When I wrote yesterday's post about Catherine, The Duchess of Cornwall's apparently very interesting post-natal womb, I forgot to include this article which a good friend of mine told me about a while ago: http://m.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-23276432 - essentially, a female photographer who takes pictures of her own and other people's post-natal bodies. While I am happy that women find the ability to feel content in their own skin, and for some these photo sessions really help that process along, I still find it depressing that it is even news-worthy: "Woman has baby and is not ashamed of her resultant body!" Sigh.......
Monday, 5 August 2013
Sunday, 4 August 2013
How come One's bump is so interesting?
So, last week came the moment we have, apparently, all been waiting for with bated breath. The latest heir to the British throne was born. Apart from the admiring and cooing articles, the occasion also caused some controversy. The Duchess of Cambridge walked out of the hospital, about 24 hours after giving birth and happily showed off her baby boy - and her protruding womb. I would not have thought this would be a particularly interesting thing for journalists to devote column inches to - after all, why should the Duchess, or Catherine, make any attempt to conceal her perfectly natural shape - even a royal cannot fight nature and if a womb has very recently contained a baby, a placenta and a large amount of water, it is bound to still be large.
But, I was shocked to learn 2 things: (1) Various people and groups around the world, such as Siobhan Freegard, who co-founded Netmums, found it necessary to praise Catherine for not hiding her post-natal bump, saying that her actions made a lot of new mums feel more confident, as many celebrity mothers hide their stomachs until they have dieted severely. In Denmark, sociologist Emilia van Hauen also cheered as she pointed out that seeing Catherine showing off her baby curves freed mothers from unrealistic expectations of regaining a flat stomach 2 days after the birth. Elsewhere in Denmark, some cleverclogs pointed out that Danish princesses tend to hide their post-natal stomachs with tight bands and by covering up the stomachs. How depressing.
(2) While researching this, I also found an article on a Danish fitness-magazine site, which kindly explained that women's stomachs return to normal (ie. a flat state) 6 - 8 weeks after the birth, but that for some, it never does, unless one carries out certain exercises. How helpful - I guess the several months, nigh on years it took my friends and I was just an anomaly then!
(Clearly not) OK! magazine published a front cover discussing Catherine's post-birth exercise regime. I tried to find the magazine so I could make a more detailed comment on this, but it was nowhere to be found. However, I did discover that in a later edition, the magazine featured a general article about post-natal health. In this, they happily stated that "It will take some weeks to regain your pre-pregnancy shape". These kind of comments are particularly damaging as they are thrown in amongst more useful diet and fitness advice, thus fooling women into thinking that this is the norm.
The fact that we have to praise a new mum for not hiding the fact that her body has just given birth is disgusting - what kind of society allows the systematic pressurising of its citizens on such a grand scale? This pressure reaches far beyond post-natal women. Mimi Spencer lost 21 pounds when she went on the Intermittent Fasting programme and then wrote a best-selling book about it, along with Dr. Michael Mosley (who wrote and presented a BBC documentary about this and other types of fasting and how they made people healthier). Mimi now feels far more confident and content - she initially lost too much weight but now feels she has reached her ideal. In an article, she reveals that researchers at the Max Planck Institute for Human Development in Berlin have found out that a woman's weight affects her happiness more than her love life does. In other words, most women would rather be their ideal weight than happy in love.
According to the Channel 4 documentary "Alex Brooker: My Perfect Body", it is estimated that 2 out of 5 women are dieting at any one time. These depressing statistics do not just include women. The programme also revealed that 1/3 of men would give up a year of their life for the perfect body! I can't help but wonder which year - one where they are wearing an adult nappy and drooling at their slightly awkward and bored-looking relatives who only visit them in the care-home out of a sense of duty and a desire to be kept in the inheritance loop? Perhaps the year in which their voice broke, their nose grew alarmingly big and that snooty girl broke their heart by dating their best friend? Sadly, in the UK, 70% of men are ashamed of the way they look. Just think about that - 70%!! Of course, 30% of statistics are made up, so who knows what the real figure is - probably covered up by some serious support underwear....
But, I was shocked to learn 2 things: (1) Various people and groups around the world, such as Siobhan Freegard, who co-founded Netmums, found it necessary to praise Catherine for not hiding her post-natal bump, saying that her actions made a lot of new mums feel more confident, as many celebrity mothers hide their stomachs until they have dieted severely. In Denmark, sociologist Emilia van Hauen also cheered as she pointed out that seeing Catherine showing off her baby curves freed mothers from unrealistic expectations of regaining a flat stomach 2 days after the birth. Elsewhere in Denmark, some cleverclogs pointed out that Danish princesses tend to hide their post-natal stomachs with tight bands and by covering up the stomachs. How depressing.
(2) While researching this, I also found an article on a Danish fitness-magazine site, which kindly explained that women's stomachs return to normal (ie. a flat state) 6 - 8 weeks after the birth, but that for some, it never does, unless one carries out certain exercises. How helpful - I guess the several months, nigh on years it took my friends and I was just an anomaly then!
(Clearly not) OK! magazine published a front cover discussing Catherine's post-birth exercise regime. I tried to find the magazine so I could make a more detailed comment on this, but it was nowhere to be found. However, I did discover that in a later edition, the magazine featured a general article about post-natal health. In this, they happily stated that "It will take some weeks to regain your pre-pregnancy shape". These kind of comments are particularly damaging as they are thrown in amongst more useful diet and fitness advice, thus fooling women into thinking that this is the norm.
The fact that we have to praise a new mum for not hiding the fact that her body has just given birth is disgusting - what kind of society allows the systematic pressurising of its citizens on such a grand scale? This pressure reaches far beyond post-natal women. Mimi Spencer lost 21 pounds when she went on the Intermittent Fasting programme and then wrote a best-selling book about it, along with Dr. Michael Mosley (who wrote and presented a BBC documentary about this and other types of fasting and how they made people healthier). Mimi now feels far more confident and content - she initially lost too much weight but now feels she has reached her ideal. In an article, she reveals that researchers at the Max Planck Institute for Human Development in Berlin have found out that a woman's weight affects her happiness more than her love life does. In other words, most women would rather be their ideal weight than happy in love.
According to the Channel 4 documentary "Alex Brooker: My Perfect Body", it is estimated that 2 out of 5 women are dieting at any one time. These depressing statistics do not just include women. The programme also revealed that 1/3 of men would give up a year of their life for the perfect body! I can't help but wonder which year - one where they are wearing an adult nappy and drooling at their slightly awkward and bored-looking relatives who only visit them in the care-home out of a sense of duty and a desire to be kept in the inheritance loop? Perhaps the year in which their voice broke, their nose grew alarmingly big and that snooty girl broke their heart by dating their best friend? Sadly, in the UK, 70% of men are ashamed of the way they look. Just think about that - 70%!! Of course, 30% of statistics are made up, so who knows what the real figure is - probably covered up by some serious support underwear....
Wednesday, 24 July 2013
My top dos and don'ts of camping - or How I survived the tent
Do ensure you pack as much food as possible - you never know, maybe you will suddenly be blocked off from all civilization.
Do feel unbearably smug as you set off; safe in the knowledge that you have indeed catered for your family, and you are clearly the only people who have thought of doing anything as wholesome as camping.
Do wipe that smug out-doorsey grin off your face as you realise with some embarrassment, that you have in fact left the towel at home - as well as the bowls. Of course, you won't realise this until you are too far into the Yorkshire Dales to do anything about it - at this point, your mobile has no reception and the local supermarket seems to stock nothing you actually want. Other than weirdly flourescent jam tarts which you allow the kids to buy in a moment of weakness, only to realise that they had paid no attention when you explained in the shop, that they are in fact jam tarts, rather than mince pies, and that they will not last long enough to give them to Father Christmas. We never did see any towels - how the dales folk shower is a mystery. Perhaps they drip-dry.
Do feel oddly satisfied as you decide you can obviously just use your slightly manky linen skirt as a towel - why not? This must be what all those camping enthusiasts refer to as proper, rough camping. Along with the 4 small sponges your husband bought from another nearby supermarket, in lieu of a towel, we will be just fine.
Don't attempt to help too much with putting up the tent - unless you are already a seasoned camper. Just stand well back in a supervisory role, and do as you are told. After a while, you may have picked up enough technical terms to make clever-sounding comments, which will boost your confidence no end.
Don't panic as the realisation slowly dawns on you, that your children are very hyper and you will need to spend time with them in a tiny, enclosed space. When did they become so noisy and how do you switch them off?
Do feel happy and snug as they fall asleep quickly, all crammed into said tiny space.
Do resist the temptation to push a cow down the hill, aiming it at the tent containing the world's loudest man, who is happily reading Trivial Pursuit questions out (very) loud to his fellow holiday makers. At 11 'o' clock at night.
Don't worry about going to the toilet in the middle of the night, putting it off for hours in the sure knowledge that when you do go down there, an axe murderer will be waiting for you. This is pretty unlikely. Though stranger things have happened.
Do remember to plan ahead, before venturing down the campsite hill to shower. Otherwise, you may find yourself without clean knickers, or a hair band. Still, you could improvise and use your toddler's filthy leggings to hold your hair up. This, along with the wet linen skirt-cum-towel makes you feel like a total failure as a camper, and an adult. Especially when you have to walk out of the showers and up the hill wearing white linen trousers and, ahem, no knickers. Only then does it occur to you that you could have worn the old, dirty knickers. Still, never mind, at least you held the dirty laundry in front of you protectively.
Don't point and laugh as you show your husband the large cardboard sick-bucket in another family's car. This will make you look very rude.
Do feel totally, over-the-top excited when you and your family find actual, real-life, proper fossils at Hardraw Force (the largest un-broken waterfall in England).
