Big Fat End of the Year blog

Despite not liking being told what to do by peer pressure or society, I do make resolutions every year. In fact, making my resolutions makes the new year so exciting, and this year I started making them in November.

For comparison, my 2012 resolutions were: 
(the ones highlighted are the one I completed)

1. Watch 450 out of 1001 (films to see before you die)
2. Read list of books (10 books in total, of varying lengths and genres)
3. Watch Dr Who DVDs and videos
4. Get first aid certificate
5. Save £2000 into ISA
6. Try 8 new recipes
7. Learn to use chopsticks
8. Get rid of 1 memory box
9. Learn short hand
10. Write a feature film script
11. Ride the Bluebell railway.

2013's are...
1. Watch 500 out of 1001 films
2. Read list of books (9, one of which I finished this morning, and a trilogy included as 1)
3. Complete my Before 24 list (see below)
4. Learn to knit
5. Ride the Bluebell Railway
6. Make a roast dinner
7. Save £1000 for Australia 

Since I achieved 7 last year, and may only be around in this country for 10 months, I thought I'd pare down the resolutions a bit. Although two of them refer to completing other lists (2 & 3). And ride the Bluebell is back on there, because I really want to do it, and I want to do it. Riding the Bluebell and making a roast dinner are ones that can be achieved in one day and with relative ease.
And after a shaky start, I think I'm making progress on number 4.

Years ago, my resolutions would have included vague desires such as "Gain self-esteem" and "Lose weight" (2 years ago, it was "Lose 8lbs, which is less vague). 
These are the unattainable type of resolution, because much as I am all keen to do it, I never have the discipline or make the plan to achieve them. (And how the hell does one go about gaining self-esteem anyway? Read lots of contradictory books of how to feel the fear and be happy in 7 days?)
N.B This year's 'Learn to knit' poses a similar problem. When can one say one has learned to knit? I have learned the knitting stitch, I know the basics. Will it be when I make my first item? Inevitably, this first item is going to be either a scarf, or a large rectangle that I will claim is a blanket for my cat. 
N.B.B or N.B2 or whatever it is - my resolution of 'Write a feature film script' was a similarly unattainable through lack of discipline kind of resolution. But one day. One day...
 

I like goals, and I like lists. I like making resolutions, but I don't feel too bad if I don't achieve them. I throw in easy ones (like this year's 'Get rid of on memory box' which consisted of going through all my memory boxes and looking at everything and if I couldn't remember what memory I was meant to be remembering, I got rid of the thing) so that I can tick something off the list.
I like ticking things off lists more than I like making the lists themselves. I'm sure I'm not the only one.

This year's resolutions include 'Complete Before 24 list' which consists 6 activities or tasks I want to do before I turn 24 in April:
1. Play a full game of Monopoly
2. Visit Ireland
3. Learn to light a BBQ
4. Learn to mow grass
5. Get 4th tattoo
6. Get a credit card

I've already completed number 4, and number 5 is being designed. I fear that by April the weather will not have been warm enough to light a BBQ, and also we don't actually own a BBQ anymore...

I suppose my unwritten resolution, which I will face a daily battle of achieving, is stay true to myself, and live my life for me. Lest I sound like a weirdo with trust issues, you can only really rely on yourself (although I cannot rely on my body all the time, damn headache.) People have their own lives, and their own problems, and their own resolutions. 
New Year's is all about change, but I'm not changing for anyone but myself. 
Here's to the New Year!
And here's to making resolutions (and lists) :D

U.G.L.Y

U.G.L.Y

I look at myself and wish I wasn't so ugly.

And I wish my thighs weren't so fat, and my skin and teeth were better, and that my blonde hair would grow beyond the length it is now, and would be blonder too. Or glossier. 

And it is not very often I stop myself and wonder why I think that I'm ugly.

Has anyone ever told me I'm ugly?

Once, a boy I fancied told another boy I had gotten hot. The other boy, still a dear friend, said "she was never ugly". To which the boy I fancied was like "hmmm she was average". Or something like that. The exact words escape me 8 years down the line, but he was basically saying I definitely wasn't always hot. 

