This is sick.

I've been properly ill since Thursday (CHRISTMAS!) and in denial about it for a few days before, so I suppose I've been ill for about a week now. I don't get sick often, and as Steve, or my late mother would tell you, I'm no picnic when I'm in this state. I'm needy, pathetic and a bit smelly. But nonetheless I am also, in these dark times, introspective. Here are six of the most important things I've learned through this recent bout of festive flu. 

1. Smelling stuff is important. I haven't been able to smell my food for days, making everything I put in my mouth nothing but flavourless textures. Do you know how gross a banana feels in your mouth if you can't taste it? I hope you never will. My poor husband has had to put up with my toxic mouth-breathing and my apprehension to shower because fever. Poor man. I can't smell me, but he can.

2. Sick is better with people. The last time I was this ill was 2003 and it was Christmas once again (WTF, Santa?!) I was all alone in my London flat with a fever of 104 and all of the shops were closed, so I had no medication to ease the bone-crushing pain of flu. After a couple of hellish days solo, one of my flatmates returned home to find me under a pile of blankets, nearly comatose and threw me in a cold bath. Thank you, Kristo, you may have saved my life. Anyway, this time I have a wonderful, doting husband who helps me make soup and unwrap my presents. Who makes frowny faces with me when the thermometer still reads 39 degrees and who doesn't roll his eyes every time I whimper or steal the remote. I really hope I don't get him sick, but if I do, I'll for sure be a worthy sick companion for him. It's the least I can do.

3. My body and brain are not friends. My brain is all, "let's do this IT'S CHRISTMAS!" But my body is like, "I hate Christmas and I hate you." I thought my body and brain were tight, I thought they were in sync and buddies. I was so wrong. I now have no idea who I can trust.

4. Using the internet while ill is not advised. These past few days I've either been compelled to spend stupid money on shit I don't need to make myself feel better that won't actually make me feel better (Prada handbag.) Or obsessively looking at Facebook to see what a great time all my friends are having on their holidays while I'm sequestered to my sofa. I'm having FOMO (fear of missing out) so severe it's escalated to POME (panic of missing everything) and it's really fucking with me. It's not that I don't want my friends to be having the best time. I really do, but I'd like some fun too, please and I'm not finding it at the bottom of all these boxes of tissues.

5. I am not sexy when I'm sick. I legit tried to do a Monica to Steve the other night. I tried to seduce him with my runny nose, hacking cough and incredibly sore body. He almost fell for it too, poor bugger. I've been trying to do it every day since and now he just laughs in my face. Who knows what lasting effect this will have on my self-esteem.

6. I have great friends and family. From my incredible hubby rebuffing my sexual advances to my friends sending me silly messages and TV recommendations it all helps. And although the hubby is making me watch a space film with a talking raccoon right now, I'll take this over the icy loneliness of 2003 any day.

Moral of the story: Sick sucks, but navigating it's tricky and often unpredictable terrain is best done with company.

Goodbye to Gram

It's been three weeks since my last post and I've missed this.

I went away with my fabulous husband to visit my family and best friend in Massachusetts and then to celebrate our 10-year wedding anniversary in NYC. That trip was all I'd wanted and more. Third row tickets to Hedwig and the Angry Inch with a surprise signing of programs by the cast afterwards, The Christmas Spectacular at Radio City with the Rockettes and of course a lot of time spent shopping, drinking and just being with my wonderful spouse.

However this time spent in America was bittersweet. I heard the news that my seemingly invincible Grandmother had taken ill on Thanksgiving Day. She had been suffering with pneumonia and was struggling to breathe, so into the hospital she went where the news was bleak. The woman who'd survived for three years with a tumor on her lung with no further discomfort was in pain. The woman who to me, since I was little would live forever, it turns out wouldn't.

I believe that there is something that guides us through life. Whether it's a higher power, or a past life dictating our current decisions or pure instinct, I don't know, but I know it's there because it has guided me into and through some of the most important decisions of my life, that at the time seem totally benign. When I decided that we wouldn't go home for Christmas this year I had no idea that decision would enable me to see my Grandmother again. When I insisted that we spend our anniversary in New York and not Budapest I was unaware that would mean I could say goodbye.

My aunt is a rock. A solid, stoic, petite hunk of geode that remains unmoved despite hurricanes, avalanches and many a shit situation. She is the cornerstone of my family and to be able to sit with her while decisions were made and questions were asked was a privilege. I'm not very active in my family. To be honest, the closeness freaks me out and I don't really understand it. I love them all fiercely, but I just don't know how to get involved, to not feel like I'm watching myself pretending to belong.

Gram was being looked after at the Jewish Health Care Center in Worcester, Massachusetts, which to me was the ultimate irony considering she was a staunch Catholic and was not too thrilled when my mom converted to Judaism to marry my dad. Her little hand-carved nativity sat on her bedside table next to her Christmas tree and no one seemed to mind. It's a beautiful place and the care that they gave to my Gram was exceptional. As I watched her work with the OTs there it occurred to me that this would be the last time I would see her.

She looked great. She always looked great: head to toe color coordination, a ring on each finger and her hair shiny and soft. You couldn't help but be impressed with how Gram always put herself together. We talked a little and nurses and doctors came in and out. Steve had a bad cold, so he stayed away. We snuck her brownies and talked about nothing, but we both knew, we all knew that these conversations would be the last we'd have.

Gram died last Tuesday with my aunt by her side. She departed this earth after 95 years of being in very good health and in very good spirits. She said she was ready and I believed her, though I'm not sure I'll ever be ready and I know that we were sure not ready for her to go. Selfishly I always expected her to be there for Christmas. Everyone else I've lost has died so young, so Gram was a lovely reminder that it doesn't always happen that way. But we do all go and although I'm so grateful for the time we have, I will always want more.

I've been told her service was beautiful and that she got everything that she wanted, which she was able to dictate. How few people must get to do that?  My gorgeous and heroic cousin wrote and gave the eulogy and Gram was celebrated. I wasn't able to get back and I'm glad for that. I want to remember her as she was; beautiful, smiling, deaf as a post, but very happy. If there is an afterlife she'll have joined her grandson, her daughter and the love of her life. She'll be in very good company.

Love you , Gram

A raped man is not lucky.

It's become such a frequent occurrence that I write about rape that I'm bloody terrified at what the hell is going on in the world that I have so much to write about. In fact, between my posts on rape I have hardly any time to write about anything else.

I'm going to make this quick because I believe I have made myself perfectly clear on this topic many times before. However, I feel that if I don't lend my voice to this conversation it would be hypocritical. 

I believe Shia LaBeouf when he says he was raped. I believe him because I choose to always support a victim who comes forward. I fully believe men can be raped and I do not think that it is not rape without penetration. I also believe Shia LaBeouf is not mentally well or stable, but this does not undermine or minimize his experience as a victim. 

Too often we seek to excuse the assailant by blaming the victim: he's crazy, he was drunk, he was teasing me. Sound familiar? Probably not. Change the pronoun and I bet it does. Shia was participating in an art instillation, he was not something to be played with. He was acting, as he is paid to do, but this time he was not on film, he was human art.

For the #IAMSORRY exhibition in LA's Cohen Gallery, Shia wore a paper bag over his head which read "I'm Not Famous Anymore."  For a fee, and after waiting in line, spectators could buy the privilege of siting in a room in total silence with the Transformers actor. Is it art? Is it rape?

I understand the critics when they say that because he didn't protest or try and stop the perpetrator it is difficult to believe that he legitimately felt threatened. But vulnerable women will often behave in a similar way. I believe that someone can be paralyzed by fear and confusion and I know that a body will sometimes respond in a way that suggests pleasure, but is really just a physiological response to stimulation. I understand that it was probably awful for Shia as he sat there, confused and afraid of what was happening to him and unable, for whatever reason to stop it.