Don't make a random child panic as you smile at her in a wide-eyed, excited way and offer her a fossil. To her, you look like a crazy stranger proffering a small black rock. She will shake her head in quiet terror.
When you have returned safely home, and you find yourself attempting to relax the next day, do stay calm instead of nearly weeping and begging your children to please stop bickering, while you silently wonder why they are so annoying. Wish you were here?
Do feel unbearably smug as you set off; safe in the knowledge that you have indeed catered for your family, and you are clearly the only people who have thought of doing anything as wholesome as camping.
Do wipe that smug out-doorsey grin off your face as you realise with some embarrassment, that you have in fact left the towel at home - as well as the bowls. Of course, you won't realise this until you are too far into the Yorkshire Dales to do anything about it - at this point, your mobile has no reception and the local supermarket seems to stock nothing you actually want. Other than weirdly flourescent jam tarts which you allow the kids to buy in a moment of weakness, only to realise that they had paid no attention when you explained in the shop, that they are in fact jam tarts, rather than mince pies, and that they will not last long enough to give them to Father Christmas. We never did see any towels - how the dales folk shower is a mystery. Perhaps they drip-dry.
Do feel oddly satisfied as you decide you can obviously just use your slightly manky linen skirt as a towel - why not? This must be what all those camping enthusiasts refer to as proper, rough camping. Along with the 4 small sponges your husband bought from another nearby supermarket, in lieu of a towel, we will be just fine.
Don't attempt to help too much with putting up the tent - unless you are already a seasoned camper. Just stand well back in a supervisory role, and do as you are told. After a while, you may have picked up enough technical terms to make clever-sounding comments, which will boost your confidence no end.
Don't panic as the realisation slowly dawns on you, that your children are very hyper and you will need to spend time with them in a tiny, enclosed space. When did they become so noisy and how do you switch them off?
Do feel happy and snug as they fall asleep quickly, all crammed into said tiny space.
Do resist the temptation to push a cow down the hill, aiming it at the tent containing the world's loudest man, who is happily reading Trivial Pursuit questions out (very) loud to his fellow holiday makers. At 11 'o' clock at night.
Don't worry about going to the toilet in the middle of the night, putting it off for hours in the sure knowledge that when you do go down there, an axe murderer will be waiting for you. This is pretty unlikely. Though stranger things have happened.
Do remember to plan ahead, before venturing down the campsite hill to shower. Otherwise, you may find yourself without clean knickers, or a hair band. Still, you could improvise and use your toddler's filthy leggings to hold your hair up. This, along with the wet linen skirt-cum-towel makes you feel like a total failure as a camper, and an adult. Especially when you have to walk out of the showers and up the hill wearing white linen trousers and, ahem, no knickers. Only then does it occur to you that you could have worn the old, dirty knickers. Still, never mind, at least you held the dirty laundry in front of you protectively.
Don't point and laugh as you show your husband the large cardboard sick-bucket in another family's car. This will make you look very rude.
Do feel totally, over-the-top excited when you and your family find actual, real-life, proper fossils at Hardraw Force (the largest un-broken waterfall in England).
Don't make a random child panic as you smile at her in a wide-eyed, excited way and offer her a fossil. To her, you look like a crazy stranger proffering a small black rock. She will shake her head in quiet terror.
When you have returned safely home, and you find yourself attempting to relax the next day, do stay calm instead of nearly weeping and begging your children to please stop bickering, while you silently wonder why they are so annoying. Wish you were here?
Sunday, 21 July 2013
How come I fancy a man in uniform?
“Do you wear a uniform, or do you just fancy those who do?” This is the tag-line for Uniformdating.com. So, what kind of uniforms are they talking about? The luminous, oversized and invariably unflattering fleeces of the supermarket staff? A clown's outfit - oversized shoes and a comedy wig? The brown, beige and orange nylon horrors of the local opticians? A giant bear mascot suit? Well, the advert shows a fireman, nurses and the like. Surely joining this site would just be setting yourself up for a massive disappointment – chances are it is either full of the uniform fanciers, or cleaners, traffic wardens and canteen ladies, complete with hair-nets and tabbards.
The point surely isn't that people just fancy people who wear uniforms. It is not the uniform itself, but rather what it represents, that is important. The reason most people suit a certain type of uniform is simply the sense of heroic achievement and power that comes with it. The reason Ann Summers sells nurses' uniforms rather than Homebase ones is because people like pretending that they are in charge, that they have some sort of important power. Not over your purchase of the latest drill-bit, but over your life. These people are here to protect you. If you like being the patient, it is probably because putting your health in somebody else's hands is slightly scary and thrilling.
At the same time, putting someone in a uniform gives them the appearance of somebody who is confident and competent. For those of us who feel insecure and flustered at the best of times, this is definitely a useful quality in a partner. Imagine having your own hero at your fingertips. This is why , at the end of “An Officer and a Gentleman”, Richard Gere walks on in a smart-looking white Navy officer's uniform and literally sweeps Debra Winger off her feet. Had he been wearing an old pair of jeans and a sweaty t-shirt, the scene would have been far less effective. He would just have been a normal person then, rather than the perfect romantic hero that people, especially women, grow up idealising.
While most of us quickly realise that our heroes and heroines do not need to wear uniforms or have obviously heroic jobs, some people would clearly still like to focus their dating attentions on this rather narrow market. I can't help but wonder whether the users of uniformdating.com would be bitterly disappointed if they went out on a date with a “nurse”, only to find the only uniform she owned was a slightly too-small nylon Ann Summer's one. Conversely, who amongst us, who wear uniforms in their job would be happy dating someone who (originally) only liked you for your uniform?
Still, I felt decidedly giddy a couple of years ago when I had to help a young, uniformed fireman give me a DNA sample (by spitting in a tube – very un-sexy). I felt even more awkward because his colleagues were standing near us, making fun of his inability to spit quickly. Clearly, the uniform effect doesn't really die off – even for happily married, otherwise sensible women. On the other hand, I recently encountered a disarmingly handsome pest control guy – and his uniform was definitely not sexy. What it boils down to is the person inside the uniform – whether they are an air stewardess or a mascot monkey in a dress. However, should you happen to have an old, white Naval Officer's uniform lying around, feel free to pass it on to me...
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
How come I wore that?!
Imagine the scene: It is ca. 1988 and, aged 12, I am about to make yet another 80s fashion mistake. I decide that not only are braces a brilliant idea, I really ought to own 2 pairs, because one just wasn't enough. So, I have pale, sickly green ones, and dark purple & black checked ones. As this was the 80s, I obviously don't use them to hold up my trousers. Instead, I cleverly wear them hanging down around my waist - thus ensuring that I either look as though I can't dress myself, or like I have rushed out of the toilet, or perhaps I just look like a fashion victim. I am not sure which is worse.
Fast forward a few years to 1992, and I am on a class trip to Greece. Slightly self-consciously, I don my new leggings for the first time. They look magnificent, but can I carry off red, orange, yellow, green and pink vertical stripes? My friend and I walk down the hotel corridor to another room, and knock. The girl answering the door takes one wide-eyed, shocked look at me, before exclaiming "Oh my God!" with a broad smile. I never wore the damn things again.
It is 1998, I am 22, and for the past few years, I have tried to look sexy. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to do that, which means that I am the proud owner of a blue, sparkly, see-through t-shirt and a short black skirt, which I wear when I go clubbing. I imagine this outfit makes me look attractive and fun. Wearing it, I dance in what I hope is a seductive manner. In reality, I look like a demented prostitute, smiling inanely at my boyfriend while dancing awkwardly. Just as well I never tried to make a living from my moves. Quite why he put up with the embarrassment is a mystery. As we have not yet married, he can easily escape. However, he stays put.
It is 2013 and I love my Danish pyjama trousers. When I bought these in 2010, they were the height of fashion there, so I was embarrassed to buy them, but knew that most people in England would not realise that they were so trendy in Denmark. I just don't want to look like a slavish follower of fashion, but I fell in love with this style. And I like to think they suit me. So I feel somewhat deflated when my toddler stops, mid-cry and whimpers: "Mummy, you are still wearing your pyjamas." This wouldn't be so bad, but she is the second person to say that.
A far less flattering pyjama trend is the current fad of onesies for adults. They look comfortable, and perhaps if I wore one, I could more easily get away with some of my more childish behaviour: Looking like an over-sized toddler, who could possibly be mad at me? However, this is one trend that really should have stayed in the bedroom: How do you go to the toilet in them? Do you have to awkwardly hold on to the top half of your outfit as it dangles round your waist, hoping the sleeves don't drag on the urine-stained floor of the public toilet you may find yourself in? Worse, as a friend pointed out, they are impractical for children who need the toilet, as it takes ages to undress. I realised adults must have the same problem: Imagine really needing to pee (in the way you only do when you realise you are finally very close to the toilet). There you are, desperately struggling to get the blasted thing off, getting tangled in it and falling over, hitting your head on the toilet in the process. Fashion victim indeed.
Image credit: http://theonepieceblog.com/2011/05/robbie-williams-loves-his-onesies/
Fast forward a few years to 1992, and I am on a class trip to Greece. Slightly self-consciously, I don my new leggings for the first time. They look magnificent, but can I carry off red, orange, yellow, green and pink vertical stripes? My friend and I walk down the hotel corridor to another room, and knock. The girl answering the door takes one wide-eyed, shocked look at me, before exclaiming "Oh my God!" with a broad smile. I never wore the damn things again.
It is 1998, I am 22, and for the past few years, I have tried to look sexy. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to do that, which means that I am the proud owner of a blue, sparkly, see-through t-shirt and a short black skirt, which I wear when I go clubbing. I imagine this outfit makes me look attractive and fun. Wearing it, I dance in what I hope is a seductive manner. In reality, I look like a demented prostitute, smiling inanely at my boyfriend while dancing awkwardly. Just as well I never tried to make a living from my moves. Quite why he put up with the embarrassment is a mystery. As we have not yet married, he can easily escape. However, he stays put.