So let's get this straight shall we? I wasn't hot, and I wasn't ugly, I was just "average". So, that means there are three types of women does it? 

No.

There is one kind: Beautiful.

And there are billions of kinds: unique individuals.

No woman is the same. Yes we all have the same kind of chromosomes that means our bits are inside down below and outside up above. 

We have some peculiar contraption called a womb sitting inside us waiting for a short-lease resident. Or two. Or many.

I don't think I'm ugly because this one boy I fancied told me I was ugly. This week a guy told me I was pretty, gorgeous and sexy. Another guy told me I was beautiful and looked lush. Dressed in tshirt and jeans. Even today I caught the attention of a chef at a cafe, and I was wearing baggy jeans and oversized coat. Eh? This must all mean I'm good looking right?

But my brain- the same brain I use to succeed at work with, the same brain I use to read classic novels, do arithmetic and process daily information about people and places - that brain tells me that I am ugly. That I am disgusting and pathetic. It tells me I'm fat, unattractive, and unloveable. 

And it tells me that because it has been programmed to tell me that.

By tv. By films. By magazines. By the media. 

I am told that in order to be successful as a woman, I must also be beautiful. I must have a fantastic figure, I must dress according to societal norms (bit of cleavage maybe, and using a pencil skirt to accentuate my curves and make the most of my short frame. I can't dress too sexily because that would undermine my professionalism, and if I dress too straight-laced then I'll probably be called a hard-nosed bitch.) I must be funny and smart (but not funnier or smarter than my prospective mate because that could put them off).

I must be so many things. Women must be so many things. And they especially should not be ugly. Nuh uh. 

I need to re-educate myself. Re-educate my brain. I try and I try and I feel like I'm getting somewhere and then I'll feel worse again and I'll hate my face and my body and everything. 

This evening is a perfect example. This morning I got eyeballed by a bloke, and when someone else told me I looked hot when I sent a picture of myself in tshirt and jeans. A tshirt, fully covering my breasticles, and massive baggy jeans, covering any seductive curves.

But getting ready for a Halloween party, I feel bad or like I will fail at fitting in because I haven't got one of those stereotypically sexy outfits for women.

If you think I'm just going on the Halloween party from Mean Girls, the check out this Tumblr - http://fucknosexisthalloweencostumes.tumblr.com/ 

I must have it kind of going on, but I am fed all these bullshit mages about what I should be, that I can't seem to stop and appreciate what I am.

I hate it. It needs to stop. Not just for me, but for all other women my age, older than I am and definitely younger than I am.

Sometimes I consider having a child just to bring them up to understand the bullshit of the media and help them evolve beyond it.

Then I remember that would mean having a child, and I decide to help my cat through her insecurity problems brought on by those Felix adverts.

And I am not completely immune to the sexy Halloween stereotype btw- I'm wearing shorts and fishnet tights. I am, however, a roller derby girl off the track :p 

Boots the family cat (or: Loving myself, and loving others)

"I'm going to make banana bread!"

If I wasn't single, someone might have been in the car with me when I excitedly said that aloud.
But I was on my own, which is something that having been single for 7 or 8 months now, I am getting used to.

And will perhaps continue to get used to as I contemplate how likely it is that I will ever find someone I can put up with (note I do not say someone who can put up with me).


**

There comes a time in every girl's (or guy's) day, where she (or he) doubts her (or him) self.

(For the sake of argument, and because I am female, I'm going to go with she.)

It may even be more than once a day. It could be once an hour. It could even be more frequently than that.

And I don't mean doubting herself about a decision at work, or whether she should run to try and get the next train or whether she should just stroll and get the one after that, because she might actually miss the next one and have run for no reason.
I mean doubting that she is good enough. Good enough compared to other women, good enough to attract a partner or keep a current one. Good enough to fit in and earn respect from her peers.

Me in the morning.

I don't iron my hair so much now.

I don't put a whole lot of effort into my appearance. Not tons anyway. Lately, I've stopped straightening my hair and you're more likely to see me looking like I'm trying to blend with the pride than hanging out with the emo's.


But even when I like the way I look when I walk out of my house in the morning, I will be confronted with women that I feel are much better looking, or much better dressed than I am, and doubting whether I'll ever be able to look like that and ever be good enough.