I am disappointed with the two other collaborators of the show who have now come forward and said that they "put a stop to it." Why wasn't there more security? Why weren't there cameras watching the installation? There would be if he was actually a piece of art, but he was a person pretending to be art. What's the difference? I can't get near the Mona Lisa without a sideways look from an entitled French security guard and 50 cameras on me, but on this occasion, in this gallery someone was able to touch a man's body without permission for a prolonged period of time. Even once the behavior was acknowledged by the others in the gallery, they allowed the assailant and her escort to leave.

Does it smell fishy? You bet it does, but the reality is that the majority of rape cases are fucking weird and fucking complicated. It's never the guy hiding in a bush with a knife. Despite the tinge of tuna, we need to be open to hearing about Shia's assault and stop saying that it didn't happen. 3% of American men will suffer a rape or attempted rape in their lifetime. (RAINN) Why is it so hard to believe that Shia is one of these?

Piers Morgan has come out and declared that Shia's claims are "an insult to all real rape victims everywhere." Why? Because he didn't stop it or say anything afterward? He sure as hell didn't consent either. The fact is this story is incredibly strange, as has been Mr. LaBeouf's behavior as of late. But this doesn't necessarily discredit him as a victim. It's incredibly rare for a man to come forward and to admit sexual assault because it's too often the case that he will be disbelieved and emasculated for speaking out as Piers is doing to LaBeouf now. Let's stop with the victim blaming irrespective of gender. It shouldn't matter.

Full of Thanks

People often ask me what Thanksgiving is all about. Technically I suppose it's the annual American ritual of celebrating mass genocide by eating a turkey, or more controversially a turducken with your closest friends and family. It's about a parade, a four day weekend and it's about football. But as I get less cynical in my old age I think it's about something else, something deeper.

Thanksgiving for me is an excuse to invite round the people I love to say "thank you" for just being around. Not everyone has a home they can invite people to and not everyone has people to invite, so for me it's about reflecting on my life and recognizing that I am incredibly lucky.

I had the company of four incredible women plus my wonderful husband this Thanksgiving and it was lovely. Of course we overindulged in food and libations, but that's all part of the fun. My guests requested that we take it in turns to share what we were thankful for. We must have forgotten because champagne, but I wanted to be incredibly self-indulgent and share my list with you today.

What I am thankful for this Thanksgiving 2014:
1. My wonderful husband- he is a saint and a brilliant partner in everything
2. My fantastic friends- No matter where you are, I am thinking of you this week and today. I have the best group of buddies a girl could hope for and I am so appreciative that we all make time for each other.
3. My family- although they are all far away, it's great that I have a family I can go home to.
4. My job- I am so fortunate that I get to get up every day and look forward to going to work
5. People who read this. My blog is my joy, my respite and my outlet. Thank you for reading, for sharing and for supporting me on this journey.

This has been an incredible year and I'm so looking forward to what 2015 has in store. But for now let's all enjoy the run up to the festive season and remember that it's less about the crap you buy, it's the stuff that's free that endures and that matters.

Happy Thanksgiving week, everyone.

We all know it's Christmas.

Last week I sat through the video debut of the newest Band Aid resurrection of that horribly patronizing Christmas classic designed to inspire us to loosen our purse strings and feel bad about the size of our Christmas dinners, "Do They Know It's Christmas?" This time the focus is on Ebola-ridden Africa and not poverty-stricken Africa, but always Africa. I don't know what I was expecting to have changed, but I was bitterly disappointed that so much remained the same.

There are 54 countries in Africa. It is a widely diverse continent in socioeconomic situation, natural resources, religion and even weather. Contrary to Geldof's lyric, there is usually snow in Africa at Christmas time. It is not the sweltering hot desert populated by children with flies in their eyes and distended bellies. Of course those images we see on infomercials and in Bob's vision are real, but they are not representative of all of Africa.

I worked in fundraising for 7 years, so I understand better than most that these are the images to invoke when you're on the other end of the phone with me and I'm asking you for £3 per month. The same images we use to threaten our ill-behaved and greedy children when they hide their vegetables under their meat. "Starving kids in Africa would be grateful for those broccoli florets." This is how I recognize the dangerous and demeaning message we send to Africa about how we, the intentional community view its citizens. No campaign has demonstrated this to us in the west better than the satirical Radi-Aid Campaign created by Africa for Norway: see it here.

Currently the Ebola outbreak is affecting 6 of Africa's 54 countries, all in West Africa and yes, this is a terrible and catastrophic epidemic in these countries, but not in all Africa. It would be as if the recent snowstorm that left Buffalo, NY under 6 feet of snow was reported as if it were the whole USA that was in a deep freeze. It's totally inaccurate. But we're not talking about something as banal as snow, we're talking about a virus that kills people in ways so violent and painful that to even think about it causes widespread panic.

This panic is detrimental to Africa's recently burgeoning tourism trade. Countries like Kenya and South Africa are suffering as people are confused about what countries in Africa are at risk. These are the same people who think Africa is a country. Formerly plagued as a continent of crime, hunger and poverty, now Africa is contending with the plague of the bloody plague and singles like  "Do They Know It's Christmas?" aren't helping.

I'm not saying don't give to charity, not at all, but know what you are giving to. Do your research and know your cause as well as where your money is going. If you're donating to help treat Ebola and your money's going to "Africa" that shouldn't be good enough. You want it going to Sierra Leone or another affected country. Ask before you donate.

As someone who works for a volunteer organization I know how damaging these perpetuated assumptions can be to a country, or in this case a whole continent. Africa For Norway's latest offering sees a white European desperate to volunteer to "save Africa" but the Africa she wants to save is nothing like the majority of the continent's reality and it's our collective ignorance damaging the international perception of Africa as a whole. Videos like Live Aid's gang of rich, white celebrities continue to sell the "white man's burden" bullshit that we, since colonial times should be trying to distance ourselves from.

Where are all the African artists? Why were Emilie Sande's more sensitive revisions to the song binned? Was changing a few odd lines really enough when the shitty, condescending chorus remains? Of course people in Africa know it's Christmas. The problem is so many of us know nothing about Africa.

How do we solve a problem like Cosby?

I feel like no one's talking enough about Bill Cosby.

I feel like I just found out that the man I looked up to for decades, that I trusted with my affection and that I laughed with every week; same time, same channel is a rapist. Because that's exactly what just fucking happened and I want to talk about it.

Recently I've had painfully sustained conversations re: Kim Kardashian's ass, but as of yet I haven't had one conversation about the accusations facing Bill Cosby. Accusations that I don't hesitate for a second to believe. Not because I'm a woman or a feminist, but because it makes sense. You don't pay people to shut up about things that aren't true. You just don't. You don't just shut the fuck up when people start accusing you of rape. You just don't. And sure, that's not solid evidence, but it's one fucking hell of a hunch.

When the Jimmy Saville case blew up over here in the UK it was on every news channel for...well it still is. He was some radio DJ who liked to fiddle underage girls, boys, the infirmed, you name it. He's also dead, but that didn't stop his face being plastered all over the papers for months, continuing to the present. Speculations flew and in their dozens and now hundreds of people have come forward and started talking. But this is a dead man, and a man who I feel is getting a much tougher time in the media and in the nostalgic minds of children than Mr. Cosby.

Cosby's victims are calling him "this generation's most prolific serial rapist" yet his new stand up show is still due to be broadcast on Comedy Central this month. What a way to begin the festive season: with a rapist telling jokes. Ho, ho, ho. Dapper Laughs gets his show banned for making jokes about rape, but Bill Cosby, an actual real live rapist is still earning a paycheck many, many, many years after these accusations first came to light.

I feel such intense sympathy for Barbra Bowman. Having suffered at the hands of Cosby multiple times in the 80's she spoke out numerous times to a variety of different people. Their advice: shut the fuck up. But she didn't. Bowman has continued to speak out against Cosby and supported a fellow claimant against Cosby in 2006. It's not a surprise if you've never heard of Bowman, surprisingly after numerous rapes at the hands of Cosby her career never really took off.