It is 2013 and I love my Danish pyjama trousers. When I bought these in 2010, they were the height of fashion there, so I was embarrassed to buy them, but knew that most people in England would not realise that they were so trendy in Denmark. I just don't want to look like a slavish follower of fashion, but I fell in love with this style. And I like to think they suit me. So I feel somewhat deflated when my toddler stops, mid-cry and whimpers: "Mummy, you are still wearing your pyjamas." This wouldn't be so bad, but she is the second person to say that.
A far less flattering pyjama trend is the current fad of onesies for adults. They look comfortable, and perhaps if I wore one, I could more easily get away with some of my more childish behaviour: Looking like an over-sized toddler, who could possibly be mad at me? However, this is one trend that really should have stayed in the bedroom: How do you go to the toilet in them? Do you have to awkwardly hold on to the top half of your outfit as it dangles round your waist, hoping the sleeves don't drag on the urine-stained floor of the public toilet you may find yourself in? Worse, as a friend pointed out, they are impractical for children who need the toilet, as it takes ages to undress. I realised adults must have the same problem: Imagine really needing to pee (in the way you only do when you realise you are finally very close to the toilet). There you are, desperately struggling to get the blasted thing off, getting tangled in it and falling over, hitting your head on the toilet in the process. Fashion victim indeed.
Image credit: http://theonepieceblog.com/2011/05/robbie-williams-loves-his-onesies/
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
How come my toaster loves me?
Perhaps you have never asked yourself that question. I know I haven't. But objectum sexuality (a strong emotional and sometimes sexual desire to have relationships with inanimate objects), is very much a reality for some. Sadly, some objectophiles could never even imagine having people are friends and lovers. Some also believe that the objects are capable of feelings and desires. Just as well really - if I was in love with my toaster, I would prefer to think the feeling was mutual.
Erika Eiffel is a high-profile objectophile, or object-sexual (OS). For 3 years after meeting the object of her affection, she visited it for weeks at a time, spending her days touching it. As you can perhaps guess, she took the surname of her partner, when they married: That's right, she is Mrs. Eiffel Tower. Erika has been unfaithful, however - she has been seeing the Berlin Wall behind Eiffel's back. She currently lives next to the remains of the wall - her greatest love. It makes me feel kind of guilty about ignoring the tiny piece of it on our window-sill.
Still, according to Ms Eiffel, objectum sexuals can have relationships with both male and female objects at the same time. I suppose it is easier to have an open relationship with someone who can't complain. So, toaster, I am seeing the spice-rack too! Don't ask me how they sex the objects - your guess is as good as mine.
Erika has set up an OS organisation called OS Internationale. According to their Facebook page - (https://www.facebook.com/OS.Internationale/info) although their community mainly experience mutual love between a person and the object, there are cases of unrequited love. How depressing would that be?! Your garden fence rejecting you. Interestingly, OS internationale claim to be discovering that a large number of objectophiles have Asperger's Syndrome (a condition on the autistic spectrum). As the site points out, perhaps the typical Asperger's difficulties in relating to people, mean that they find it easier to have relationships with objects. Some objectophiles are in relationships with actual people though, so they share their love between both.
A blogger called MD Lynn described how her young Asperger's nephew has 2 objects that he always carries with him to feel safe. She added that most people feel comfort at seeing familiar landmarks when approaching home after a long journey and suggests that objectophiles are merely maginifying those normal feelings. This seems to make sense, though nobody knows what that process involves.
If you prefer your objects to be more humanoid, perhaps the Real Doll holds more appeal. For a mere £4000, you could be the lucky owner of one of these mamas.
Davecat - who appeared in a programme about them called "Guys and Dolls", lives at home with his parents and is in a relationship with a Real Doll. He states: "I think the thing my father finds really difficult about my relationship with Chichang is the fact that she is not alive, she is not a human being." Confusingly, he enjoys looking at her in the early morning, and feels that she looks back at him. "It is the difference between being alone and lonely" and he rather touchingly adds later, "we are always there for each other".
As seen, Davecat and many other owners become very emotionally attached to the dolls. This makes sense, as the programme suggests they are mainly used by people who have problems connecting with other humans. One 39 year old customer enthusiastically explains that unlike women he has known, the Real Dolls will not let him down or use him. Most doll users do not have girlfriends, but some do.
"Guys & Dolls" also features Everard, who drolly remarks that he and his doll had fun that morning. He checked and yes, she is still sleeping (she has a different face he can put on her when she is awake). Everard can have the last word: "[the dolls] "are very static. They just don't react at all. But if you don't mind that, they are good fun. They are certainly better than going without any female company at all".
Erika Eiffel is a high-profile objectophile, or object-sexual (OS). For 3 years after meeting the object of her affection, she visited it for weeks at a time, spending her days touching it. As you can perhaps guess, she took the surname of her partner, when they married: That's right, she is Mrs. Eiffel Tower. Erika has been unfaithful, however - she has been seeing the Berlin Wall behind Eiffel's back. She currently lives next to the remains of the wall - her greatest love. It makes me feel kind of guilty about ignoring the tiny piece of it on our window-sill.
Still, according to Ms Eiffel, objectum sexuals can have relationships with both male and female objects at the same time. I suppose it is easier to have an open relationship with someone who can't complain. So, toaster, I am seeing the spice-rack too! Don't ask me how they sex the objects - your guess is as good as mine.
Erika has set up an OS organisation called OS Internationale. According to their Facebook page - (https://www.facebook.com/OS.Internationale/info) although their community mainly experience mutual love between a person and the object, there are cases of unrequited love. How depressing would that be?! Your garden fence rejecting you. Interestingly, OS internationale claim to be discovering that a large number of objectophiles have Asperger's Syndrome (a condition on the autistic spectrum). As the site points out, perhaps the typical Asperger's difficulties in relating to people, mean that they find it easier to have relationships with objects. Some objectophiles are in relationships with actual people though, so they share their love between both.
A blogger called MD Lynn described how her young Asperger's nephew has 2 objects that he always carries with him to feel safe. She added that most people feel comfort at seeing familiar landmarks when approaching home after a long journey and suggests that objectophiles are merely maginifying those normal feelings. This seems to make sense, though nobody knows what that process involves.
If you prefer your objects to be more humanoid, perhaps the Real Doll holds more appeal. For a mere £4000, you could be the lucky owner of one of these mamas.
Davecat - who appeared in a programme about them called "Guys and Dolls", lives at home with his parents and is in a relationship with a Real Doll. He states: "I think the thing my father finds really difficult about my relationship with Chichang is the fact that she is not alive, she is not a human being." Confusingly, he enjoys looking at her in the early morning, and feels that she looks back at him. "It is the difference between being alone and lonely" and he rather touchingly adds later, "we are always there for each other".
As seen, Davecat and many other owners become very emotionally attached to the dolls. This makes sense, as the programme suggests they are mainly used by people who have problems connecting with other humans. One 39 year old customer enthusiastically explains that unlike women he has known, the Real Dolls will not let him down or use him. Most doll users do not have girlfriends, but some do.
"Guys & Dolls" also features Everard, who drolly remarks that he and his doll had fun that morning. He checked and yes, she is still sleeping (she has a different face he can put on her when she is awake). Everard can have the last word: "[the dolls] "are very static. They just don't react at all. But if you don't mind that, they are good fun. They are certainly better than going without any female company at all".
Friday, 21 June 2013
How come the aliens are coming to get me?
Well, they are not, I hope. However, I watched a documentary on Channel 4 a few days ago, called "Confessions of an alien abductee". It was supposedly about a helpline set up to provide support for these victims, but it became a series of mini-portraits of a few of the abductees. One of them, a woman called Chantelle is allegedly the person in Britain who has been abducted the most times (about 1000). She looked very nervous and jumpy - a skinny, beehived, chain smoker, who reminded me most of all of a fragile rabbit - or one of those hairless, shivering dogs.
She found that the abductions often happen when she is enjoying one of her beloved KFC meals with her son. She notices that suddenly too much time has elapsed: "We're eating Kentucky. We've looked at the time. Suddenly 2 - 2.5 hours have passed by." As my husband drily obbserved, perhaps the aliens are trying to teach her to avoid take-aways. Also, unless you relish the idea of an abduction, surely this programme would put you off KFC? Whether you are in a sugar and fat-induced coma or taking part in an alien medical examination, KFC is clearly not a good choice.
According to reports, some aliens appear in people's bedrooms, pull their bedcovers off and abduct them. How rude. Clearly, these supposedly highly evolved beings, who have mastered technology far beyond anything we can imagine, have yet to learn some manners. Perhaps that is why they keep abducting the British and their American cousins. The Brits are a nation of people so polite, that if you step on their toes, they will apologise (the person, not the toes). Maybe the aliens are hoping to pick up a few tips.
But walking into people's bedrooms is not unheard of. I knew of a bloke who lived in Christiania (an independent community of hippies in Copenhagen), who once experienced a couple of tourists bounding into his bedroom, as if they were walking around an outdoor museum. So, here is my thought: Perhaps the aliens think that our planet is a giant theme-park. In which case we should probably start charging - that is certainly one way to beat the recession.
Earth as a theme-park is the only thing that makes any sense to me. Otherwise, surely these aliens aren't as intelligent as they ought to be, if they have mastered technology and mind-reading? Wouldn't they have learnt all there is to learn about our humble species by now? Perhaps they suffer from poor administration skills and constantly lose their notes, or neglect to tell their colleagues, that they have "done" Earth.
