gonna happen.

caution, theatre spoilers ahead. mind you, the play is 400 years old

Violence in movies is one thing, but last night at the Old Vic I watched no less than seven characters be murdered, variously by strangulation, neck snapping, poison and old fashioned knifing.  Oh, and there were two hangings.  All in the second half of the Duchess of Malfi.

P and I sat, shellshocked, at the Anchor & Hope afterwards, drinking a calming carafe of wine.  Honestly, the realism of death, a few rows back, was shocking.  Themes of incest, feminism, romance across class lines, corruption,cruelty and betrayal seemed thrown into ridiculously sharp relief.  A lot for three hours. 

EVE BEST AS THE DUCHESS.

However, the script acknowledged it's own tropes and there were a few factors that made the play superb.   The set design was phenomenal and the scenes were beautifully lit.  Eve Best was outstanding as the Duchess of Malfi.  The players made death seem real from six rows back; the shocked silence was palpable.  A girl sitting next to me visibly recoiled as Ferdinand crawled up the bed towards the Duchess then swung his head to the audience.  There were hisses as, in the dark, we realised Ferdinand was handing her Antonio's severed hand; when the Cardinal violated Julia.  I thought the language a chilling delight; "mine eyes dazzle" caused a physical shudder.  Bosola's recognition of what we expected him to do was, for me, crisp clarity, tying many themes together.

I love the Old Vic; it has a kind of aged glamour and I think it feels intimate without losing any sense of big production.  We were spoilt enought to obtain very good tickets for a decent price through a connection, but the ticket prices at the Old Vic are fairly reasonable.  You can often find Last Minute ticket deals (that link has them starting at £15). 

Also, I must add to the chorus chanting that the Anchor & Hope on The Cut is wonderful.  Lots of tasty English treats in very nice surroundings.  It's true, I think; once you go South of the River you never go back!

So yeah, the work on the London bucket list is going quite well, thanks for asking. 

it's pushed my buttons

A tweet in my timeline last night suggested that what the world doesn't need is the vapid blog meanderings of yet another girl with nothing to say.  Yeah, I recognised some truth in that.  But, truth be told, I don't care.  So.  Well. 

That tweet is not why I'm posting today about serious issues.

I think. 

Anyway, Frank Rich has written an interesting piece in New York Magazine this week about the history of the Republican 'War on Women', which he insists is, in fact, a war on women.  I have to say I'm inclined to agree.  I'm sure people will feel free to correct me if I'm wrong (and I freely admit that my knowledge of the policy history Republicans have taken on women is scant), but I recommend the article as a starting point for thinking about a theory as to why Rush Limbaugh's comments (much derided on this blog) were so widely publicised, instead of being marginalised as over-hyped, shock value schtick. 



SO WHEN I LOOKED FOR A PICTURE TO ACCOMPANY THIS PIECE, I FOUND THE WEIRDEST PROPAGANDA-MERCHANDISE WEBSITE EVER.  I MAY NOT SUPPORT THE REPUBLICANS BUT TRULY THERE ARE SOME ODD (SURELY UNHELPFUL TO THE CAUSE) BUMPER STICKERS FOR SALE THERE. 



AND THEN THE WEBSITE ALSO HAD A SECTION DEVOTED TO THE MOST BIZARRE JANE AUSTEN BUMPER STICKERS EVER: 'MY OTHER CAR IS A BAROUCHE'.


Really, there is just so much to discuss that I'm almost at a loss for where to start.  Some of these fights; I just can't believe that we're facing them again.  You might say that I should be focussing on the issues that affect New Zealand (and an overt war on women isn't one of them; I suggest this NY Times opinion piece for an interesting, if simplified, explanation of the Kiwi political spectrum).  Yet I can't help being concerned that as a small nation, we often pick up on foreign issues as a sort of 'political hangover', particularly those expounded in Australia, the US and the UK.  And this topic pushes my buttons, plain and simple. 