What blows my mind is that after nearly 10 years of evidence and complaints against Cosby from as many different women, it took a comedian, a man, to point the finger just once and suddenly we were all listening. What the hell does that say about us as a society? Be dubious of women who accuse their attackers, but if a man makes a joke, we better follow that shit up. I'm sorry, but whaaaa?

The statistical data suggests that less than 50% of rape victims in the USA report their rape. And we wonder why this is? The culture of disbelief and senseless shaming of victims is allowing criminals to continue to commit crimes. Our reluctance to react in a way that empowers victims is silencing them. I blogged earlier in the month about how proud I am of Ke$ha for coming forward and pursuing her claims against producer Dr. Luke. I wonder how many of "her people," people employed to protect and look after her told her to shut up about it?

The statute of limitations is up on all of these accusations, so Cosby will unfortunately not be prosecuted for these attacks. To add insult to injury there are people still buying tickets to his stand up show.  "Plenty of people still love Cosby, and they would be willing to overlook just about any allegations in order to see him perform." (Vox, 2014) WHY? Why are we continuing to financially support a man who raped multiple young, vulnerable women? I just don't get it. We continue to support known sexual offenders like Cosvy, Woody Allen and Roman Polanski, but Lena Dunham checks out her sisters vag and she's now a paedophile. Something has to change.

We need to support the victims in the Cosby case. We need to show that it's better to come forward and to make a big noise than to shrink into the shadows. People are not going to believe these women. People are going to say terrible things about them.We need to stop thinking that they should have said more, spoken sooner, done more. They did their best and they are the victims. Bill Cosby is not a victim. Bill Cosby was not your dad. Bill Cosby is most probably a rapist. We need to get used to that idea.

Someone please fix the internet.

I had a conversation about this topic with some of my lady chums the other day, so to avoid being misunderstood I think I need to make some things clear about my position before I proceed.

1. I am not jealous of Kim Kardashian
2. I do not dislike Kim Kardashian
3. I do not think mothers can't be sexual beings
4. I think Kim is a beautiful woman

Now that that's out of the way let's talk about those photos. Those photos that showed a cartoonish derriere attached to half of the body of a woman with Kim Kardashian's face. She's like a centaur, but instead of being cross-bred with a powerful horse, she's genetically a half sequined tablecloth.

If you want to learn more about objectifying images I recommend watching Caroline Heldman's TED talk here. She's got a very easy checklist you can follow to determine whether or not you are looking at an objectifying image. She emphasizes that if the whole of the person is not displayed in a commercial image, they are not being viewed as an actual person. They are just choice exposed parts. Usually a woman's exposed parts to sell shit. Cars, cigarettes, magazines. In Kim's case, she is presented as no more than her giant, photoshopped ass, which is being used to sell shit-loads of issues of Paper. What's not to smile about? So much.

In my earlier conversation, it became abundantly clear that people feel like those Kim Kardashian photos are harmless. That she's just "owning her sexuality." I say she's not. If she were owning her sexuality, if she were owning anything, even her own body, those photos would not be as retouched and Photoshopped as they are. Just like the rest of us, Kim Kardashian probably hates her body. But it's her one commodity, so she's happy to let other people manipulate it, exploit it and warp it in ways that make the rest of us feel the need to warp our own bodies in return.

I hate the policing of other women's bodies, so I won't do that. I'll police the selling of unattainable, unnatural bodies as reality. We are bombarded every second of every day with images telling us who to be and how to look. If you think you're unaffected, you're delusional. If you think these pictures won't one day affect your children, you're delusional. These photos are at best creating an unrealistic idea of beauty for your children. Both sons and daughters.

Between songs about "skinny bitches" and "big booties." Between Meghan Trainor trying to be retro and J-Lo trying to be relevant we are a society obsessed with sending mixed messages to women about our bodies. Be skinny! No fuck skinny, get a fat ass, but still stay skinny! Wait...you gotta get some bass in your treble. What the fuck does that even mean? And why the hell are we putting ourselves through all this bullshit? So someone else can use our body to make a buck. I'd like to mention that Kim didn't even get paid for this shoot. Her desperation to work with the photographer meant that she earned not a penny for the photos that are currently selling millions of magazines. Sad face.

In other news Kim Kardashian's naked ass has repercussions beyond totally skewing your body image. Maybe white America can't see that it affects not just white America, but I can tell you it does. Using a woman's naked body to sell a product is wrong and I'll tell you why: It sends a really dangerous message about who a woman is. Don't believe me? Think I'm overreacting? Pack your bags and get on a plane. There's a whole wide world of misogyny out there beyond the 50 states.

Those photos will ultimately contribute to the overall impression the international community has about me as a woman. These kind of photos are part of the reason I got my breasts grabbed on the bus, the reason that a man with a motorbike hit me hard enough to knock me onto the road and then got off his bike to feel me up. Even the reason I witnessed another woman being harassed into oblivion last weekend on a train from Scotland.

As much as I am a fan of naked bodies and I think we should get them out more often, we should not be using them to peddle goods. We're better than that. The over-sexualization of women to sell products is harmful. It trivializes our sexuality and sends the very dangerous message that everything is for sale.

Please understand that I'm in no way saying that this is right. I just know it's true. I know that a recent influx of porn, easier access to the internet and newly imported shows like The Real Housewives franchise and Keeping Up With The Kardashians has helped to mold the preconceptions international men have of me. The color of my skin coupled with my accent is a flashing red sign above my head saying "fuck me" "touch me" "buy me." And it's fucking scary.

These latest Kardashian photos are not good for anyone but Paper's bank balance. Kim's naked body is helping someone else to get rich. They are not contributing to the empowerment of women, at best they are contributing to a conversation that I would be more inclined to engage in if these photos were being hung in a gallery. They didn't even contribute to her yearly income. One thing I know that these photos will do for sure, is continue to propagate the segregation and victimization of women internationally. 

A long way from home

By now if you read this regularly, you should know my feelings on street harassment. One of the reasons I feel as strongly as I do about what does and does not constitute harassment is because when you are harassed, really harassed there is no debate or confusion about it.

Last night I boarded the 5:40 Virgin Trains service from Glasgow heading back to London. I settled into my seat, opened my book and prepared for 4.5 hours of boredom peppered with claustrophobia. I was strangely looking forward to it. About 2 hours into my journey, my cocoon of boredom was shattered and replaced with something entirely unexpected on a leisurely train ride home, rage.

Four men, about 55 years in age stumbled aboard the train and noisily ousted some younger, quieter chaps from their seats. "These are reserved" they slurred as they propped each other up in the aisle. "I am so fucked" one of them declared proudly, as if her were 16 and at his first kegger. The boys in the seats scurried off and the old men fell into their places. I was sat directly behind them and the smell coming off of them made me have to cover my face with my scarf until I adjusted.

In no time at all they had turned their attention to a lone woman in the seat across the aisle from them. "What's your name?" One if them asked, the woman continued to read her magazine. This is a tactic I have used often, pretend you don't know they are talking to you and keep doing what you're doing. "Oi! I'm talking to you, we just saw you in the bar didn't we?" I stopped listening for a bit at that point, because I thought maybe I'd got the wrong end of the stick and she knew these cretins. It became apparent later that she most certainly did not, and like me she was just a woman traveling alone and all to often this is treated as a fucking invitation for unwelcome advances and harassment. Real, scary, inescapable harassment.

The woman, whose name she finally surrendered was Louise, engaged in reluctant conversation with one of the men. I've also had to do that before. If they won't let up, you have no choice if the carriage is packed. When it comes to train harassment, you're damned if you do and damned if you don't. Get up and move and they could follow you. Start talking and you open yourself up for all kinds of unsavory conversation from the harassers and the victim blame of the other passengers, "she should have moved" "she shouldn't have laughed" "she should have ignored them." Right, so it's her fucking fault for having the brass vagina to travel alone and stay in the fucking seat that she purchased? It's not the fault of the animals who won't leave her alone? Right.

At one stage I had to get up to use the toilet, but even I was intimidated. And the thing that makes me so angry is that I fucking checked myself. Before I stood up, I put my hair up to look less attractive and made sure my clothes were loose, as if that was going to help. The second I stood up the men began whistling at me, and then one shouted "Woah! She was sat there the whole time!" I'd been spotted. Fuck.