Professor John Edward Mack (Harvard Medical School Psychiatrist) had an interesting theory, formed after studying several abductees. At first, he thought they were crazy, but as he studied more and more of them, he found that they were perfectly sane. He concluded that the only psychiatric condition to fit their symptoms was post traumatic stress disorder: He was of the opinion that they really had been abducted, and believed that aliens were carrying out some sort of alien-human breeding programme, as well as warning the abductees that they need to take better care of the planet. Intriguingly, the abductions often left physical traces, such as cuts that would tend to heal quickly. If you want to read more, go to http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2013/05/americans-alien-abduction-science
But perhaps (hopefully) abductees are delusional, in which case this may have been caused by post-traumatic stress from some other event or lifestyle. For example, the documentary featured one multiple victim, who had grown up with an emotionally absent mother. He claimed that an alien had adopted him and that he occassionally had sex with another. The interviewer's suggestion that he had invented the loving alien mother as a coping mechanism was dismissed outright. However, though he is married now, he is totally immersed in his alien experiences, claiming they happen once a month. Oddly enough, his wife isn't too keen on his alien lover.
More tragically, Chantelle, the beehived woman, said that if the aliens stopped abducting her, she would miss them. Like many abductees, she feels that the aliens are almost part of her family, and is torn between their world and ours. When asked which world she prefers, she said "theirs", without missing a beat. She then listed what she would miss from Earth: Her son, cigarettes, KFC (Kentucky Fried Chicken) and the TV. I kid you not. Chantelle, clearly, is not leading a full and happy life. The idea of the alien abduction as a coping mechanism is certainly an interesting and relevant one, and the programme showed the victims talking about their belief that the aliens were looking out for them, keeping them safe.
Still, should you wish to avoid an alien abduction, you could do worse than visiting www.stopabductions.com - a helpful guide to making a "thought-screen helmet". This handy device will not only make you look, ahem, special, it will also stop aliens from reading your mind, or communicating with you using telepathy, meaning they will not want to abduct you. There has only been one hat failure since 1998. Of course, you will have to wear the hat all the time ; 0
Photos are welcome!
She found that the abductions often happen when she is enjoying one of her beloved KFC meals with her son. She notices that suddenly too much time has elapsed: "We're eating Kentucky. We've looked at the time. Suddenly 2 - 2.5 hours have passed by." As my husband drily obbserved, perhaps the aliens are trying to teach her to avoid take-aways. Also, unless you relish the idea of an abduction, surely this programme would put you off KFC? Whether you are in a sugar and fat-induced coma or taking part in an alien medical examination, KFC is clearly not a good choice.
According to reports, some aliens appear in people's bedrooms, pull their bedcovers off and abduct them. How rude. Clearly, these supposedly highly evolved beings, who have mastered technology far beyond anything we can imagine, have yet to learn some manners. Perhaps that is why they keep abducting the British and their American cousins. The Brits are a nation of people so polite, that if you step on their toes, they will apologise (the person, not the toes). Maybe the aliens are hoping to pick up a few tips.
But walking into people's bedrooms is not unheard of. I knew of a bloke who lived in Christiania (an independent community of hippies in Copenhagen), who once experienced a couple of tourists bounding into his bedroom, as if they were walking around an outdoor museum. So, here is my thought: Perhaps the aliens think that our planet is a giant theme-park. In which case we should probably start charging - that is certainly one way to beat the recession.
Earth as a theme-park is the only thing that makes any sense to me. Otherwise, surely these aliens aren't as intelligent as they ought to be, if they have mastered technology and mind-reading? Wouldn't they have learnt all there is to learn about our humble species by now? Perhaps they suffer from poor administration skills and constantly lose their notes, or neglect to tell their colleagues, that they have "done" Earth.
Professor John Edward Mack (Harvard Medical School Psychiatrist) had an interesting theory, formed after studying several abductees. At first, he thought they were crazy, but as he studied more and more of them, he found that they were perfectly sane. He concluded that the only psychiatric condition to fit their symptoms was post traumatic stress disorder: He was of the opinion that they really had been abducted, and believed that aliens were carrying out some sort of alien-human breeding programme, as well as warning the abductees that they need to take better care of the planet. Intriguingly, the abductions often left physical traces, such as cuts that would tend to heal quickly. If you want to read more, go to http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2013/05/americans-alien-abduction-science
But perhaps (hopefully) abductees are delusional, in which case this may have been caused by post-traumatic stress from some other event or lifestyle. For example, the documentary featured one multiple victim, who had grown up with an emotionally absent mother. He claimed that an alien had adopted him and that he occassionally had sex with another. The interviewer's suggestion that he had invented the loving alien mother as a coping mechanism was dismissed outright. However, though he is married now, he is totally immersed in his alien experiences, claiming they happen once a month. Oddly enough, his wife isn't too keen on his alien lover.
More tragically, Chantelle, the beehived woman, said that if the aliens stopped abducting her, she would miss them. Like many abductees, she feels that the aliens are almost part of her family, and is torn between their world and ours. When asked which world she prefers, she said "theirs", without missing a beat. She then listed what she would miss from Earth: Her son, cigarettes, KFC (Kentucky Fried Chicken) and the TV. I kid you not. Chantelle, clearly, is not leading a full and happy life. The idea of the alien abduction as a coping mechanism is certainly an interesting and relevant one, and the programme showed the victims talking about their belief that the aliens were looking out for them, keeping them safe.
Still, should you wish to avoid an alien abduction, you could do worse than visiting www.stopabductions.com - a helpful guide to making a "thought-screen helmet". This handy device will not only make you look, ahem, special, it will also stop aliens from reading your mind, or communicating with you using telepathy, meaning they will not want to abduct you. There has only been one hat failure since 1998. Of course, you will have to wear the hat all the time ; 0
Photos are welcome!
Sunday, 16 June 2013
How come I am not getting any younger?
When did hubby and I become old? Or, at least, not as young as we used to be? (Let us not exaggerate here!). Was it the moment we embarked on our honeymoon, aged 26 and 27? Looking over at my new husband in the car, I couldn't help but notice that his nose hair had suddenly decided it was obviously safe to relax and sprout, as he had successfully secured a mate. Admittedly, that was pretty much it for the next 9 years. Until I looked in the mirror a few months ago and realised, to my horror, that I had started cultivating my own patch. Damn it! No idea how long that has been there. Have my friends just been staring at it silently for years, hoping I would notice myself? Perhaps I will get hairier, as my husband gets more bald. Just to balance things out. I'm not just being paranoid: By your late 20s, your body is already well on its way downhill, as your brain and lungs start ageing at 20, while skin starts ageing around 25. Hair starts ageing at 30, which could explain my own, perhaps overdue, discovery a few months ago. Basically, you just slowly start decaying.
Or was it the moment he went to pay for the petrol and returned with a packet of Werther's Originals? When I asked him why on earth he had bought those, he replied, rather smugly, "because they are smooth, creamy and uncommonly good". Clearly, the adverts work.
Was it when I realised that I was older than most of the audiences at the comedy gigs I attended? Was it when I felt stupid for using the word gigs? Or was it when shop assistants started calling me "madam", instead of flirting with me? Walking around certain clothes shops nowadays feels depressingly ageing, as I realise that the vast majority of customers are young enough to be my children - I wouldn't even have had to be a teenage mum.
Perhaps it was the day my husband returned from a field trip and ashamedly revealed his very badly torn trousers, declaring that he was too old to jump over fences and anyway, he had done his back in. Maybe the fact that I find myself groaning with pleasure when I sit down after a (not very) taxing gentle stroll makes me feel older than my years. Exhaling as I get up doesn't exactly help either.
The absolute low point so far: Sitting at the breakfast table in a hotel, wondering why my knickers were pinching me. Back in our room, I went to the toilet, only to discover the culprit: A small hairclip, neatly attached to the side of my knickers. That's when I remembered: As we were in a hotel room, and had only brought a few items and bags with us, I had laid out my clothes the night before and attached the hairclip to my knickers, thinking that I would definitely spot it, and thus not leave it behind. Sigh.....
I may as well give up now. Pass me the Werther's
Or was it the moment he went to pay for the petrol and returned with a packet of Werther's Originals? When I asked him why on earth he had bought those, he replied, rather smugly, "because they are smooth, creamy and uncommonly good". Clearly, the adverts work.
Was it when I realised that I was older than most of the audiences at the comedy gigs I attended? Was it when I felt stupid for using the word gigs? Or was it when shop assistants started calling me "madam", instead of flirting with me? Walking around certain clothes shops nowadays feels depressingly ageing, as I realise that the vast majority of customers are young enough to be my children - I wouldn't even have had to be a teenage mum.
Perhaps it was the day my husband returned from a field trip and ashamedly revealed his very badly torn trousers, declaring that he was too old to jump over fences and anyway, he had done his back in. Maybe the fact that I find myself groaning with pleasure when I sit down after a (not very) taxing gentle stroll makes me feel older than my years. Exhaling as I get up doesn't exactly help either.
The absolute low point so far: Sitting at the breakfast table in a hotel, wondering why my knickers were pinching me. Back in our room, I went to the toilet, only to discover the culprit: A small hairclip, neatly attached to the side of my knickers. That's when I remembered: As we were in a hotel room, and had only brought a few items and bags with us, I had laid out my clothes the night before and attached the hairclip to my knickers, thinking that I would definitely spot it, and thus not leave it behind. Sigh.....
I may as well give up now. Pass me the Werther's
Wednesday, 5 June 2013
How come your child is more important than mine?
We have 2 lovely, pretty, intelligent and well-behaved girls. Obviously, though, there are plenty of children who are prettier, more clever and better behaved (alright, at least as well behaved - our girls do seem freakishly "good"). Equally, there are plenty of children who are more plain, more stupid and who behave badly. That is just the way life is. In short, our girls, while we love them and are immensely proud of them, are nothing special. They are average, and have the same abilities and rights as everybody else. Some parents, however, seem to disagree.
