I am not a parent. I have no kids and I probably never will, but parenty-type things are still part of my world. Diaper commercials, screaming children on public transportation and being mowed down and removed forcibly from the pavement by women with prams...I got that shit.
I usually don't get involved in parenty-type things because they are none of my concern. What the hell do I care if the shampoo is tearless? What's wrong with a little crying? WTF else do babies do anyway? Why should bathtime be any different? I'd be all about tearFUL shampoo. I mean, toughen up kid, it only gets worse. See...I obviously don't get it and should never be allowed a human baby of my own.
But I want to weigh in on this...commercial? I mean what is it advertising anyway? That there is a crazy underworld where people with babies fight each other? Is it a public service announcement? If so what is it announcing? That people with new babies are all secretly aggressive douchebags? Or is this just one of those parenty-type things that I just don't understand?
I watched it until the end because I wanted to know the message. I wanted to know why all of these people with small babies were being mean to each other and judging each other and why they wanted us non-baby-havng people to see this really unattractive part of parenting. And then the ad/announcement finished and the tagline appeared: 'Welcome to the Sisterhood of Motherhood.'
What the fresh hell? So if I ever do become pregnant, I have not only the joy of obliterating my vagina to the point of eternal incontinence with another human's head, but I then have to worry about a bunch of asshats who, instead of watching Judge Judy and icing their vaginas with me, will be judging me and my decision to not feed straight from the boob? Sounds terrible. But wait! All is not lost! If your kid is in mortal peril these people who have so much to say about how you raise your kid won't all let it die. Got it.
This ad/announcement is not helpful to current parents either. My main issue is that there are a variety of 'types' of mother portrayed here; 'yoga mom', 'business mom', 'cuddling mom', 'lesbian mom who is also black mom' (nice twofer), 'breastfeeding mom', 'bottle-wielding mom', etc. They are all terrible, of course. All bitchy, and none foster or support any difference outside their own little mommy-communities, but at least this ad/service is acknowledging that there are different types of mothers. However, the piss-poor pool of dads in this work of mediocrity is embarrassing.
The only dad I see is 'J Crew dad' and I find it offensive. This portrayal of fathers as one dimensional supporting characters to the main cast of mothers is not helpful and it's fucking sexist. Why are the men only hanging out together? I know a lot of men who'd be hanging with the yoga moms or the lesbian black moms. They wouldn't all be huddled together in one little group, because men have different personalities and interests besides hanging with other men. Surprise! I want 'biker dad,' 'tattooed dad,' 'hipster dad,' 'business dad,' 'gay dad,' 'hippie dad.' I want all the dads!
We need to recognize that the number of stay-at-home dads has quadrupled in the last 25 years (Dailey 14) and celebrate that. It's insulting that ad/announcements like these still paint a picture that these men are like fucking unicorns and that it's in any way appropriate for them to be isolated from the moms. Parents need to get with the inclusivity. Classes with titles like 'Mommy and Me' wit their crazy gender bias need to staaahp because the more we as a society paint this picture of men who choose to parent as feminized and rare, the harder it will be for us ladies to break the shit out of that glass ceiling.
We need help. From men and men are helping! Men are killing it in the parenting department. Men are choosing to support their families by letting their badass ladies pay the bills while they look after the kids and that is fucking awesome. Let's give these men bigger parts, more faces and more choices.
At first I appreciated that men were even included in the ad/service at all which is sad. But then that sad got trumped by their shitty, shitty tagline. Let's see it again - 'Welcome to the Sisterhood of Motherhood?' So. Much. Gendering. Why? Why not 'Welcome to the Community of Parenting' instead? BOOM! I just rewrote your damn slogan whoever you are that created this diaper filler. You're welcome. It's now an inclusive message that actually makes much more sense combined with your crappy, unhelpful campaign.