After I used the disgusting toilet, which people were smoking in just before I entered and was covered in piss, with no toilet paper with which to wipe it up, or to wipe my offending genitals with I headed back to my seat. At this stage I might add that Virgin Train tickets cost an absolute fortune, so what are we actually paying for? It was anarchy on that train last night and not once did a member of staff walk through the carriage.

When I reported this behavior to Virgin their response was that I "should have got a member of staff." Who exactly? And what would this person have done? The ticket inspector, who I saw once the whole journey was an elderly man himself. I had zero confidence that he could have stopped those assholes in my carriage and I certainly wasn't going to risk making it worse. How about you shouldn't be letting people that horrendously drunk on your trains? Those men would never have been able to board a Virgin plane. What's the difference between a 4.5 hour flight and a 4.5 hour train journey?

Once back in my seat I noticed that one of them had really started going for it with poor Louise. "You'd get it." "She'd fucking get it" his thumb jutted through the gap between the seats in front of me. "You've got lovely breasts" he said to Louise, all of his friends roared with laughter. Louise shrunk. Noticing her body language they all began to ask each other "is that rude?" "Was that too rude?" All the while cackling away like a coven of demented witches. I'd had enough "that's fucking rude" I piped up from behind them, my voice smaller that I would have liked.

"Is that rude?" They all asked each other mockingly.

"Yes, it bloody is!" My voice was back.

The drunkest of them turned around and fixed his bloodshot eyes on me. "Turn around, grandpa" I shouted and his friends responded with a chorus of laughter and "oooohhhhhs" like they were children.

"That one's a beautiful fucking cunt. She'll clip you 'round the ear if you're not careful, stick to Louise." Poor Louise, I felt at times like I was leaving her adrift on a violent tide of misogyny, but I knew I couldn't control it. She remained in her dinghy, but I stayed beside her in my sturdier vessel determined not to let her capsize.

It never let up. For 2.5 hours is was "where do you live?" "Do you eat pussy?" "Do you like cock?" "I'm gonna give you a lift home and fuck you." Louise responded as little as she dared and every few minutes I'd pipe up and they'd act like petulant kids being told off again. I finally snapped and stood up after clocking their wedding rings.

"Oi! You're all married? How the fuck would you like it if your wife was trying to travel home and four belligerent asshats were treating her like this? Would you think it was so funny then?" One of them held four fingers up at me and stuck his bottom lip out in mock pout.

"What does that mean?" I asked him.

"You said four,"he said to me, his voice just above a whisper. I shivered.

"What?" I exploded. "You think that because you haven't said much that you're not responsible for how Louise is feeling right now? For how I'm feeling? You sure do think it's hilarious when they say shit and I haven't heard you telling them to shut up. Your complacency is just as bad. Shame on you all."

I'll also point out that at no time did anyone else try and intervene. People were listening, but no one else tried to help. Between loud choruses of the Hokey Cokey, these men continued their disgusting comments and on two occasions one of them turned around in his seat and tried to touch me.

Once it was time for them to deboard Louise put on her hat "You look ugly with that hat on" and stood up "I didn't know how fat you were. Nice face, though." The men shuffled past me to the exit behind me and I stood up in the aisle to block the space between them and Louise as I directed her to the opposite exit. Her face crumpled as she looked at me and said "thank you." All I could say was "I'm so sorry, get home safe."

"Oy! Louise, you're coming with us!"

"No. She isn't. Goodnight."I gave the men an exaggerated wave and watched as they disappeared into the night, probably to go home and beat their wives.

I slumped back in my seat and got out my phone charger. My phone was dead and those bastards had the outlet on their table. I perched on one of the beer-soaked seats as the passenger who was sat directly across from me came over.

"Hi, I'm going to plug in too. I had my headphones on for most of that, but she really should have moved."

I cold feel my pulse in my ears, "she paid for that seat, why should she have moved?"

"She was asking for it by interacting with them, but good for you for saying something" He smiled at me, "where's your accent from?"

"There were four of them and one of her. Sometimes you don't have a choice. You heard them when she was ignoring them..." I checked my phone to occupy my hands so I didn't hit him.

"Yeah but, I mean she could have moved. I'm a salesman so I move all over actually. What do you do?"

I jumped back in my original seat and put my fist in my mouth. Is this real life?

I would gladly pay an extra fee to have security on evening trains. Or even to have people at the turnstiles to check passengers aren't too drunk to board. I am disappointed with Virgin's response and think that they need to do more to help in these kinds of situations. It's Virgin's responsibility take suitable precautions on their service to ensure incidents like this don't happen, to be vigilant and provide safe transportation. I hold two Virgin credit cards, am a frequent flyer and a frequent passenger on their trains. At least I was all of those things until last night.

I can't help but feel let down, not just by Virgin, but by everyone else on that fucking train.

Making a Mountain out of Vagina Pebbles

I think I've made it pretty clear that I am not a huge Lena Dunham fan. I think she's overrated and overexposed, but that's what we, the public have demanded of her. We like her trademark "oversharing" and her cringe-enducing humor that is ususally a lot more close to home than most of us would like to admit.

We cheer when she talks about sucking a kidney stone out of a man's cock. We roll around our living room floors clutching our bellies when her character in Girls takes cocaine and switches shirts in a club leaving her wearing a string vest with nothing on underneath, exposing her puffy nipples. We shield our eyes and then unshield them multiple times during a Hannah/Adam love scene. We love what Lena does. We tell her we love what she does. We shower her with awards and we keep tuning in to her show. So why, when her book reveals "too much" about Lena, are we up in arms? Why are we are disgusted? 

Lena's book has been out for weeks now, so why this particular chapter is suddenly getting a lot of attention is a bit confusing. Why now? Why these words? Lena Dunham is being accused of child molestation. At the age of seven she was able to know her behavior was sexual and inappropriate and she subsequently victimized her little sister. Bullshit. And it's not bullshit because of white privilege. It's just bullshit because it is.

Sexualising this behavior is gross. Sure, we don't all go rooting around in our baby sister's vagina, but at the age of seven we all do weird shit. We eat paste, we eat boogers, we put our hands in our butt cracks and then smell them, we fuck about with our vaginas and have no idea what they are, we just know it feels nice. If I'd had a spare vagina in my house I might have looked at it. I bet Lena's mum is sure happy she did poke around in her sisters vag. She found a shitload of pebbles!

Lena's choice of words was stupid, she says she did "anything a sexual predator might do" to get her sister's attention, even buying kisses on the lips. If Hannah had told this anecdote in an episode of Girls I bet we'd have all done what we've all been doing: gasped and then dissolved into laughter. We know that Lena Dunham is not a sexual predator. She does not have a penchant for little girls, she was a curious child who did some weird shit in a family that was very open about...everything. Get your minds out of the gutter, right wing killjoys. Lena is not a danger to your children, she was not a danger to her sister.

We asked this of Lena Just like in Girls when her publishers encourage her to be more extreme with her disclosures, we have done the same. If this book had come out and been vanilla and tame we would have been pissed about that too. The girl can't win. But what makes me really angry is that there are people out there telling her sister, Grace that she has been abused. There are people out there comparing Lena Dunham to fucking Gary Glitter. Get. Real. People.

She made a joke. A joke that in today's unshockable society, probably at the time of inception, felt tame. I bet she and her family joke about how Grace never needed to worry about men in cars with candy when Lena was around. I bet this is totally normal and cute within the safe confines of their family. I bet these memories are recalled with an awkward fondness, but certainly not shame. We are shaming this young woman for sharing herself with us. But isn't that what we all fucking wanted?

They say there's no such thing as bad press, and this controversy is certainly going to help sell a lot of books, but I can't help but feel like we've set Lena up for this; and that this success will be forever bittersweet.