Apparently, their children's needs are more important than anybody else's, and their offspring are also by far the most fascinating topic of conversation. These parents may as well wear a giant sign round their neck, which reads "My child is special, so your child can just fuck off!". A case in point: Today, at our usual drama group, I suddenly noticed that 2 of the regular girls behaved atrociously - aggressively elbowing and pushing in, willfully ignoring my request that they move back to allow everybody to see. Their mothers were either oblivious (deep in conversation) or indifferent. Appropriately enough, they reminded me of Cinderella's ugly sisters (though these 2 were perfectly pretty), as their greed got the better of them, and they started fighting each other.
After that, I noticed that actually these 2, especially one of them, were always out in front. In other words, other children always ended up looking at the back of their necks. I realised I just had not fully taken this in before. Outraged, I commented on this to a friend of mine, who wisely pointed out, that some parents actually want their children to be pushy. And so with that in mind, this is a public service announcement:
Are you the proud owner of a precious princess? A cheeky monkey? Then it's time you grew up, so your child has the chance to do the same. The longer you allow them and you the illusion that the world revolves around them, the more damage you inflict on them. Sure, your pushy Paige or obnoxious Ollie may get to the top of the class, the front of the queue and may well become head of the marketing department, but they won't have any friends. Will that make you proud?
If however your child really does have a special gift and is destined to become a Nobel Prize winner, an Oscar winner or a president, then please do carry on. That way, one day, I will be able to say: "I knew the mother you know.....we were practically acquaintances."
On the other hand, your children still shouldn't push in front of others.
Apparently, their children's needs are more important than anybody else's, and their offspring are also by far the most fascinating topic of conversation. These parents may as well wear a giant sign round their neck, which reads "My child is special, so your child can just fuck off!". A case in point: Today, at our usual drama group, I suddenly noticed that 2 of the regular girls behaved atrociously - aggressively elbowing and pushing in, willfully ignoring my request that they move back to allow everybody to see. Their mothers were either oblivious (deep in conversation) or indifferent. Appropriately enough, they reminded me of Cinderella's ugly sisters (though these 2 were perfectly pretty), as their greed got the better of them, and they started fighting each other.
After that, I noticed that actually these 2, especially one of them, were always out in front. In other words, other children always ended up looking at the back of their necks. I realised I just had not fully taken this in before. Outraged, I commented on this to a friend of mine, who wisely pointed out, that some parents actually want their children to be pushy. And so with that in mind, this is a public service announcement:
Are you the proud owner of a precious princess? A cheeky monkey? Then it's time you grew up, so your child has the chance to do the same. The longer you allow them and you the illusion that the world revolves around them, the more damage you inflict on them. Sure, your pushy Paige or obnoxious Ollie may get to the top of the class, the front of the queue and may well become head of the marketing department, but they won't have any friends. Will that make you proud?
If however your child really does have a special gift and is destined to become a Nobel Prize winner, an Oscar winner or a president, then please do carry on. That way, one day, I will be able to say: "I knew the mother you know.....we were practically acquaintances."
On the other hand, your children still shouldn't push in front of others.
Sunday, 2 June 2013
Service not included
It was early evening as we left the restaurant without tipping its rapidly diminishing staff. This never happens - both because my husband and I are too polite, and because the service in most restaurants is at the very least vaguely acceptable. But this time, the staff were so busy setting up tables for the next day, that they forgot about clearing ours and feeding us.
When I asked the till guy next to us, whether we could please have the kids' desserts we had already ordered, he didn't apologise, but to his credit, he did ensure that they were brought out immediately, and the rest of our table was even cleared in time too. Still no offer of dessert for us adults though. I did manage to secure a dessert menu which I perused for 10 minutes, before a slightly confused member of staff came up and asked whether she could help me. By this point, I wanted a dessert just to see whether I would actually get to eat it. I ordered the cheesecake, only to be given what probably used to be a cheese cake, but was now a rather stale imitation of one. I soldiered on, only to give up halfway through. And so it was that we left without tipping.
This isn't my only recent encounter with eccentric customer service. We went to a Coeliac fair (yes really) to buy gluten-free goodies. Unsure what to buy for lunch, we couldn't resist the prospect of a gluten-free pork pie. I can see that it doesn't sound that exciting on paper, and perhaps that should have rung some alarm bells. However, my husband bought the things, and we both tucked in. They were certainly very meaty. In fact, they were mainly meat with a tiny bit of pastry. And not much else. So, as I was struggling through this disappointingly dry pie, I innocently remarked to hubby, that mine contained gristle - just as the lady from the pork pie stall walked past. As we rounded the corner, still struggling to chew through it, pork-pie woman came over. "Is it a nice pie?" she asked, innocently. I was too embarrassed to do anything but nod, pretending I still had too much food in my mouth to talk. "Would you pass it?", she continued, rather tensely perhaps and clearly not wanting the real answer. Again, I nodded. "Oh good, I am only asking because I made them!!", she finished, foaming at the mouth and staring at me menacingly with her mad googly eyes. Okay, so maybe I made up that last bit, but why can't all our businesses provide the same excellent level of service as their North American counterparts?
For example: In 2004 we travelled around Canada, where restaurant staff were always checking how we wanted our food. Like the time we had lunch in some random café. I chose a burger from the menu, and sat down. My husband then proceeded to shout out various questions across the café: "Do you want ketchup?", "Would you like gherkins?" etc. I said "no" every time, assuming that what he obviously meant was "Do you want this added to your burger?". How wrong I was. When my lunch arrived, I discovered that, rather than assuming I wanted exactly what I had ordered, the staff had been checking whether I really did want all of the ingredients. So, I was faced with a rather dry-looking bun hugging a pathetically lonely vegetable patty. Cue minor melt-down. I had had enough of constantly having to re-affirm my orders. Perhaps I should be grateful for the bossy, "couldn't give a damn" attitude of European service providers - at least I don't have to make all those pesky choices....
Saying that, being given the finger by Eeyore in Disneyland Paris, because I dared ask him to pose for a photo, as he was walking off for his break, doesn't rank amongst my greatest holiday memories either. It may be situated in France, where the service provider is king, but don't they realise, they work for an American company?
Perhaps self-service is the way forward. Or perhaps the answer is to be rude back. Michael Winner had the right idea......
When I asked the till guy next to us, whether we could please have the kids' desserts we had already ordered, he didn't apologise, but to his credit, he did ensure that they were brought out immediately, and the rest of our table was even cleared in time too. Still no offer of dessert for us adults though. I did manage to secure a dessert menu which I perused for 10 minutes, before a slightly confused member of staff came up and asked whether she could help me. By this point, I wanted a dessert just to see whether I would actually get to eat it. I ordered the cheesecake, only to be given what probably used to be a cheese cake, but was now a rather stale imitation of one. I soldiered on, only to give up halfway through. And so it was that we left without tipping.
This isn't my only recent encounter with eccentric customer service. We went to a Coeliac fair (yes really) to buy gluten-free goodies. Unsure what to buy for lunch, we couldn't resist the prospect of a gluten-free pork pie. I can see that it doesn't sound that exciting on paper, and perhaps that should have rung some alarm bells. However, my husband bought the things, and we both tucked in. They were certainly very meaty. In fact, they were mainly meat with a tiny bit of pastry. And not much else. So, as I was struggling through this disappointingly dry pie, I innocently remarked to hubby, that mine contained gristle - just as the lady from the pork pie stall walked past. As we rounded the corner, still struggling to chew through it, pork-pie woman came over. "Is it a nice pie?" she asked, innocently. I was too embarrassed to do anything but nod, pretending I still had too much food in my mouth to talk. "Would you pass it?", she continued, rather tensely perhaps and clearly not wanting the real answer. Again, I nodded. "Oh good, I am only asking because I made them!!", she finished, foaming at the mouth and staring at me menacingly with her mad googly eyes. Okay, so maybe I made up that last bit, but why can't all our businesses provide the same excellent level of service as their North American counterparts?
For example: In 2004 we travelled around Canada, where restaurant staff were always checking how we wanted our food. Like the time we had lunch in some random café. I chose a burger from the menu, and sat down. My husband then proceeded to shout out various questions across the café: "Do you want ketchup?", "Would you like gherkins?" etc. I said "no" every time, assuming that what he obviously meant was "Do you want this added to your burger?". How wrong I was. When my lunch arrived, I discovered that, rather than assuming I wanted exactly what I had ordered, the staff had been checking whether I really did want all of the ingredients. So, I was faced with a rather dry-looking bun hugging a pathetically lonely vegetable patty. Cue minor melt-down. I had had enough of constantly having to re-affirm my orders. Perhaps I should be grateful for the bossy, "couldn't give a damn" attitude of European service providers - at least I don't have to make all those pesky choices....
Saying that, being given the finger by Eeyore in Disneyland Paris, because I dared ask him to pose for a photo, as he was walking off for his break, doesn't rank amongst my greatest holiday memories either. It may be situated in France, where the service provider is king, but don't they realise, they work for an American company?
Perhaps self-service is the way forward. Or perhaps the answer is to be rude back. Michael Winner had the right idea......
Saturday, 25 May 2013
How come princesses are sexy?
"I have fat thighs", our eldest daughter Emma, said the other day. Apart from firmly stressing that she absolutely does not, I also showed her photos of anorexic women and men, and explained that these people were so caught up in their body size, that they were ill and sometimes died prematurely. She then saw some photos of Jessica Ennis as an example of a healthy body (to those of you reading this outside the UK, Ennis is a young Olympian Athlete). Finally, she claimed that by "fat", she had merely meant healthy. Hm...We now hope she will take up football again, learning to see her body as a powerful tool, not just a fashion accessory. The reason for us trying so hard to counteract any sense she may have of being fat, is that this is the second time in a few months, she has said this. She is 5 1/2 years old.