But don't mind me; I'm now off to pick up another contraceptive prescription funded by the tax payer.  Guilt free.

it's late, but i feel strongly about this

I'm a swinging bag of inconsistencies.  Not the sort of jauntily swinging bag a girl with a floral dress and sweet wee shoes might tote at her side, but a giant, pleather, lumpy and overfilled bag of which the owner has lost control (owner's dress: unclear, but she definitely has a spot on her chin).

I think I've already referenced the fact that I took some time off oral contraceptives recently.  My return to the world of daily prescription meds has not been smooth sailing.  The mood swings are problematic; underscored by the fact that I was further enraged on realisation of the cause of the mood swings because there is almost nothing worse than telling your husband/lover/significant other that the reason you're so extremely cross about [fill in the blank] is because your hormones tell you so.

As it dawned on me that there was probably more fuelling my mood swings than P's intransigence, and as I appreciated that my moods were, perhaps, not entirely justifiable, I read some more about Rush Limbaugh's comments regarding Sandra Fluke, the student who testified concerning the cost of contraception before Congress.  And then I completely lost my shit.* 

You guys!  Rush and the Mum off Everybody Loves Raymond are gonna think I'm a slut as well as a self-identified hormonal bitch!  I'm even worse than Sandra who was seeking to have an insurance company cover contraception - because I'm a big, fat Whorey McHoPants who, for a significant portion of her young adult life, leeched money off taxpayers in order to have sex!  

I believe I am very lucky that I live in a time where there is the knowledge and ability to choose with respect to contraception.  To choose on my own, if I so wish.  I know this. 

In New Zealand, Family Planning offers free visits and contraception for those under 22.  My university in New Zealand subsidised the cost of doctor's visits and contraceptives.  Once I was employed full time in NZ, I paid for them myself.  The compulsory health insurance I had at my university in the US meant I received free doctor's visits and contraceptives.  In the UK, I pay a minimal amount for contraceptives prescribed by an NHS doctor.   Monthly NHS contributions are deducted from my salary. 

Quite aside from the other possible health benefits, these different bodies/organisations/policies helped me and will continue to help me to make an informed decision about motherhood.  I may become a mother if I'm ever good and ready to be one. 

And let's be straight about this.  Sex can be good.  Sex can be fun.  Lots of people want to do it.  Lots of people want to do it without a possible biological consequence (I'm talking about babies, not UTIs - though if we could have sex for fun without UTIs too I'd be supremely grateful).  Sex can come with a host of complications but I never, ever thought that I'd effectively be labelled a prostitute for having sex using contraceptives that were funded by the tax payer.  I bet you P never thought that either when he availed himself of subsidised condoms.   

The net result is that I don't regret a single cent of tax revenue going to help women and men (let's not forget they're part of this too - they too have the right and ability to choose to prevent pregnancy) make informed decisions about whether or not they want to have sex.  Informed decisions about health, wellbeing and parenthood.  Men and women who, for whatever reason, might not have the financial wherewithall to access contraceptives otherwise.  You might say that's purely because I've availed myself of that service.  Sure, I benefitted.  But the availability of those services gave me the right to choose - and one of those choices was not to have sex; not to use them. 

Now that I've outed myself as the second coming of the Whore of Babylon, let's just take a minute to think about Sandra.  She wants her Jesuit college to continue to cover contraceptives as part of the compulsory medical insurance the college provides for students.  What, exactly, about that makes her a slut?  There might be a place for a discussion about the economics of contraception in there, sure.  A 'user pays' argument isn't completely out of sight.  There might be a place for a discussion of respect for respecting the religious beliefs of the founders of a private place of education, I can see that.  But at what point did Sandra say anything remotely like "I want the pill so I can get my freak on with all and sundry on and off campus" leading to the belief that she's a 'slut'?  AND WHAT WOULD BE WRONG WITH SANDRA IF SHE IN FACT DID SAY THAT? 

This debate has so many levels… but expressed at its most basic, I think Sandra was articulating a simple wish for students to retain the right to make decisions about their bodies within the context of compulsory insurance and expensive contraception.  It must be fairly obvious that in my view, making a decision about your body is personal.  Fundamentally personal - encompassing your own belief and value system.  There is just no need for public discourse about these issues to denigrate to a level whereby we label people with loaded terms. 