I will probably never be thin enough. I don't have the discipline to exercise all the time, or even on a semi-regular basis, and mostly I just walk quite fast and that's all the exercise I get. And recently, I have put on weight. I have put on about 3 or 4lbs.

When I see that number on scales, I worry. I think "Oh gosh, I must stop eating so many carbs, I should only eat bread once a week or every other day instead of every day and I should stop having pasta for breakfast".
And then when my weight translates to the mirror, I don't feel I look any heavier. I don't feel any heavier. I think I've been looking quite good lately.

So then, why do I still compare myself with all the women I see every day, and why do I still doubt myself? I felt good this morning, so why do I doubt my good feelings about myself by the afternoon?

And does anyone know how I can stop please? I am so bored of hating myself.

It's like I've been taught to be unhappy with myself. Magazines tell you that you can be sexy! Because if you follow this new diet, you'll fit into this amazing new dress! And these matching heels!

Well that's already not fair. I never fit shoes. Like ever. 4's are mostly too small, but then 5's are too big. If feet could be dumb, mine are dumber.

The way I feel about myself and my body influences how comfortable I am with intimacy, as I imagine it must do with most women. What woman hasn't had a day where she felt so unsexy she wanted to keep the lights turned off?

Lately, I've developed a nasty habit of plucking hairs from my legs. I have no desire to be intimate with anyone so why should I shave or epilate (because epilation HURTS). So I pull them out every so often with tweezers, and now my legs look abominable. Scabs and new scars forming. Red, angry and pot-holed.

So the insecurity I now have about my legs (which I feel before and after I sit down and pluck at them, not during) also encourages me to doubt myself.
Not a good idea to wear shorts with those legs.

I am striving for a day where I don't hate my legs. When I don't hate any part of my body. When I have learned to eat and live healthily, and not worry about being fat or putting on 4lbs because I like bread.
Bread is really nice!

But I have to learn that my comfort with intimacy is not dependent on bread. It is dependent on me loving myself. Because "You must love yourself before you love another".

**

The intimacy I crave is familial.
My dad and sister don't really do hugs. My sister is much more comfortable with patting me on the head. My dad looks like he's being kneed in the balls whenever someone, i.e me, tries to hug him. He hates kisses. So I kiss him goodnight a lot just to annoy him. He goes "oooooooh" but not in a good way, more like "ooooh why do you put me through this torture?!"

But hugging and kissing is just how I express my love for them both.
I like to hug my cats. Not all of my cats like to be hugged though. My cat Mosh, who I frequently refer to as my baby because she is the closest I will ever come to loving something like my own child, loves cuddles too. I couldn't bear to be without Mosh.
I've noticed recently a couple of posters on my route to the station for a missing cat called Boots. Boots is described as a beloved "family pet" with a black nose and other various traits that will help us, the general public, identify him should we see him.
Mosh went missing once. My mum worried about her, but I didn't. I should have done though. Mosh was shut in a shed in the next door's garden and my mum heard her meows when she was looking for her.
Now I worry, so I like to see her every day. I like to go to the lounge and check on her when she's sitting on the back of the chair, making it black with fur.

And I am so glad when I wake up with her curled up to me.
If I wasn't single, I'd have to share my bed with someone other than Mosh. And that would be sad :(

**

Reading this blog about street harassment, one line in particular resonated with me, particularly in relation to the Neil from Addiscombe situation:

"Didn’t this man getting off the bus that night realize that I was a woman alone on the street, in  the dark? Why would he feel that situation was the time to try to approach me, a complete stranger? How many rape scenes resemble that scenario?"

Page 3 and porn stars

My next blog was going to be about intimacy, and loving myself and my family. I've already written most of it.

But something was brought to my attention that I want to address, albeit in my teeny tiny, miniscule little bit of the interwebs.

And it's this, a new campaign against Page 3 of The Sun newspaper.

I never buy The Sun. If I am ever in the vicinity of one though, curiosity gets the better of me and I always, always, open the front page to read that tiny little box housing the "opinion" of today's topless model.