Throughout my life, I have struggled to accept my body as it is. In fact, there is nothing wrong with it at all, as I realise when I am in a confident period. I might even say I am slim and toned. A few days later, I may feel bloated and wobbly. Since I first heard Emma complain about her thighs, I have tried to refrain from mentioning my own body issues, and have made sure I eat even more cakes in front of her than usual (it's a tough job....). Clearly though, she may already have taken on board my own dissatisfaction. I used to imagine that when I became an old woman, I would finally allow myself to eat as many pie and chips dinners as I liked. Because clearly, I would no longer care what I looked like. I was therefore somewhat disheartened when I realised that a friend of mine, a lady in her 80s, still cares what her stomach looks like. Oh dear, it is a long road ahead.
But it is not just a child's relatives, who teach them about body image. The media is awash with totally unrealistic retouched images of female and male celebrities (if they are being interviewed) to make them appear unnaturally skinny, toned and blemish-free. Magazines also highlight and laugh at the slightest perceived imperfections, or praise women who have lost the baby weight. While male celebrities do not entirely escape, the focus is overwhelmingly on the women.
Though men are pressurised into these conventional roles too, the roles imposed on women are more damaging as men generally are stronger, more powerful, more prestigious and wealthier. Consequently, women need all the help they can get. But despite this, women are still brought up to believe that they shouldn't show off, be pushy or take what they want. Rather than putting each other down to make ourselves feel good, we need to teach our daughters to believe in themselves, and be whatever kind of woman they want to be. What most girls grow up with nowadays is a depressingly similar and limiting series of role models. Starting with their storybooks, which usually feature men and women in strictly controlled stereotypical gender roles. Though we have a lovely Swedish book, featuring a girl who spends time at home with her dad, while the mum is at work, this is a rare find. While the children featured in books are often able to do whatever they want, the subtle underlying message is that the fathers go to work,while the mums stay at home. Which of course is generally true, especially in Britain, where this pattern is strongly encouraged by employers for whom the idea of a father taking several months paternity leave is still a foreign, Scandinavian concept. This is part of the reason why men generally earn more money than women, but women's reluctance to ask for what they are worth, clearly plays a part too.
Many books also feature ballerinas (99% of these are female), princesses (who normally need rescuing by some random prince), pirates (nearly always male) and space travellers (usually male). So far then, the girls' media role models are passive and dainty.
As they get older, the vast majority of girls in the West, certainly in Britain, the US and Scandinavia start watching Disney films, thus continuing the dainty and often passive pattern. Admittedly, the girls in the Disney films of the past few years have displayed more gusto and strength, but they always have to look feminine, slim and pretty. Worse, while the Disney princesses in the past were dressed fairly demurely, the newcomers are sexier and sultrier in their off-the shoulder dresses. So, while they are stronger, this is counter balanced by their disturbing sexiness.Disturbing, because they are admired and emulated by our children, who innocently watch the films, wear the merchandise and read the books while the message is slowly but surely reinforced: Yes you can be strong, just make sure you look sexy at the same time!
The recent media storm surrounding Disney's less than subtle re-branding of Merida really emphasises this idea: As the strong-willed heroine of their successful film "Brave", Merida is a wild, curly-haired princess who is an amazing archer, an accomplished sword-fighter and she can even sew while riding a horse (yes, really!). In terms of a female role model, then, Merida seemed to have it all (except why she needed to sew is beyond me). Disney, however, clearly thought she could do with some work: The new Merida, now their newest official princess, features bigger, sultrier eyes, a lower-cut dress with exposed shoulders and the obligatory glittery fabric. Though Disney claim that this re-imagined Merida was never intended to replace the original, it is unclear why she needed to change for her coronation invitation. The message is loud and clear: If you want to be in our gang, you need to sex it up!
A friend of mine teaches in a primary school in London. A few years ago, he politely had to ask whether one of the Nativity angels (an 8-10 year old girl in his class) could please refrain from wearing a black thong, as it showed through her white costume. Shocking, I know, but this is merely the sadly logical conclusion that children will draw - looking slim and sexy is important, so they think. They will not yet be aware of what sexy really means, but they know what it looks like.
Not just from films and books, but through their toys too. Lots of brands have now been updated to look more boyish and/or girly. LEGO now sells Princess editions (I know because I must confess we have one), as well as more gender neutral toys like a zoo (again, we have one). My Little Pony used to feature chubby ponies in the 1980s, which were then severely slimmed down in the 1990s. Curiously though, I have noticed that Barbie appears to have gained a tiny amount of weight since her 1980s heyday - I would now merely book her into an anorexia clinic as opposed to a hospital emergency resuscitation station. So that is a small improvement at least.
Still, Emma already has very definite ideas about which presents are appropriate for boys and which for girls. I am not sure why, as we have given them the best of both. While boys may indeed often prefer different toys from girls, we are clearly making the difference more pronounced by sticking to the options suggested to us by the shops and the manufacturers. Certain retailers would have us believe that science toys are just for boys, for example. I hope Emma never sees that!
Boys too are pressed into a narrow range of roles. A friend of mine has a young son, who loves nothing more than dressing up as fairies or princesses. When he was 2 1/2, he proudly waddled up to his maternal grandparents, complete with dress and high heels, whereupon the grandfather shook his head in shock, then grunted and exclaimed "He's a boy!", while the grandmother agreed and said "No, no, he can't go out like that". My friend, obviously upset by the episode, then discussed it with her brother, who said that "It's not right if you allow them to make themselves look stupid though".
As boys grow into men, people are pleasantly surprised when they don't conform to fatherhood's expectations. My husband works from 9 - 5, approximately, 5 days a week. He is therefore around a great deal and spends lots of time with our daughters, both playing with them and looking after them generally. We also take it in turns to cook. I have lost count of the amount of times my peers and older people have commented on how "good" he is, how lucky I am and how great it is that he takes part in playing with them. As if his role is not intrinsically equal to mine. Certainly, nobody has ever told me that they think I am good, that he is lucky or how wonderful it is that I spend so much time with them. Because that, apparently, is obviously my role anyway.
As children are picking up this restrictive view of their respective options from the media and adults' throwaway comments, they pass it on to each other, and to us. When our eldest daughter started school last autumn, a child in the playground called her a boy, because she dared to wear trousers.
I still remember the conversation I had with her a few years prior to this. She was only about 2 1/2 and yet I realised, that she had already started forming the gender expectations in her mind: I was trying to explain how the moon seemingly changes its shape. However, astronomy is not my strong point, so I said that we would have to ask daddy (who is an space scientist). Emma replied "Yes, because men know about these things". To which I hastily explained that actually, it was just that this happens to be daddy's job. When she was about 3 1/2, she and I were struggling to put a big drawing up, to which she remarked that we "need a big strong man, like daddy". Now, as I said earlier, I am not denying that men are indeed, usually, stronger, but I worry about the idea that men are somehow superior.
The truth is, we are not equal - there are differences in the way we act and think, but also obviously within each gender, from man to man and woman to woman. But though there are differences, that does not mean that we have the right to press everybody into the same few, comfortable moulds, just to make our lives easier.
In the West, we may like to think that our women are more liberated than those in other countries, but ours is a psychological prison of restrictive conventions and expectations. And while I was appalled that so many Asian women feel the need to lighten their skin, a Pakistani male friend of mine wisely remarked, that throughout the world, people feel the need to change their skin colour. Though I still think getting a tan doesn't feel as compelling to Westerners as lightening your skin does to Asian women, I can see his point. I spent several hot afternoons in my teens, desperately trying to tan, only to emerge looking pink, sweaty and bored. The boys never did this of course - they were busy playing. A huge number of people throughout the world are consumed by this culture of inadequacy, thinking they should look and behave in certain ways in order to be accepted. Worryingly, The British Crime Survey recently discovered that young people are more likely to suffer from domestic violence than any other group. Worse still, a different survey found that a high number of girls believe that it is acceptable for their boyfriend to hit them, if they had cheated on him (though this has not necessarily happened to them). This is part of the oppressive attitude to women, that somehow means comedians still make light-hearted domestic violence jokes and t-shirts are made that suggest hitting is acceptable. In this toxic mix, no wonder we are confused. Our children deserve better than this, from us and the media.
When I grew up, I encountered sexism amongst my relatives, which shaped the way I saw my role in the world - like the time my aunt laughingly called me a feminist, because I was complaining that none of the men were helping us clear the table. However, while we may think that we have moved on from this oppressive culture, that our girls and boys will grow up with a sense of entitlement and equality, thinking that the world is their oyster, Emma and her peers believe in fairies, not equality. And whose fault is that?
Throughout my life, I have struggled to accept my body as it is. In fact, there is nothing wrong with it at all, as I realise when I am in a confident period. I might even say I am slim and toned. A few days later, I may feel bloated and wobbly. Since I first heard Emma complain about her thighs, I have tried to refrain from mentioning my own body issues, and have made sure I eat even more cakes in front of her than usual (it's a tough job....). Clearly though, she may already have taken on board my own dissatisfaction. I used to imagine that when I became an old woman, I would finally allow myself to eat as many pie and chips dinners as I liked. Because clearly, I would no longer care what I looked like. I was therefore somewhat disheartened when I realised that a friend of mine, a lady in her 80s, still cares what her stomach looks like. Oh dear, it is a long road ahead.
But it is not just a child's relatives, who teach them about body image. The media is awash with totally unrealistic retouched images of female and male celebrities (if they are being interviewed) to make them appear unnaturally skinny, toned and blemish-free. Magazines also highlight and laugh at the slightest perceived imperfections, or praise women who have lost the baby weight. While male celebrities do not entirely escape, the focus is overwhelmingly on the women.