[NB I hope I've not been hypocritical, inconsistent or just plain awful in discussing this.  I know I've called people names in the past for their views on different issues and I'm conscious that I might just be hypocrisy in action.  I trust that the names that I've used have been generic and not loaded with particular bias or history, but correct me if I'm wrong.  This post merely picks at the edges of my views on sexual health and associated matters.  I do understand that people might feel differently than I do, or might be offended by the use of borderline humour in my discussion of Rush and co's reactions to Sandra.  I know Rush has apologised (sort of) and I apologise (sort of) in advance.  I'm now having real trouble conceptualising the use of insults on my blog and the use of insulting language in public discourse in general...OH DEAR.  A post for another day!] 

*I appreciate I'm a little slow off the mark reacting to this one, and the whole of the internets has probably already had their say.  OH WELL - it REALLY steamed my broccoli so WARNING: RANT AHEAD.

iwd? do they acronym it?

Happy International Women's Day, sportsfans! 

I SPENT AN INORDINATE AMOUNT OF TIME THINKING ABOUT THE APOSTROPHISATION OF THE WORD 'WOMEN' WHEN REALLY, THERE ARE BIGGER ISSUES AT HAND

Women!  Women!  Women are awesome.  International Women's Day today and I have a piece of advice for you.

Go read Caitlin Moran's book, How To Be A Woman.  Not just my femme friends - I recommend it to everyone to do some thinking about some of what it means to be a woman.  In a HILARIOUS way.  I shit you not.  Just do it.  It will make you happy in a fluffy-pube kind of way (sounds vile, no? Happy vile though!). 

Also, there are bigger women's issues than pubes, I know.  So I recommend spending a moment thinking about those too.  That's all, no rant (much). 

knickers

Today is a big day.  I'm heading out of work early, going to the bridal store and trying on my dress for what should be the last time before I take it home.  This is not the big news in itself.  Do not panic; this will not become a wedding asshat blog just yet, it is still just a general asshat blog with appearances by my alter-bridezilla-ego.

The big news is that in preparation for this final dress rehearsal I am wearing the spanx.  OMFG.  It's probably more accurate to say the Spanx are wearing me - my mid section is like a cuddly toy being gripped by a 14 year old whose first boyfriend has just won it by feeding a clown's face with balls or somesuch (i.e. I am being squeezed tightly by something kinda sweaty). 

I look pretty GD slamming in a basic wrap dress for work that usually has my tum hanging out the front but I AM NOT SURE THIS IS WORTH IT.  OK OK, I'm vain, it's worth it, but holy hell these things make you pay for the glory of having no knicker line.  Though I don't think I'll be wearing them to work again; it ruined lunchtime aka the best part of the day (I spend all morning deciding what to have for lunch; then spend all afternoon working out what to do better next time.  What can I say, I strive for perfection). 

I even viewed the Golden Globe outfits this morning online with far more sympathy that I would otherwise usually grant that parade of the rich, famous and skinny bitches.  I spent a considerable amount of time playing an endlessly entertaining game of 'Undies, Spanx or Commando?' on the Daily Mail (Net results: I think Kelly Osborne was the only one wearing normal knickers not spanx, pretty sure Heidi Klum went sans-pants which in her case is totally legit, possibly Piper Perabo also but her entire dress appeared see-through and she looked a little, well, manic, so she had bigger issues going on than her smalls). 

WHAT?  YOU'D MAKE THIS FACE TOO IF SOME SPANDEX WAS CONTAINING YOUR HERNIA

I am ridiculously late on the bandwagon for spanx, but in all seriousness, why why WHY have people been enduring this in silence?  On my wedding day, I don't think I'm gonna receive a compliment (and there better be thousands of those) without saying "have you SEEN what it takes to achieve this perfection right here?" or "check out this bad boy" while lifting up my dress.