My date with Dunham and Moran

Friday night was Halloween, my favorite holiday. However, this year's excitement over dressing up and probably taking hallucinogens was usurped by a different kind of anticipation. Fuck the drugs, I was intoxicated on the idea of seeing Caitlin Moran (my idol) have a chat with Lena Dunham (a girl that makes that show I love/hate.)

Steve was his usual legendary self and purchased the tickets for me as a gift. Tickets which sold out in less than 1.5 hours and had people scalping them online for as much as £900. Believe me, I thought about it. But I kept hold of these golden tickets to feminist literary conversation, not for the intellectual value, but because I promised to take my friend who is actually a bit dangerously obsessed with Lena.

This is when the cab driver kept telling us to "smile dirty" because he "really liked it." Ew. 

I mean, look at us here in the cab dressed as "String vest" Hannah and "Slightly angry feminist" Caitlin. We nailed it. Secretly we were both hoping that everyone else would have been dressed up too. I mean, what an opportunity?! To totally fangirl out and blame it on Halloween. Genius.

Anyway, we arrived bang-on 7pm and set about like rats escaping a sinking ship, except instead of frantically searching for exits, we were looking for liquor. Once located, we leaned against the bar with the desperation of escaped convicts and were curtly told by the bartender that "the queue starts there." She extended her hand and pointed her finger past about 10 people, all glaring at us. Something inside me died and we floated to the back of the line like deflated, apologetic balloons.

After waiting for about 5 minutes (felt like days) we noticed another pair of  undesirables trying the same tactic as we had. I recognized one of them as Miranda Hart, beloved British comedienne. "There's a queue" I spoke loudly in her direction. She and her lovely blonde friend looked me in the eye, Miranda cleared her throat and they took thier places in the queue behind us. After purchasing a bottle of fizz, which we regrettably had to empty into two plastic pint glasses a la a high school kegger we went inside to take our seats.

Our seats were taken. Some assholes had nicked our seats and Caitlin was talking. I was missing my idol's precious words being annoyed at some seat-stealing asshats. Thankfully two lovely women moved over and gave us the last two seats in their row. I have to have an aisle seat. Without an aisle seat I will flip the fuck out in a fit of tears and panic.

Caitlin was speaking about how much she admired and supported Lena and her talent. How she was the voice of a generation and how like no one before, Lena was tackling issues of a twenty-something that were before unspoken and hidden. After this generous ego-wank, Lena was introduced and appeared from stage right like a fancily-dressed, green-haired version of herself that was totally expected. She looked exactly like I thought she would, but her walk was very heavy, as if she was trying to make footprints on even concrete. Her gait was leaden and a bit clumsy, but she was small, vulnerable and beautiful.

She read a chapter from her book about nudity, her mother and her work. Her soft, squeaky voice punctuated words and cracked slightly at times. It was soothing, and sweet and made the room noticeably warmer. Lena does what her character Hannah can not do. Lena encourages feelings of admiration, kindness and of soft pillows. Hannah inspires rage and annoyance. I am so happy to see the differences between them. Those who say Lena doesn't act, and that Hannah is just her in smaller clothes are wrong.

Once seated next to Caitlin, Lena mused about meeting Jennifer Saunders that morning and about her obsession with Call the Midwife. "I was watching all the grizzly birth scenes as research for the next season of Girls, but that's all I can tell you."As a lovely surprise Catilin arranged all the cast to be there and called them all out one by one. Miranda Hart, drink in hand, waved. Lena was visibly excited and flattered and said "thank you" over and over.

Caitlin and Lena talked more like old friends and less like fans of eachother's work. There is no awkwardness and when Lena gets stuck on a thought or Caitlin can't find her page there were affectionate arm-squeezes exchanged and I do really feel that whether we were there or not, these two women would have been having a very similar conversation.

The question was posed about how she managed to do as much as she does and Lena revealed that she is learning the word "no." That was women we are told to be amenable and to always accept  invitations and do things for other people but as she said, "saying no is the only thing that allows us to keep going and to keep our light on." I totally agree.

Lena and Caitlin both have the uncanny ability to say the things that we all think. To reach into our minds and put the contents on print, or on the screen, or to just say it. It was refreshing and unifying to be in that room in Friday.

This gift of seeming clairvoyance could be, as Caitlin offers, due to a medical condition called Hypermobility Syndrome. Caitlin rattled off a list of character traits that sounded like she was tipping out my essence, in words from a paper bag. Creative, prone to anxiety, easily bruising, inability to hold liquor, extreme mood swings, etc. The look on Lena's face, and probably mine was that Caitlin had just done some crazy-ass voodoo on us, but she hadn't she'd just described some of the traits that help to diagnose a syndrome she suffers with and maybe Lena does and I do too.

It was only when Lena stuck her thumbs below her index finger knuckle joints that I got really excited. "I CAN DO THAT TOO!" I aggressively whispered at my poor friend who smiled sympathetically at me like she would a child who just fell off their bike and gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Lena and I are officially bendy-thumb sisters. This was a big deal.

Other questions ranged from, "how does it feel to be best friends with Taylor Swift?" To which my favorite revelation of the night came about, "I'd love to tell you that you're not missing out on much, but it's the best." (I KNEW IT!) To the predictable questions about body image and the responsibility Girls has to young women.

When questions were opened up to the audience I got in the queue. I wanted to speak to them, to have a genuine interaction with these two incredible women, and I wanted to show them that we dressed up AS them. But they ran out of time as they discussed whether or not one can be racist by omission (the consensus was no) and I had to go back to my seat, which was probably a good thing because I was pretty buzzed from my pint of champagne.  

The only disappointment of the night came when we went to collect our books. We were promised when we bought tickets that Lena and Caitlin would be on hand to sign said literature, but this promise was revoked in an email on Wednesday evening. The email read that due to the amount of tickets sold (it was sold out on day 1) that the books would be pre-signed. Ok, well what can you do? However, when we went to collect our books we were then told to email the publisher and a signed "book plate" would be posted out to us. Not OK, Harper Collins, not OK Lena Dunham. Get your shit together.

Despite this anti-climactic end, the night was fantastic. I got to spend it with one of my feminist idols watching our two biggest feminist idols. I can't wait to see what this season of Girls will bring, and I'm actually looking forward to it now that I understand the woman behind the curtain so much better. I know she's not a pretentious, spoiled shit. She just plays one on TV.

It's a beautiful day for harassment.

Yesterday a popular video filled my Facebook news feed, shared exclusively by my female friends. This video, produced by Hollaback, a non-profit organization fighting street harassment with education started a conversation which I feel is very one-sided. A conversation I'd like to explore further.

In the video a woman walks the streets of NYC for 10 hours and documented 100+ incidents of "street harassment." I put that term in quotes this time because I'm not 100% in agreement that what was documented fits the definition. Harassment is defined as: the act or an instance of harassing, or disturbing, pestering, or troubling repeatedly; persecution. (dictionary.com.) The word "harassment" implies something sinister or lascivious.

There is no doubt that this video documents the fact that on the street people make comments about you: your body- "God bless you Mami. DAMN!"your face- "Smile!" everything else- "I just saw a thousand dollars!" And I'm not defending that. However, those comments are much less prevalent than the many incidents of "how are you today?" that repeatedly get tossed her way and ignored. 

I do not consider asking a person how they are or greeting them with a "good morning" or "good evening" harassment. I think this video is painting men a very unfavorable shade by claiming that they are "harassing" this woman when most of them are greeting her and then going about their day. "Harassment" by definition requires repetition and most of these men say something and then walk away.

I am not afraid of men who speak to me. I am afraid of men who follow me, as one does to her, I am afraid of men who openly masturbate at me, as has been done twice to me on the NYC subway and I am afraid of men who shout at me. These are scary things. But I refuse to be made afraid of a man wishing me "good morning." 

When I first moved to NYC in 2002 I felt terribly alone. I met the eyes of nearly everyone I passed on the street and I smiled or said "good morning." Not everyone said it back, maybe they were afraid of me. That's a terrible thought. I'm not scary. 