Though men are pressurised into these conventional roles too, the roles imposed on women are more damaging as men generally are stronger, more powerful, more prestigious and wealthier. Consequently, women need all the help they can get. But despite this, women are still brought up to believe that they shouldn't show off, be pushy or take what they want. Rather than putting each other down to make ourselves feel good, we need to teach our daughters to believe in themselves, and be whatever kind of woman they want to be. What most girls grow up with nowadays is a depressingly similar and limiting series of role models. Starting with their storybooks, which usually feature men and women in strictly controlled stereotypical gender roles. Though we have a lovely Swedish book, featuring a girl who spends time at home with her dad, while the mum is at work, this is a rare find. While the children featured in books are often able to do whatever they want, the subtle underlying message is that the fathers go to work,while the mums stay at home. Which of course is generally true, especially in Britain, where this pattern is strongly encouraged by employers for whom the idea of a father taking several months paternity leave is still a foreign, Scandinavian concept. This is part of the reason why men generally earn more money than women, but women's reluctance to ask for what they are worth, clearly plays a part too.
Many books also feature ballerinas (99% of these are female), princesses (who normally need rescuing by some random prince), pirates (nearly always male) and space travellers (usually male). So far then, the girls' media role models are passive and dainty.
As they get older, the vast majority of girls in the West, certainly in Britain, the US and Scandinavia start watching Disney films, thus continuing the dainty and often passive pattern. Admittedly, the girls in the Disney films of the past few years have displayed more gusto and strength, but they always have to look feminine, slim and pretty. Worse, while the Disney princesses in the past were dressed fairly demurely, the newcomers are sexier and sultrier in their off-the shoulder dresses. So, while they are stronger, this is counter balanced by their disturbing sexiness.Disturbing, because they are admired and emulated by our children, who innocently watch the films, wear the merchandise and read the books while the message is slowly but surely reinforced: Yes you can be strong, just make sure you look sexy at the same time!
The recent media storm surrounding Disney's less than subtle re-branding of Merida really emphasises this idea: As the strong-willed heroine of their successful film "Brave", Merida is a wild, curly-haired princess who is an amazing archer, an accomplished sword-fighter and she can even sew while riding a horse (yes, really!). In terms of a female role model, then, Merida seemed to have it all (except why she needed to sew is beyond me). Disney, however, clearly thought she could do with some work: The new Merida, now their newest official princess, features bigger, sultrier eyes, a lower-cut dress with exposed shoulders and the obligatory glittery fabric. Though Disney claim that this re-imagined Merida was never intended to replace the original, it is unclear why she needed to change for her coronation invitation. The message is loud and clear: If you want to be in our gang, you need to sex it up!
A friend of mine teaches in a primary school in London. A few years ago, he politely had to ask whether one of the Nativity angels (an 8-10 year old girl in his class) could please refrain from wearing a black thong, as it showed through her white costume. Shocking, I know, but this is merely the sadly logical conclusion that children will draw - looking slim and sexy is important, so they think. They will not yet be aware of what sexy really means, but they know what it looks like.
Not just from films and books, but through their toys too. Lots of brands have now been updated to look more boyish and/or girly. LEGO now sells Princess editions (I know because I must confess we have one), as well as more gender neutral toys like a zoo (again, we have one). My Little Pony used to feature chubby ponies in the 1980s, which were then severely slimmed down in the 1990s. Curiously though, I have noticed that Barbie appears to have gained a tiny amount of weight since her 1980s heyday - I would now merely book her into an anorexia clinic as opposed to a hospital emergency resuscitation station. So that is a small improvement at least.
Still, Emma already has very definite ideas about which presents are appropriate for boys and which for girls. I am not sure why, as we have given them the best of both. While boys may indeed often prefer different toys from girls, we are clearly making the difference more pronounced by sticking to the options suggested to us by the shops and the manufacturers. Certain retailers would have us believe that science toys are just for boys, for example. I hope Emma never sees that!
Boys too are pressed into a narrow range of roles. A friend of mine has a young son, who loves nothing more than dressing up as fairies or princesses. When he was 2 1/2, he proudly waddled up to his maternal grandparents, complete with dress and high heels, whereupon the grandfather shook his head in shock, then grunted and exclaimed "He's a boy!", while the grandmother agreed and said "No, no, he can't go out like that". My friend, obviously upset by the episode, then discussed it with her brother, who said that "It's not right if you allow them to make themselves look stupid though".
As boys grow into men, people are pleasantly surprised when they don't conform to fatherhood's expectations. My husband works from 9 - 5, approximately, 5 days a week. He is therefore around a great deal and spends lots of time with our daughters, both playing with them and looking after them generally. We also take it in turns to cook. I have lost count of the amount of times my peers and older people have commented on how "good" he is, how lucky I am and how great it is that he takes part in playing with them. As if his role is not intrinsically equal to mine. Certainly, nobody has ever told me that they think I am good, that he is lucky or how wonderful it is that I spend so much time with them. Because that, apparently, is obviously my role anyway.
As children are picking up this restrictive view of their respective options from the media and adults' throwaway comments, they pass it on to each other, and to us. When our eldest daughter started school last autumn, a child in the playground called her a boy, because she dared to wear trousers.
I still remember the conversation I had with her a few years prior to this. She was only about 2 1/2 and yet I realised, that she had already started forming the gender expectations in her mind: I was trying to explain how the moon seemingly changes its shape. However, astronomy is not my strong point, so I said that we would have to ask daddy (who is an space scientist). Emma replied "Yes, because men know about these things". To which I hastily explained that actually, it was just that this happens to be daddy's job. When she was about 3 1/2, she and I were struggling to put a big drawing up, to which she remarked that we "need a big strong man, like daddy". Now, as I said earlier, I am not denying that men are indeed, usually, stronger, but I worry about the idea that men are somehow superior.
The truth is, we are not equal - there are differences in the way we act and think, but also obviously within each gender, from man to man and woman to woman. But though there are differences, that does not mean that we have the right to press everybody into the same few, comfortable moulds, just to make our lives easier.
In the West, we may like to think that our women are more liberated than those in other countries, but ours is a psychological prison of restrictive conventions and expectations. And while I was appalled that so many Asian women feel the need to lighten their skin, a Pakistani male friend of mine wisely remarked, that throughout the world, people feel the need to change their skin colour. Though I still think getting a tan doesn't feel as compelling to Westerners as lightening your skin does to Asian women, I can see his point. I spent several hot afternoons in my teens, desperately trying to tan, only to emerge looking pink, sweaty and bored. The boys never did this of course - they were busy playing. A huge number of people throughout the world are consumed by this culture of inadequacy, thinking they should look and behave in certain ways in order to be accepted. Worryingly, The British Crime Survey recently discovered that young people are more likely to suffer from domestic violence than any other group. Worse still, a different survey found that a high number of girls believe that it is acceptable for their boyfriend to hit them, if they had cheated on him (though this has not necessarily happened to them). This is part of the oppressive attitude to women, that somehow means comedians still make light-hearted domestic violence jokes and t-shirts are made that suggest hitting is acceptable. In this toxic mix, no wonder we are confused. Our children deserve better than this, from us and the media.
When I grew up, I encountered sexism amongst my relatives, which shaped the way I saw my role in the world - like the time my aunt laughingly called me a feminist, because I was complaining that none of the men were helping us clear the table. However, while we may think that we have moved on from this oppressive culture, that our girls and boys will grow up with a sense of entitlement and equality, thinking that the world is their oyster, Emma and her peers believe in fairies, not equality. And whose fault is that?
Sunday, 19 May 2013
How come we humiliate our ageing celebrities?
So, watched the Eurovision last night. Apart from Denmark winning (yeeeees) and the weirdly shiny, shrieky Romanian man with the oiled-up dancers, the thing that stuck in my mind the most was the sight of poor Bonnie Tyler, struggling on with "Believe in me". Honestly, I do think that it was one of the best performances of the evening, and a very catchy song, not that that is saying much. However, her voice, while always croaky, had reached a rather alarmingly deep level. My 5 year old watched the performance and asked in wonder: "Who has that voice?", as if she was expecting a burly man to pop up behind Bonnie, thus revealing her to have been miming all along. At one point during the performance, she started swaying dangerously, and I feared the worst. Turned out she was just dancing - well, swaying, with a slightly confused look in her eyes.
This is an appeal on behalf of Ageing Celebrities UK (formerly "Help the Ageist" and "I Thought He Was Dead"): The cruel exploitation of our ageing celebrities must stop. Bonnie Tyler is merely the latest in a long line of celebrity OAP victims. The Eurovision Committee is particularly high-profile, luring pensioners into their web with promises of glory, new-found fame and recording contracts. Witness Engelbert Humperdinck's performance at last year's Eurovision (he came second to last). Mr. Humperdinck had resorted to drinking and singing karaoke in his hotel during the performances and the wait for the results. The traumatised singer had warned Bonnie Tyler that it would be "the longest night" of her life. His fellow hotel guests shared the sentiment.
The ageing celebrities are not safe anywhere - being lulled into a cosy fantasy of a bit of extra pocket money and a string of tv appearances, if they appear on such undignified affairs as "I'm a celebrity, get me out of here" and "Strictly Come Dancing", where, if they are really unlucky, they get to eat bugs and do their backs in. So, if you, or an ageing celebrity you know, are contacted by a television producer, do not attempt to approach them. Contact Age UK, and we will do our best to help you regain your dignity. Many thanks.
This is an appeal on behalf of Ageing Celebrities UK (formerly "Help the Ageist" and "I Thought He Was Dead"): The cruel exploitation of our ageing celebrities must stop. Bonnie Tyler is merely the latest in a long line of celebrity OAP victims. The Eurovision Committee is particularly high-profile, luring pensioners into their web with promises of glory, new-found fame and recording contracts. Witness Engelbert Humperdinck's performance at last year's Eurovision (he came second to last). Mr. Humperdinck had resorted to drinking and singing karaoke in his hotel during the performances and the wait for the results. The traumatised singer had warned Bonnie Tyler that it would be "the longest night" of her life. His fellow hotel guests shared the sentiment.