Thursday, 5 February 2015
Sunday, 1 February 2015
I Choose to Remember
Holocaust remembrance day in the UK was January 27th and this year also marked the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. That's a pretty big deal. But here in the UK we had our chief news network, the BBC asking the question on Twitter 'Is the time coming to lay the Holocaust to rest?' The answer? No it isn't.
When do we ever lay history to rest? That's what makes it history. The systematic killing of over 11 million people; Jews, homosexuals, communists, disabled and anyone who dared to speak against Hitler is a dark blemish on history that needs to be dissected, mourned and remembered. I can't fathom this question being asked about any other time in history. Can you?
I wasn't strolling mournfully round the Killing Fields of Cambodia thinking to myself: 'jeez, they should really get over this genocide thing. It was ages ago.' Because that's fucking ridiculous and incredibly disrespectful and offensive. We need to remember these horrible times in history so that they are not repeated, but also so we can see how far we've moved forward as humans and be proud of that.
I wanted to post something on my Facebook wall last Tuesday to mark the day. But I didn't. Facebook can be a bit of a scary place for voicing political or religious views. However, that had never stopped me before. What is making me more cautious now is that there is a faint whiff of intolerance on Facebook that I started to smell last summer, with the heightened tensions between Israel and Palestine and has gotten only stronger since the recent terrorist attack in Paris.
Instead of posting I downloaded Night by Elie Weisel and promised myself I'd read it on my trip to Scotland the following day. I understand that this book is compulsory reading in many American schools, but it wasn't in mine. In fact, all we ever learned about WWII was how the Americans saved everyone. My knowledge of the Holocaust was gained through synagogue and from the mouths of survivors.
Every Holocaust Remembrance day in the USA, which takes place in the Spring, my family and I would go to a special service and there would always be a speaker, a survivor. This particular year I'm remembering there was a violinist. I wish I could recall his name, but I remember his face; so kind, but very intense, like his thoughts were trying to escape through his eyes. He told us how he'd been taken to Bergen-Belsen with his family, but only he survived. After several months in the camp he was approached by a guard one night who asked him what he used to do. 'I am a violinist' he replied. A few nights later he was summoned by this same guard and transported by car to a building a few miles away and asked to wait with three other men.
After waiting for what seemed like an eternity the guard called all of the men into a room and there sat Hitler. Just feet away from him, he cold smell his cologne. The men were lined up and the first man was presented with a violin. Hitler asked him to play something. The first man began playing something slow and melodic, I believe it was Handel. Hitler shook his head and the guard lifted his gun and shot the man in the face. His body fell the the floor like a sack of turnips and the blood began to pool at the other men's feet. The guard pried the violin out of the dead man's hands and passed it to the next in line. The second man artempted to play, but his hands were shaking so severely that he too was shot directly in the face by the guard in a mater of minutes.
By this time, the man telling the story had tears rolling down his cheeks and his gaze was focused somewhere very far away, out of that room and into another life. Finally, he continued, it was his turn to play and to his horror, his mind went blank. The blood-soaked violin was placed in his hands but he couldn't remember what to do with it. His beloved instrument felt leaden and foreign in his hands. The guard shouted at him and before he even understood what was happening; his hands, totally independently began to play The Blue Danube.
In the room where I was sat listening to this story, the man hummed a bit for us then, so we could recognize the tune. A lot of people chuckled, because this was such a simple melody and was used so often in cartoons that even I understood and laughed. Hitler let the man play on for what felt to him like such a long time, but it couldn't have been because the song wasn't over. He called over the guard and whispered something to him. The man with the violin closed his eyes and began to pray. The guard unholstered his pistol again, strode over to him-the man telling the story, the man with the possessed fingers, the man who had watched the execution of his wife and child, the man who then heard the guard shoot the man standing next to him, spraying his own face with blood and brain matter. He didn't look, he didn't stop, he just kept playing.