I remember complaining about this to my Dad; telling him how no one smiled at me like they did in my small home town. I can only imagine my dad in NYC, remembering those conversations with me and greeting young women on the street. Young women, who like his daughter may have been feeling very alone. The very idea that he could have been filmed in that video and now defined as a "street harasser" makes me feel sick and sad. We have to stop searching for reasons to be afraid of men. 

I comment on women's appearances all the time. Right or wrong, that's our culture and we feel like we are invested in, and can judge others' physicality. Think I'm wrong? Look how many copies of US Weekly and Heat are sold each week. We love it. I have most definitely been known to say "wow!" out loud if I see a beautiful woman, or a beautiful man. If they were walking past me with two microphones in their hands you would have heard me. My comments are never meant to intimidate anyone. But regardless of intent, I'd now be labeled a "street harasser."

I was raised that if something is lovely, you say it. Someone might be having the worst day of their life and if you tell them you like their shirt or that they look beautiful, you might improve their day just a little bit. Is it only OK for me to do that if I'm a woman? Or is it not OK at all and we should just stop fucking talking to each other? 

Street harassment is a very real thing and it is really, really scary. Please don't misunderstand me. But by this video's definition I am a street harasser. A wink, a smile, a friendly greeting should not cause us to be afraid. Nevertheless I worry this video will cause men to be afraid. To shut up and stop talking to us just in case they inadvertently provoke the opposite response they expected or wanted. 

I refuse to victimize myself as a woman and I refuse to vilify you as a man. Please keep wishing me "good morning." I will continue to answer back.

The question continues...

I went to a feminist book club last week. For those of you who read this, you will either be totally repulsed by that idea or totally jealous. You should be the latter, it was awesome.

I met about fifteen other women who wanted to talk about stuff I wanted to talk about and who were interested in the same kinds of conversations I wanted to have about said stuff. None of this 'I'm right, you're wrong' bullshit, but more 'I hear you and am interested, tell me more.' I felt that I had the opportunity to consider a lot of ideas I hadn't thought about before and at the same time that I had met a group of like-minded women I am psyched to meet again. We didn't all agree with each other, in fact, we challenged more than we acquiesced and something someone said has lingered with me this whole week.

The subject of rape came up again, as it is likely to do when discussing sexual politics and inequalities between genders. Also I was shamelessly plugging my blog, which unfortunately recently has been about the same subject. Anyway, one of the women in the group said that she found it unfair that if a woman is too drunk to give consent, than surely a man can be too drunk to control himself. Whuuuuh? To be honest, this was a totally new idea to me, so I didn't want to dismiss it, I wanted to think about it. So I have.

Drunk, incapacitated women are so often the victims of sexual assault, that to then excuse this assault by saying that a man simply loses control of his faculties and has to forceably put his penis or other object into someone else's body is pretty fucked up. But here we are again (dum dum duuuuum)Is it rape? Is this a crazy double standard we've been peddling all this time? A way to avoid regret by calling rape? I say 'nay.'

In my experience, if you can get it up, you have an idea about what you are doing. All my male mates have the same response to too much alcohol as I do: they pass the fuck out. They don't grow massive hard-on and seek place to bury it. If you are putting your penis into someone who is too drunk to know what's going on or passed out, then you are a rapist. If you can't get it up and then still try and put things into someone else's body while they are incapacitated...well you, my friend are a whole new level of fucked, but you are also a rapist. And this shit is not exclusive to college like Katy Perry's brand of lesbianism. If you raped someone in college, you are a rapist. It's not a cute phase you went through.

Is it totally fucking crazy that I've been considering this for a week? No, and I'm glad I did. Far too often women are painted as victims and men as predators, but sometimes it's because that's just how it is sometimes. Sometimes, not all the time. I love men. Really, really love them and so therefore I refuse to believe that all me have the capacity to rape; that when a man gets too drunk his default identity is Rapey McRaper. I have intelligent, sexy, impressive men in my life. Men who drink and have drank a shitload of alcohol and none have raped.

Sadly I also have huge numbers of beautiful, smart, hilarious female friends who drink and at one time in their life have drank a shitload of alcohol and have woken up with dicks and other objects inside them and have been raped. It's just the truth. So I'm not saying in any way that women can lose control and men can't. I'm just saying that we both lose control in a similar way and it is a predator, not some poor, hapless drunk who rapes.

Hopefully the next time I'm here it will be with cheerier topics, but I do feel that this is important that we are thinking about it and talking about it. A lot of people have stories to share, but are silent because of the shame and the blame surrounding these incidents. Let's start to have the difficult conversations and start to get on the same side.

And if you need help: 
You can call Rapecrisis freephone helpline in the UK 0808 802 9999
And in the USA you can call 08006564673

But is it rape?

Everyone knows how much I love Kesha (formerly Ke$ha), right? If you don't then you don't know me.

I love her enough to go see her twice, to pay money for her albums (I know all the words to both) and I even watched her really shit show, My Crazy Beautiful Life long after she drank her own pee and everyone else switched off. I. Love. Her.

Today it was reported that she is suing her producer Dr. Luke for sexual assault. She alleges that he, on numerous occasions got her drunk or drugged her and sexually molested her. As if this wasn't sad and infuriating enough, overwhelmingly the public's response is that she deserved it. Because she writes songs about 'brushing her teeth with a bottle of Jack' she should expect to be assaulted. Because she sings 'Pull over, sucker! Now spread 'em, Let me see what you're packin', Inside that denim,' she's earned a good non-consensual pounding.

When the fuck are we going to stop blaming victims for being victims? I don't give a half a shit if she was chugging whiskey, booty-butt nekked on this dude's pool table with her ass in the air. There is no excuse for someone to touch your body without your permission. And what is all this bullshit about 'is it rape?' All this qualifying shit? 'She was drunk so...was it rape?' 'She's continued working with him for so long so...was it rape?' 'She can't remember what happened to her so...was it rape?' Let me clear this up for everyone. If you are sexually assaulted when you are drunk, drugged or even if you are in a long term relationship, it counts.

Weighing in on a crime like it's Tracey Emin's unmade fucking bed. Is it art? Is trivializing a horrific crime that happens to a woman every fucking 45 seconds in the USA.


We need to get rid of this archaic idea that 'real' rape only happens in a dark alley with a weapon wielding stranger. Not everyone runs straight to the police or to the shower and sits in it for hours like the showed us on Lifetime TV, and just because they don't, it makes them no less of a victim.

I read the most rage-inducing story recently of a woman who was raped whilst she was drunk on holiday in a foreign country. She didn't run after it happened, she stayed the night at the party where the crime occurred, too afraid to head out in the strange, dark country alone. She went to the police the following day, but was met with disbelief and slight amusement when she reported that the attack had happened over 18 hours ago and that she had been intoxicated. It wasn't rape, they said, it was regret.

Fewer and fewer women are reporting rape and we wonder why? Nine out of ten women raped on college campus don't report it. Why would they when we sit and judge and mock and shame. I know too many people who have a story like Kesha's and there is always a reason they only talk about it in hushed circles; 'I dated him', 'I was drunk', 'I was flirting', 'It wasn't real rape' 'You can't rape a man.' When are we going to start supporting each other instead, so we don't have to feel so fucking alone? When are we going to start listening and stop all the judgement? Who is it helping?

I am supporting Kesha, not just because I love and respect her as an artist, but because I respect her as a person. The conversation surrounding her revelation is all wrong. We need to stop talking about how many of her songs were about partying and start focusing on how to support people who are brave enough to seek the justice they deserve.

Am I Right? Yes you are!

On Thursday evening I made my monthly pilgrimage to The Soho Theatre. I decided awhile ago that I was not taking full advantage of all the wonderful opportunities that London affords to see live performance. So as a solution I vowed to go and see something each month that I had never heard of. This was how I discovered Lady Rizo and saw shows like The Children's Hour, so far I'd had pretty amazing luck.