The ageing celebrities are not safe anywhere - being lulled into a cosy fantasy of a bit of extra pocket money and a string of tv appearances, if they appear on such undignified affairs as "I'm a celebrity, get me out of here" and "Strictly Come Dancing", where, if they are really unlucky, they get to eat bugs and do their backs in. So, if you, or an ageing celebrity you know, are contacted by a television producer, do not attempt to approach them. Contact Age UK, and we will do our best to help you regain your dignity. Many thanks.
Friday, 17 May 2013
How come they want us to buy superflous things?
Well, I know the answer really, obviously - those nice shopkeepers would love us to love all their stuff, and buy ourselves into a self-induced debt. Well, not totally self-induced. I bought a seductive-looking home and lifestyle magazine the other day, wanting to dream about the day when we are no longer renting a mould and damp-infested magnolia-coloured cramped and cluttered house. Our old house was totally different. For one, it was not even magnolia-coloured - it was "Picketfence", actually. As well as "Harbour" (pale blue) and "Cape Cod" (a slightly greener shade of blue). They were all shades in the "New England" range of paints, bought from a well-known DIY chain. Despite the fact that these shades were probably not that different from other paints available, I fooled myself into thinking that "Picketfence" would be the most perfect shade ever. To the point where my long-suffering husband resorted to scouring branches across a few counties in a desperate search for any remaining pots of it, just so that we could finish painting our dream home. So, I bought into the lifestyle dream, believing that the only the New England range would do. Which is ridiculous really. As if my everyday life would in any way be affected by the exact shade on the walls. I am not advocating slopping any old shade on your walls, but really, there are more important things.
Similarly, why on earth is a big kitchen accessories and lifestyle shop trying to convince us that we want to invest in an outdoor wood-fired oven, with stand? Granted, it looks gorgeous, and if you have nothing better to do with £800, you should go for it. It will come in really handy during those 14 days when it is actually warm enough to cook and eat outside. Perhaps I am more of a wuss than some, although my Danish heritage should surely have shored me up for some cold weather. I just prefer eating in comfort, not the cold. But according to the aforementioned glamorous magazine that I bought, I could really dine in style with this thing. So hey, maybe I should go for it : 0
But seriously, I always fall for the spiel - that is why our kitchen is a grave yard of broken dreams. Well, deserted dreams anyway. Dessert dreams in fact. Take my cute pink cake-pop maker - so gorgeous-and check out the perfect cake-pops. Aren't they just darling?Look at their little round, smooth faces - there's a pirate, complete with eye-patch and red and white-spotted scarf. There's a chick, just right for Easter. In fact, the only two times I have used the sodding thing, the cakes have been mediocre-looking at best, just embarrassingly drippy at worst. I imagined that I could simply slide the stick into the balls, but no. They slipped and slid and seemed very precarious, and occasionally fell off the sticks. As for the icing, it was an icky, gooey mess. Lumpy too, once I added the decorations. Then the pops would just stare out at me from the fridge with their sad, lumpy faces. I am exaggerating slightly to be fair, a few looked alright. Still, when I showed up with them to a child's birthday party, even the toddlers weren't keen. What happened there? Perhaps cake decorating and me just weren't meant to be. It may be in the genes. I still remember the time my mother insisted on leaving her marzipan and pistachio roll chocolate free, while my father duly covered his in the sweet stuff, to avoid the roll drying out. Consequently, when a piece of each dropped on the floor (conincidence?), our dog duly ate the chocolate-covered piece, and snubbed my mother's drier confection. Hm.....
I am not saying that I never use any of the sexy, seductive gadgets and accesories available for the modern kitchen. Merely that I sometimes buy things that I am practically destined to leave in the cupboard, because they belong in my dream life, rather than my real one. I do bake, but not things that require me to balance small cake balls on a stick.
Maybe it is time I stopped dreaming. Saying that, surely this year we can do loads of outdoor cooking.....right?
Similarly, why on earth is a big kitchen accessories and lifestyle shop trying to convince us that we want to invest in an outdoor wood-fired oven, with stand? Granted, it looks gorgeous, and if you have nothing better to do with £800, you should go for it. It will come in really handy during those 14 days when it is actually warm enough to cook and eat outside. Perhaps I am more of a wuss than some, although my Danish heritage should surely have shored me up for some cold weather. I just prefer eating in comfort, not the cold. But according to the aforementioned glamorous magazine that I bought, I could really dine in style with this thing. So hey, maybe I should go for it : 0
But seriously, I always fall for the spiel - that is why our kitchen is a grave yard of broken dreams. Well, deserted dreams anyway. Dessert dreams in fact. Take my cute pink cake-pop maker - so gorgeous-and check out the perfect cake-pops. Aren't they just darling?Look at their little round, smooth faces - there's a pirate, complete with eye-patch and red and white-spotted scarf. There's a chick, just right for Easter. In fact, the only two times I have used the sodding thing, the cakes have been mediocre-looking at best, just embarrassingly drippy at worst. I imagined that I could simply slide the stick into the balls, but no. They slipped and slid and seemed very precarious, and occasionally fell off the sticks. As for the icing, it was an icky, gooey mess. Lumpy too, once I added the decorations. Then the pops would just stare out at me from the fridge with their sad, lumpy faces. I am exaggerating slightly to be fair, a few looked alright. Still, when I showed up with them to a child's birthday party, even the toddlers weren't keen. What happened there? Perhaps cake decorating and me just weren't meant to be. It may be in the genes. I still remember the time my mother insisted on leaving her marzipan and pistachio roll chocolate free, while my father duly covered his in the sweet stuff, to avoid the roll drying out. Consequently, when a piece of each dropped on the floor (conincidence?), our dog duly ate the chocolate-covered piece, and snubbed my mother's drier confection. Hm.....
I am not saying that I never use any of the sexy, seductive gadgets and accesories available for the modern kitchen. Merely that I sometimes buy things that I am practically destined to leave in the cupboard, because they belong in my dream life, rather than my real one. I do bake, but not things that require me to balance small cake balls on a stick.
Maybe it is time I stopped dreaming. Saying that, surely this year we can do loads of outdoor cooking.....right?
Why are we not supposed to blame God?
I was watching a programme called "The Murder Workers" last night, about people who counsel and guide the bereaved families of people who have been killed. One of the relatives was a grieving 12 year old boy, the oldest of 3 children. Their father had killed the mother. When the counsellors first visited the children and their granny, this boy stayed in his room, and was hiding his grief behind anger. On the second visit, however, he was sitting in the lounge, listening to his sister talk about how she witnessed the father stab their mother, and how her older brother (ie. him) had tried to protect their mum. This poor boy was hunched up on the sofa, and started crying quietly. Later, he admitted to the counsellor, that he had sometimes, or at least on that one occasion thought of stabbing his father, but had never been able to gather up the courage. He would have been about 10 when his mother was killed. So, this scene, and their life, made me wonder: Where is God in all this? And why are we not supposed to blame Him?
Traditionally, Christians, unless I am mistaken, thank God, or at least feel grateful, when something good happens in their life. They may even use this opportunity to praise the Lord. So, why is it not a two-way street? Praising and thanking God implies that He is somehow responsible. Therefore, why is it not common practise, or acceptable, to blame God when something awful happens? If we cannot expect Him to interfere, to save people or even help them out in their hour of need, then what is the purpose of praying? Is it merely in order to calm the praying person down; to provide them with some self-induced solace? We are expected to believe that He does sometimes interfere - whenever miracles have happened. So, is this a selective God? What has singled out the recipients of such miracles? What makes them so special? How are the rest of us supposed to feel about that? We just weren't supposed to have quite such a happy life?And wouldn't it be nice, if God could just occasionally butt in? Like the huge National Lottery finger maybe - he could just poke or wag his giant hand at the offending creature. Surely that would work : )
But really, this just bothers me. I do have a somewhat complicated relationship with God - as do, I suspect, lots of people. You see, God and me, we are not in a committed relationship. I suppose God may be committed to me, but I never hear from Him, or should that be Her? And as for me, God is my bootie-call. Basically, I tend to ignore Him, unless I am in dire need of some reassurance. If I really want something, or am feeling panicked or scared, I mean really scared, I will pray. Silently, in my head, because God forbid, ahem, that anyone else should hear me.
I would be very interested in hearing what any religious people, Christians or otherwise would have to add to this piece.
Traditionally, Christians, unless I am mistaken, thank God, or at least feel grateful, when something good happens in their life. They may even use this opportunity to praise the Lord. So, why is it not a two-way street? Praising and thanking God implies that He is somehow responsible. Therefore, why is it not common practise, or acceptable, to blame God when something awful happens? If we cannot expect Him to interfere, to save people or even help them out in their hour of need, then what is the purpose of praying? Is it merely in order to calm the praying person down; to provide them with some self-induced solace? We are expected to believe that He does sometimes interfere - whenever miracles have happened. So, is this a selective God? What has singled out the recipients of such miracles? What makes them so special? How are the rest of us supposed to feel about that? We just weren't supposed to have quite such a happy life?And wouldn't it be nice, if God could just occasionally butt in? Like the huge National Lottery finger maybe - he could just poke or wag his giant hand at the offending creature. Surely that would work : )
But really, this just bothers me. I do have a somewhat complicated relationship with God - as do, I suspect, lots of people. You see, God and me, we are not in a committed relationship. I suppose God may be committed to me, but I never hear from Him, or should that be Her? And as for me, God is my bootie-call. Basically, I tend to ignore Him, unless I am in dire need of some reassurance. If I really want something, or am feeling panicked or scared, I mean really scared, I will pray. Silently, in my head, because God forbid, ahem, that anyone else should hear me.
I would be very interested in hearing what any religious people, Christians or otherwise would have to add to this piece.
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