I will never forget that story. I will never forget that man and no, I don't think it's time that his story was laid to rest. When I turned that last page in Night it never occurred to me that Elie's story was over and we should all just let it go. He's still alive, you know. As are thousands of other survivors who tell their stories and share their pain and their lives with us. How dare anyone say that we should put their stories to rest? That we should not acknowledge their horrific experiences with somber ceremony. But more importantly that we should not celebrate the miraculous fact that they survived. Against all odds and against all reason they survived.
When do we ever lay history to rest? That's what makes it history. The systematic killing of over 11 million people; Jews, homosexuals, communists, disabled and anyone who dared to speak against Hitler is a dark blemish on history that needs to be dissected, mourned and remembered. I can't fathom this question being asked about any other time in history. Can you?
I wasn't strolling mournfully round the Killing Fields of Cambodia thinking to myself: 'jeez, they should really get over this genocide thing. It was ages ago.' Because that's fucking ridiculous and incredibly disrespectful and offensive. We need to remember these horrible times in history so that they are not repeated, but also so we can see how far we've moved forward as humans and be proud of that.
I wanted to post something on my Facebook wall last Tuesday to mark the day. But I didn't. Facebook can be a bit of a scary place for voicing political or religious views. However, that had never stopped me before. What is making me more cautious now is that there is a faint whiff of intolerance on Facebook that I started to smell last summer, with the heightened tensions between Israel and Palestine and has gotten only stronger since the recent terrorist attack in Paris.
Instead of posting I downloaded Night by Elie Weisel and promised myself I'd read it on my trip to Scotland the following day. I understand that this book is compulsory reading in many American schools, but it wasn't in mine. In fact, all we ever learned about WWII was how the Americans saved everyone. My knowledge of the Holocaust was gained through synagogue and from the mouths of survivors.
Every Holocaust Remembrance day in the USA, which takes place in the Spring, my family and I would go to a special service and there would always be a speaker, a survivor. This particular year I'm remembering there was a violinist. I wish I could recall his name, but I remember his face; so kind, but very intense, like his thoughts were trying to escape through his eyes. He told us how he'd been taken to Bergen-Belsen with his family, but only he survived. After several months in the camp he was approached by a guard one night who asked him what he used to do. 'I am a violinist' he replied. A few nights later he was summoned by this same guard and transported by car to a building a few miles away and asked to wait with three other men.
After waiting for what seemed like an eternity the guard called all of the men into a room and there sat Hitler. Just feet away from him, he cold smell his cologne. The men were lined up and the first man was presented with a violin. Hitler asked him to play something. The first man began playing something slow and melodic, I believe it was Handel. Hitler shook his head and the guard lifted his gun and shot the man in the face. His body fell the the floor like a sack of turnips and the blood began to pool at the other men's feet. The guard pried the violin out of the dead man's hands and passed it to the next in line. The second man artempted to play, but his hands were shaking so severely that he too was shot directly in the face by the guard in a mater of minutes.
By this time, the man telling the story had tears rolling down his cheeks and his gaze was focused somewhere very far away, out of that room and into another life. Finally, he continued, it was his turn to play and to his horror, his mind went blank. The blood-soaked violin was placed in his hands but he couldn't remember what to do with it. His beloved instrument felt leaden and foreign in his hands. The guard shouted at him and before he even understood what was happening; his hands, totally independently began to play The Blue Danube.
In the room where I was sat listening to this story, the man hummed a bit for us then, so we could recognize the tune. A lot of people chuckled, because this was such a simple melody and was used so often in cartoons that even I understood and laughed. Hitler let the man play on for what felt to him like such a long time, but it couldn't have been because the song wasn't over. He called over the guard and whispered something to him. The man with the violin closed his eyes and began to pray. The guard unholstered his pistol again, strode over to him-the man telling the story, the man with the possessed fingers, the man who had watched the execution of his wife and child, the man who then heard the guard shoot the man standing next to him, spraying his own face with blood and brain matter. He didn't look, he didn't stop, he just kept playing.