Whilst in the queue for Lady Rizo last month I saw a poster of what looked like quite a bolshy young woman holding her jacket open to reveal a studded bra.The look on her face said 'You like this? Of course you do.' I'd like to think it's a similar face to what I would make if I was opening my jacket and exposing my bra to you. So I booked tickets to this lady's performance knowing nothing about her, but that she was probably American and that she had awesome hair. The title of the show was 'Am I Right, Ladies?' So I was looking forward to seeing if she was.

I make it a practice to not Google my monthly performances (not a euphemism.) I like to be surprised and to always see live acts with an unprejudiced eye. I'll spare you the details of how we (myself and my gorgeous companion Hannah) arrived super early (see post about Lady Rizo) and queued up for ages and then ran downstairs like two squealing children only to be told that the show was, in fact two floors up and had already started. Face palm.

Once we found the right theatre and were told off for trying to bring glass in, we were shown to our seats which were on the right side of the balcony. A woman was on stage, who I have to say looked little like the promotional poster. She was blonde, not dark haired and looked younger, thinner and slightly less glamorous. I suppose replacing a fur coat and a studded bra with a PVC skirt and plimsoles will do that to a girl.

To the soundtrack of Beyonce she was shuffling/dancing around the stage, clearly waiting for idiots like us to take our seats. Once we had, she introduced herself and then demanded we demonstrate some of our dance moves. I loved her already. From rapid shoulder-raises to a miniature cabbage patch we were all moving in unison and giving Luisa our 'sex face.' It is at this stage that I realized she was not American, but British. No American has an accent, or a sex face like hers.

Once she had suitably warmed us up, she began by telling us that she had already had one very successful show a few years ago and that this was her sequel. She got standing ovations every night, but alas her life was still full of one night stands and bus rides home. From the first few statements out of Luisa's mouth, 'And when I say bitches, I mean the men too. Equality.' It was apparent that she was a feminist who was doing an incredibly inclusive show, but speaking from her very personal experience. This was going to be something really exciting.

Luisa managed to celebrate her body, comparing her little pot-belly to a Prada bag, without putting anyone else down. There was no mention of 'skinny bitches.' There were no comparisons. She was telling her story with passion, power, total hilarity and managed to keep every single woman and man in that theatre on her side. It was such a finely crafted show that none of us wanted to move when she stepped off stage, but at the same time we all wanted to bum-rush her and congratulate her on doing such a fantastic job.

It would be a cliche to describe her show as 'brave' but it really was. From recounting loveless sexual encounters to the heartbreak of being cheated on and the incredibly accurate statements she makes about gender equality and mental illness, she's fucking brave and I wish that we were seeing more of her and seeing more comedians like her emerging.

In today's society where even my beloved Lee Evans has started to make domestic violence jokes in a bid to appear relevant, comics like Luisa are doing it totally effortlessly and without being abrasive or offensive. You leave the show wanting to be her friend and wanting to thank her for saying a million things you've always been thinking. She is the representation of what it means to be young, broke and single in London. I don't want to spoil things for you, but there are many splendid surprises peppered throughout the show and each one is expertly timed. She breaks your heart, makes you rise to your feet in solidarity and cheer until your throat is raw for this wonderful show and this incredible woman.

'Am I Right Ladies?' has finished its short run at The Soho Theatre, but its predecessor 'What Would Beyonce Do?' Is running at The Leciester Square Theatre. You can get tickets here: http://www.seetickets.com/event/luisa-omielan-what-would-beyonce-do/leicester-square-theatre/792809
Come with me! And you can find out more about Luisa here: http://www.iloveluisa.com/

20 years since my first hug from Jesus

The legs of my chair scraped against the floor and seemed to protest on my behalf.  I pulled viciously at my tartan skirt and contorted my spine to escape from behind my desk which was clearly built for a toddler.  As I shuffled towards the front of the class and approached Dr. Miller tentatively I noticed, really for the first time how small he was. We locked eyes for a second; I dared myself not to look away. All at once his head was on my shoulder and his arms were around me, squeezing. I heard him let out a little sigh; so I bit my lip and examined the ceiling. Cracks, holes, gum…? There we stood, pressed together making the world’s most awkward, empty sandwich.

In my teenage brain an eternity passed, though I know it must have only been a matter of seconds before he whispered into my ear with a smile in his voice ‘that was a hug from Jesus.’ I pulled away and held him at arm’s length. Through tightly closed lips I grinned and inhaled deeply through my nose. I nodded my head slowly as our eyes met again. ‘Yes it was.’ I whispered back before I turned on my heel and made my way back to my tiny desk, each whisper and giggle making contact like a slap as I manoeuvred myself back into position just in time for the bell to ring.
 
 I was fourteen-years old when I got my first ever “hug from Jesus,” though much to my chagrin it was not my last. Hell, it wasn’t even my last that day. This bodily gift from Christ was delivered to me by my Religion teacher, Dr. Miller. He was also my homeroom teacher, so I was lucky enough to see him first thing in the morning and also just before I went home each day. He was a very special teacher to me. He was kind, funny and incredibly smart. He taught me the Hail Mary and never once made me feel different for being the only Jewish girl in a Catholic school. A very sharp contrast to Mr Neim, my Sophomore Religion teacher who after much fierce debate about the fate of homosexuals after death declared me a “dirty Jew” in front of the whole class and followed that slur with the statement that he hoped ‘me and those fags would be having a disco party in hell.’ What a cliche! Everyone knows that disco is dead and that it would be a Madonna party we'd be having. I'd be 80's Madonna. Material Girl, not Lucky Star. Anyway, that cheerful exchange forced Mr. Neim into early retirement, but I hear Dr. Miller is still teaching, and I’m extremely happy about that.

It was shortly after morning prayers that the first sacred cuddle took place. It was customary at St. Mary’s Catholic high school to say prayers in the morning for those who had passed away in the days before. This particular day was the day that my Mother’s death was announced over the loudspeaker and the day that to most of my classmates, I became very different.

Mom was sick. I knew, though she never said; well not until it was too late. She was in and out of hospital since I was 11 or 12. My brother and I watched as she came back each time transformed. He skin stretched, her hair thinned and one day she came back with tubes running through her chest and in her arms. I still don’t know what those were for, but they certainly didn’t make her any better.

I was only two weeks into my high school experience when she died. The rabbi had come for me four times before. “It’s time” became our mantra in those final days. I felt like an expectant father without any of the joy or excitement. I paced halls, I cracked knuckles.  That last time he fetched me I had grown tired of the routine. I knew once we arrived home there would be countless people there. Some I recognized, some I did not; fretting, crying, running around the place pushing me into the wall, shooing me from her bedside. I was ready for it to be over. I thought I was ready for it to be over.

Her death, though thoroughly expected, was somehow still a wretched surprise. It was nothing like the countless deaths I’d observed on cinema and television screens. I genuinely thought people just closed their eyes and gracefully expired. She didn’t. I counted the seconds since her last breath; 50, 60, 70, Christ, 80 seconds! Then she breathed again. The sound of it, violent and quick like she was trying to hold on to something earthly. She wanted to stay, but in that moment, I just wanted her to go. In that second I stopped breathing too. I squinted my eyes so hard that my cheeks ached and thought a prayer that must have gone something like this: ‘fuck. God. Cut this shit out.’ At fourteen, I was sure it was some kind punishment for one of us watching, and that she might suffer like that forever, until suddenly I was holding the hand of a corpse. I wanted to scream. To drop the thing and run away, but I couldn’t, even though it was seriously freaking me out and probably doing long-term psychological damage.

I held onto her limp hand and exhaled. My lungs burned. Then just as I was about to excuse myself, this wet, gurgling sound came shimmying and shaking up her throat. I thought for an instant it was her soul until the black liquid erupted like a fountain of tar out of her mouth. There was no end to it. I have seen that moment in my nightmares ever since. I’d never wanted to disappear so badly as I did then, but when you’re fourteen you have nowhere to go.