I am not saying, in any way, that these models do not have the ability to form their own opinions. I'm not saying they're idiots, who couldn't possibly have any insight to the economic instability of Europe, or the Lords Reform.
What I am saying is that those boxes are futile. Whether the models write them or not, the men who read the contents of that box are looking to find out this woman's name and age. They are not looking to find out whether they could have a lively debate with her (not because they are not capable of lively debate, but because that is not the purpose of Page 3).

My sister recently posted a link to this Guardian article to a friend of Facebook. The comments she got for it were quite varied. Instantly, the guy she posted it to referred to feminists as "femo-nazis" (not to be pedantic, but the popularized term is "feminazi", so if you're going to insult us and try to belittle us by comparing us to mass-murdering fascists, please spell it correctly. We would all really appreciate it.)

He also said that women got the vote because they didn't "bitch about it", but instead got on with the "important job of running the country while the men were sent off to war". Apparently, being the men for a bit proved that women were worthy of equality. Well done women!

So at the risk of simplifying what he's saying, and women's war effort, had the opportunity not presented itself for women to physically prove they were equal to men by looking after Britain while they were gone, would women not have proved they were equal? How would they have proved this? Do we need another war to prove it again? 100 years on from the Suffrage movement, if we had real, tangible equality, we wouldn't have to keep bitching* about it, would we?


Another thing we keep bitching about, is street harassment. 
Browsing Jezebel.com today, I read this article written by a porn star about street harassment.
And the first comment said "To turn around and say "don't touch me" is both hypocritical and immature considering your whole career is centered around being "touched". Having said that, it doesn't excuse what those scumbags do, but it does explain it."

This person had essentially missed the entire point of the article. This woman, whilst she did highlight some incidents at porn conventions, she was talking about the comments, the insults, the everyday experience of being a woman on the street. How many of these men targeted her because they knew she was a porn star? It's highly unlikely any of them knew that's what she did for a living. And even if they did, why should she be harassed on the street? Why should choosing a career in adult entertainment mean an open invitation to being harassed?

At times, I've enjoyed the wolf-whistles. I gleefully reported to people that when I wore what I can only describe loosely as a top that looked like this**, builders sang to me. To ME! Little old me! I was always the nerdy girl with frizzy hair at school. But I've always been slim, and suddenly I was being appreciated for that!

But the tame wolf-whistles, and the crappy renditions of "Do-wah-diddy" or whatever they sang, are the nice anecdotes. I've had people comment on my tits, I've had men shout from the car for me to talk to them, and then when I don't, call me a whore or a bitch. These men have, it appears, a feeling of entitlement. They feel like the women of the world owe them. We should be flattered they are talking to us, so we should respond. But why the hell should we? Out of politeness? In response to your oh-so-polite conversation starter of "You have an amazing rack"?
No thank you.

And it's things like Page 3 that perpetuate the availability of women, and the objectification of women, that ensures men (not ALL men) have that sense of entitlement. That sense of entitlement is something that can be found in rapists***, and it is something that desperately needs to be tackled.

Having just looked over the comments again (of which there have been 32), the last one reads: "Feminism is believing men and women are equal. Nothing wrong with that."

Exactly.




*we will only quit our "bitching", when we don't need to bitch about misogynists and inequality anymore. So get used to it, or do something to help us.

**the "top" I owned was nowhere near as modest as this. It was string, held by bits of material at the sides. In fact, the only bit of my upper half that got any modesty was my sides. Don't worry, I'm ashamed of myself too. But it was a learning curve...

***entitlement over a victim, as rape is not about sex, but about power, and feeling entitled to having sex (vaginally, anally or orally) with the victim. I am NOT, in any way at all, saying the men that read Page 3 are rapists. I am not saying all men who objectify women (which is a very high percentage (I'm not going to guess one) of men) become rapists. I am saying that things such as Page 3, and the general objectification of women on TV, in film, and most certainly in advertising, breeds a belief that women are available for mens desire and pleasure almost all of the time, and these women are so up for it, i.e. a sense of entitlement

On Divorce and Drinking

On BBC Breakfast this morning was an item about "alternative parenting". Today's society is made up of families that are very different from the "nuclear" family of mum, dad and kids that we were all taught about. This is not necessarily to do with "broken Britain", but in the rise of acceptance of unconventional families such gay families adopting or using surrogates. BBC Breakfast used the example of a gay actor and his single, straight, female friend having kids by IVF.