I will never forget that story. I will never forget that man and no, I don't think it's time that his story was laid to rest. When I turned that last page in Night it never occurred to me that Elie's story was over and we should all just let it go. He's still alive, you know. As are thousands of other survivors who tell their stories and share their pain and their lives with us. How dare anyone say that we should put their stories to rest? That we should not acknowledge their horrific experiences with somber ceremony. But more importantly that we should not celebrate the miraculous fact that they survived. Against all odds and against all reason they survived.
Sunday, 18 January 2015
A woman on Girls
Girls is back for its fourth season and I couldn't be happier about that. In fact, last week when Episode 1 premiered, I did a little lady-squirt.
For those of you who know me intimately, you will know that at first I rejected Dunham's visual manifesto of what it means to be twenty-something and living in New York. In case you didn't know...I did that once and I'll be happy as fuck to bore you all about it later. So at first I felt this weird ownership over that young, NYC experience, and if what I was watching didn't accurately reflect that very specific experience then I rejected it, and proclaimed loudly and obnoxiously that it was shit.
My poor friend tried with all his heart to get me to love that first season. But all he got were screams at the TV 'YOU DON'T JUST WALK OUT ON A JOB IN NEW YORK CITY! THEY'RE SO HARD TO GET!' or 'HOW THE FUCK WILL YOU AFFORD YOUR RENT IF YOU KICK OUT YOUR ROOMMATE?!' I was all superior eye-rolls and teeth-kissing. What the fuck was my problem? I'll tell you.
For a woman who makes a pretty big point of being kind and supportive to other women I was doing exactly the opposite. Sure, these women were characters on TV, but I hated them in a very real way, a visceral way that's just fucking weird. I was crazy-jealous of these women for the pure fact that they were not women. They were and are, as the show is aptly titled, Girls.
These girls that Dunham created are just trying to find their way in the world, and me, a grown-ass woman resented them for that. I thought their choices were all wrong, their wardrobes were a mess and their sex-lives were both tragic and enviable. But that's what it is to be in your 20's and I forgot that. I now have a tiny idea of what it might feel like to be a mother watching their daughter make the same stupid mistakes that she did, unable to stop her.
Luckily by Season 2 I got my shit together and joined the party. I realized that these girls are created for entertainment purposes only and that they simply can't represent everyone's experience. What Lena Dunham has done so well is to create characters that you empathize with so entirely that you think that they are yours and that they owe you something, but they don't.
When the outrage began about how there weren't enough minority characters on the show, that was a symptom of this same disease. Not everyone legitimately has a multicultural group of friends. No one brought this shit up with Seinfeld. However, Lena has created a circle of friends that includes a Jew, a Brit and someone with a cleft palate. They might all be white, but that's more diverse than a lot of friendship circles I know of.
The reality is this: Lena Dunham is damn good at her job. So damn good that we think these characters that she birthed are anything to do with us. If someone says to you 'you're such a Marnie' it doesn't mean you're actually Marnie and that if she then does something stupid in the next episode you need to feel responsible or that you should feel like Dunham's somehow betrayed you. She hasn't. Get over it.
Lena Dunham cannot be responsible for being the collective voice for a whole generation of very different girls. It's simply not possible, practical or fair. Get over it.
It's only a fucking TV show, people. It just happens to be exceptionally good.
For those of you who know me intimately, you will know that at first I rejected Dunham's visual manifesto of what it means to be twenty-something and living in New York. In case you didn't know...I did that once and I'll be happy as fuck to bore you all about it later. So at first I felt this weird ownership over that young, NYC experience, and if what I was watching didn't accurately reflect that very specific experience then I rejected it, and proclaimed loudly and obnoxiously that it was shit.