To this day people ask me how I could have gone to school the day after she died. The only answer I can give is: ‘what the hell else was I going to do?’ I was desperate for distraction, for normality; desperate to get out of a house that smelled of death, which was bursting at the seams with too many people that walked through me and brought casseroles. I could see their disappointment. I overheard their hushed conversations about my lack of emotion. How I should be ashamed for not crying, for always making things difficult by not joining in with their “circle of sobbing” as I liked to call it. They thought I was cold. They probably still do, but they would be wrong. 
These people could be upset. They knew her. Really knew her. They were married to her or were related to her or she was their best friend. She was someone so special to them that they never understood that she didn’t trust me, so I resented her.  To me it felt like she was just an ever-fading presence in my house that deserted me before ever telling me anything important, she was the person who thought I was too young to handle the truth about her diagnosis.

Before Mom’s death there were no makeup lessons; there were no big talks about boys and about sex. The following year I would be in a hotel toilet in Kansas City trying desperately to figure out how to insert a tampon before a dance competition while my Dad, with his ear pressed against the other side of the door shouted ‘any luck?’ ‘Didya get it in?’ My Mom died at the precipice of my womanhood without leaving me so much as a Lady Bic, and I found rationalizing my abandonment difficult. Rationalizing her death was  impossible.

At school I assumed my anonymity would act as a shield, so I wouldn’t have to talk about it. I figured that it was only my second week there, so no one would even know my last name. I didn’t anticipate Dr. Miller dragging me up in front of the class to be publicly squeezed. But I managed to make it through the rest of that first day without too much embarrassment. Occasionally I would meet the gaze of another student in the hall and they would look at me, all big, wet eyes. I quickly realized that avoidance may not be as easy as I had hoped. A few people approached me open-armed and embraced me. Others offered condolences or shook their heads and whispered things like “shiiiiit” in my ear.  It all felt very strange, but at least I wasn’t at home.

Dr. Miller greeted me cheerfully at the door for last period and handed me 6 sealed envelopes.

I took them from his hand and met his eyes with mine, ‘Hey Dr. Miller. What’s in these?’
With a mischievous wink he replied ‘warm fuzzies.’

I raised a curious eyebrow, but before I could ask for an explanation he had wrapped his arm around my waist to keep me in place and requested that the rest of the class take their seats. He turned to face me and declared that because I was having such a rough time he’d asked all of his other classes to write me some messages of support or “warm fuzzies” as he called them. The dread began to pool in my stomach when I realized that he expected me to share them with the class. I winced at the idea, but he looked so proud of himself I couldn’t refuse. I cleared my throat in an over-the-top comic way to try to lighten the mood, but my fellow classmates were looking at me so earnestly it broke my heart.

I pulled out a bright green slip of paper that had written in lovely script ‘Sorry about your Mom. You have pretty hair.’ Everyone clapped and nodded and assured me that yes! I did have very pretty hair. I pressed the paper scrap to my chest, turned to Dr. Miller and made a face that I thought read ‘I’m done.’ Apparently not, as he just nodded at me, beaming.' ‘One more!’ he begged with his hands clasped in prayer position.  I sighed. This time it was a bright orange scrap that read ‘Dear Lee, I don’t know you, but it sucks your Mom died’ another chorus of agreement. Yes! It did suck! This oracle of wisdom had united us all with a common thought and something in my chest bloomed.

I fingered all those lovely little bright scraps of paper as a fist formed in my throat. In the sea of grief that I could not navigate and could not master, I struggled onto the driftwood of stranger's sentiment. In those silly, well-meant words, I found the comfort I couldn't find anywhere else and was so grateful to Dr. Miller for his incredibly kind exercise. I looked out at my classmates and tried to smile. Instead I felt tears sting the corners of my eyes, and just before my vision was obscured completely, I heard the familiar scrape of the too-small chair on the floor and one by one everyone in the class get up and give me a “hug from Jesus” before the last bell rang. 

 

Bully for you!

When I was a child, well let me be more specific. When I was between the ages of eight and eleven I was a real douche. I still have the ability to be douchey, but I will never be able to outdo the doucheness that I was back then. This morning while I was lying in bed, very much awake next to a snoring Steve I found myself reflecting on this part of my life and feeling a guilt more powerful than the guilt  I reserve for being childless in my 30's.

Back in 1988 I had a bowl haircut and an overbite. I could put a pencil between my front two teeth and my mother dressed me like a toddler well into adolescence. I was the perfect target for bullying, yet I can't recall a time at school where I ever felt truly persecuted. Not like some of the stories you read about today. I thank the clouds regularly that I was spared the prepubescent cruelty that plagues Bebo and Facebook and has caused awkward kids like me to cut and to kill themselves.

Back before computers, the only way to bully someone was in the flesh. I was called names like 'meatloaf' (a clever play on my surname) and was teased for being a boy on the daily, but then I was also the little androgynous madame who wold slap the glasses clean off your face for doing so. I was never afraid to get physical. I would grab you by your arms and spin you round and round until you were having fun and then I'd let you go and watch you fly across the playground and land in the dirt. 'Call me a boy one more time' I'd think to myself as I displayed my bottom lip to my victim in mock sadness.

Assaulting those who pick on you is definitely the wrong answer. I know that now. And if you are reading this and you are Shaun or Stan, I'm sorry. But the thing that I will never understand about child-me is that in addition to slapping and throwing people across the playground. I used to punch my friends. Well actually just one friend, really. Why? Who the hell knows, but I did it.

Poor Sadie, wherever you are, you are probably traumatized by our friendship the way that I am haunted by it. I really, really loved Sadie. We were best friends and the other girls at school were mean to her because they once saw her pick her nose and eat it. Who cares? Not me. Like I said, I loved Sadie and I couldn't ever figure out how to show her, so sometimes I would become so full of love and admiration for her that I'd punch her in the arm. Hard. Why? Fuck knows, but I used to do it from time to time and I think about it now and feel very bad about it and wonder just what the actual hell was wrong with me. What couldn't I just hug her?

Many years after Sadie and I were friends, I saw her again when I was waiting tables at Cheddar's. She came in with her whole family and she looked so beautiful. We chatted as I brought and cleared plates and refills of fizzy drinks and when she left she hugged me. She didn't flinch as she came towards me, so that's a good sign! But still I would have liked to apologize and I never did. 

I am not longer friends with Sadie, and though I've tried to find her on Facebook, I've been unsuccessful. I hope this is because she's married somewhere with everything she wants and is insanely happy. I hope she doesn't think about me and my little hands punching her very often and I hope that wherever she is, no one is hurting her.

Luckily I outgrew this mean streak and by the time I hit middle school I basically pooped rainbows and was friends with everyone and never hit anyone ever again (except the time all those girls beat me up, but I don't think my fist actually connected with anything that whole time), but I did shove a piece of cake in someone's face a la The Three Stooges, and for that I will always feel remorse.

It was a girl I was kind-of friends with as well. A girl who wasn't having an easy time and was a very easy target. I was given, as a dare, the grizzly assignment of smashing a piece of cake in this poor girl's face. In front of the whole school. And I did it. This is the time when my friends list on Facebook drops dramatically and I totally accept that.

What a terrible thing to do to someone. Looking back I should have said 'fuck your dare!' And possibly smashed some cake in their face, but I didn't. I relented to what my father calls 'peer pressure' *cringe* and did something terrible to another human being. and for this I am terribly ashamed. I do still know her and I have apologized, but when I did I could tell that memory, though 13 years old at the time, was very fresh for her. It was like she'd dressed a bullet wound with tissue paper and I'd just stuffed my finger in it. I did a very bad thing. 

I suppose I'm writing this as a kind of catharsis. I used to be a dick and I've seen some kids be dicks to each other recently and I look on with my judgmental, knowing eye as their parents shrug and say things like 'they're just kids.' That is most definitely true, but what they do as kids will stay with them and affect them as they grow. Look at me! Stewing on a Sunday morning about deeds I committed before even hitting double digits!

Mean shouldn't be tolerated or even encouraged just because it's being employed by the young. That's when it should be spoken about and discouraged. Kids often can't control themselves, but by insisting that they don't need to, and excusing bad behavior, we are potentially making their lives and their Sunday mornings harder later on.