My poor friend tried with all his heart to get me to love that first season. But all he got were screams at the TV 'YOU DON'T JUST WALK OUT ON A JOB IN NEW YORK CITY! THEY'RE SO HARD TO GET!' or 'HOW THE FUCK WILL YOU AFFORD YOUR RENT IF YOU KICK OUT YOUR ROOMMATE?!' I was all superior eye-rolls and teeth-kissing. What the fuck was my problem? I'll tell you.
For a woman who makes a pretty big point of being kind and supportive to other women I was doing exactly the opposite. Sure, these women were characters on TV, but I hated them in a very real way, a visceral way that's just fucking weird. I was crazy-jealous of these women for the pure fact that they were not women. They were and are, as the show is aptly titled, Girls.
These girls that Dunham created are just trying to find their way in the world, and me, a grown-ass woman resented them for that. I thought their choices were all wrong, their wardrobes were a mess and their sex-lives were both tragic and enviable. But that's what it is to be in your 20's and I forgot that. I now have a tiny idea of what it might feel like to be a mother watching their daughter make the same stupid mistakes that she did, unable to stop her.
Luckily by Season 2 I got my shit together and joined the party. I realized that these girls are created for entertainment purposes only and that they simply can't represent everyone's experience. What Lena Dunham has done so well is to create characters that you empathize with so entirely that you think that they are yours and that they owe you something, but they don't.
When the outrage began about how there weren't enough minority characters on the show, that was a symptom of this same disease. Not everyone legitimately has a multicultural group of friends. No one brought this shit up with Seinfeld. However, Lena has created a circle of friends that includes a Jew, a Brit and someone with a cleft palate. They might all be white, but that's more diverse than a lot of friendship circles I know of.
The reality is this: Lena Dunham is damn good at her job. So damn good that we think these characters that she birthed are anything to do with us. If someone says to you 'you're such a Marnie' it doesn't mean you're actually Marnie and that if she then does something stupid in the next episode you need to feel responsible or that you should feel like Dunham's somehow betrayed you. She hasn't. Get over it.
Lena Dunham cannot be responsible for being the collective voice for a whole generation of very different girls. It's simply not possible, practical or fair. Get over it.
It's only a fucking TV show, people. It just happens to be exceptionally good.
Sunday, 11 January 2015
Je suis nerveuse
The incidents in Paris over the past week have left me worried, depressed and confused. For our neighbors to have suffered such violent attacks is terrifying. And the aftermath is just as scary, but I worry it's just beginning.
Already on social media and in various news sources the reporting is suspect, biased and damaging. Not just to the Muslim community, but to the victims. The political cartoons created by the deceased are being blurred out, CNN is failing to report the attack on the kosher deli as anti-Semitic and everyone seems to be having an argument about who's responsible and who needs to apologize for these murders. My response to this is simple: the murderers.
This essay by Abdennour Bidar, published last October keeps popping up, and though it is thought-provoking and beautifully written, I keep seeing it being used as a precursor to some reports and opinions that to me, are starting to whiff of Islamophobia. If we use one Muslim's criticism of Islamic extremism as a way to criticize Islam ourselves, it is not so different to one Muslim's interpretation of the Qu'ran being the catalyst for all of this death.
I do not blame Islam for what has happened in Paris. Islam does not demand those who criticize the prophet to pay with their life. Yet these murderers shouted 'we have avenged the prophet' after committing their heinous crime at Charlie Hebdo. How exactly? By silencing these artists indefinitely, more and more artists have begun to fight with their pens and their wits. Should we be expecting more deaths as a result? Are we just poking an angry bear, here?
On top of the Charlie Hebdo artists, who lost their lives for their art and for freedom of expression, four brave and innocent souls lost their lives in a kosher deli in Paris for their religion the very next day. One of the gunman claimed he was 'avenging Palestine' by killing these Jews. These Jews who lived in Paris. These Jews who were just trying to buy groceries for the sabbath. The irony is not lost on me that Muslims do not want to be held accountable for the actions of these murderers, but that Jews internationally have to bear the responsibility for what happens in Israel every day. This is why I don't blame Islam for the actions of these men. Islam can no more be held accountable for these atrocities than I can for Israel's foreign policy.
The four men who perished in the kosher supermarket are to be buried in Israel. Reading the messages their loved ones have posted is devastating. What a waste of life. Seventeen people died in Paris this week as a result of terror attacks. Seventeen people with families, friends, plans for the future, and dreams. But what can I do? What can we all do?
The marches happening in Paris are inspirational, and the way the international community has rallied behind France is beautiful. But how do we rebuild? How can we feel safe again? For French Jews the solution is to leave Europe. With anti-Semitic attacks on the rise, record numbers head to Israel. French Jews would rather head to a veritable war-zone than to stay in Europe. Why? Because the Israeli government protects its people against terrorism and we have to start doing the same thing.
Terrorism, irrespective of the community that claims responsibility needs to be the target. Not the community itself. I can commit a crime saying I'm doing it in the name of Lees everywhere, that doesn't make it true or relevant. It just makes me an asshole. We must remember that the people who committed these acts are the assholes, not the community they claim to come from. If we don't we are no better than they are.
Already on social media and in various news sources the reporting is suspect, biased and damaging. Not just to the Muslim community, but to the victims. The political cartoons created by the deceased are being blurred out, CNN is failing to report the attack on the kosher deli as anti-Semitic and everyone seems to be having an argument about who's responsible and who needs to apologize for these murders. My response to this is simple: the murderers.
This essay by Abdennour Bidar, published last October keeps popping up, and though it is thought-provoking and beautifully written, I keep seeing it being used as a precursor to some reports and opinions that to me, are starting to whiff of Islamophobia. If we use one Muslim's criticism of Islamic extremism as a way to criticize Islam ourselves, it is not so different to one Muslim's interpretation of the Qu'ran being the catalyst for all of this death.
I do not blame Islam for what has happened in Paris. Islam does not demand those who criticize the prophet to pay with their life. Yet these murderers shouted 'we have avenged the prophet' after committing their heinous crime at Charlie Hebdo. How exactly? By silencing these artists indefinitely, more and more artists have begun to fight with their pens and their wits. Should we be expecting more deaths as a result? Are we just poking an angry bear, here?
On top of the Charlie Hebdo artists, who lost their lives for their art and for freedom of expression, four brave and innocent souls lost their lives in a kosher deli in Paris for their religion the very next day. One of the gunman claimed he was 'avenging Palestine' by killing these Jews. These Jews who lived in Paris. These Jews who were just trying to buy groceries for the sabbath. The irony is not lost on me that Muslims do not want to be held accountable for the actions of these murderers, but that Jews internationally have to bear the responsibility for what happens in Israel every day. This is why I don't blame Islam for the actions of these men. Islam can no more be held accountable for these atrocities than I can for Israel's foreign policy.
The four men who perished in the kosher supermarket are to be buried in Israel. Reading the messages their loved ones have posted is devastating. What a waste of life. Seventeen people died in Paris this week as a result of terror attacks. Seventeen people with families, friends, plans for the future, and dreams. But what can I do? What can we all do?
The marches happening in Paris are inspirational, and the way the international community has rallied behind France is beautiful. But how do we rebuild? How can we feel safe again? For French Jews the solution is to leave Europe. With anti-Semitic attacks on the rise, record numbers head to Israel. French Jews would rather head to a veritable war-zone than to stay in Europe. Why? Because the Israeli government protects its people against terrorism and we have to start doing the same thing.
Terrorism, irrespective of the community that claims responsibility needs to be the target. Not the community itself. I can commit a crime saying I'm doing it in the name of Lees everywhere, that doesn't make it true or relevant. It just makes me an asshole. We must remember that the people who committed these acts are the assholes, not the community they claim to come from. If we don't we are no better than they are.
Saturday, 27 December 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, 23 December 2014
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
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
Monday, 1 December 2014
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.
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.
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