Families are often complex units, regardless of whether or not it consist of two straight people of opposite genders. Families can be fantastic and amazing, and sometimes terrible and destructive.

I am very lucky to have the family that I have. I knew all my grandparents growing up, and even some  great-grandparents, as well as great-aunts and -uncles. For ease of distinguishing between them, they would be named after things that we were familiar with when visiting them. Great-Nanny Lift used to live in a block of flats - and we'd have to take the lift to see her. Great-Nanny Collar wore a foam collar for as long as I can remember.

Granny and Grandad Ponds had a pond in the garden (which I fell into one time when they were looking after me - I had to return home in Granny's bloomers....) And Nana and Grandad Cats, well, they had cats.

I am lucky that I have never really fallen out with any of my family. I had a dislike for one of my relatives because he took me hostage in a wheelbarrow and went whizzng round his garden with me unable to get out. I wasn't impressed, and disliked him for many years. I was even rude to him on the day of his mother's funeral. But I was young, and I hadn't actually realised she was his mother too, she was just my Nan's mum, my great-nan. When you are young, it can be hard to work out who belongs to what side of the family, and why they are your aunt or uncle. I don't really have a massive family, but it's big enough that I still don't know who cousin Wendy really is. I think I went to her wedding though.

With the divorce, one of the things I've been trying to get my head round is that my family will no long be "a family". I'll no longer belong to a nuclear unit where the mum and dad love each other and love their kids and we have a nice house together with a garden and maybe a pet.

No. That's it, it's split, it won't recover... 

I'm reminded of driving to and from Derby and hearing several times a radio advertisement for a relationship counselling organisation. "If your relationship is breaking down, talk to a professional about what to do next." or something like that. I'd never heard one of these adverts before, and I wondered whether it was just because Derby had a higher rate of relationship breakdown (I can't find anything indicating that this is true), or it was just a sign of the changing times and "broken Britain". Or maybe just because the company had some money for advertising.

But even when we live in different houses I will still have a family, for which I should be very grateful. We will still be us, just in different locations.

My sister said to me on holiday that if we weren't sisters, we wouldn't be friends, because we are so different. This was evident when I started singing Taylor Swift's new song and my sister said how stupid and bad a song it was. But we are sisters. We are family. And I love my family.

**

There's currently a public consultation on divorce settlements and how judges hearing divorce cases should be prepped - see the BBC article here. Having seen how difficult is has been with my parents divorce to remain amicable throughout negotation about assets and support, anything that can make the divorce process clearer, easier and potentially less painful, is always good in my book.

**

On Monday night I watched a Panorama about the drinking epidemic facing the over-65s. Their varying stories were sad and troubling. 

My parents drink. My mum has recently quit drinking, and whilst I feel, well, slighty displeased about her reasons, I am still glad for her sake that she has quit.

My dad on the other hand, has not quit. He is 58 this December, so well on his way to retirement and that over-65 age group. I don't think my dad will ever quit drinking. His lips and gums are constantly stained purple, his teeth are yellow and black. I worry all the time about his health. When I asked him if he ever worried, he said "sometimes". Sometimes I think about something happening that will wake him up to the damage he's done and doing to himself.

What are his reasons for drinking? He started drinking wine because he was told his high cholesterol meant he could no longer drink beer. And red wine is meant to be good for you. Maybe a glass every now and again is good for your heart, but my dad regularly drinks a bottle or two a day. 

I hope that when he retires he doesn't start drinking more. I think that he drinks because work stresses him out and he wants to relax when he gets home and at the weekends. So in theory he'll drink less when if he has less stress. But then, when he retires, he has no hobbies except Sudoku and Freecell. Does that mean that he'll drink more as boredom sets in?

Preoccupation with surnames... and Christmas

One comment I remember from the hospital filming on Saturday was that the baby was labeled with mum's surname, which was different to dad's surname. This was in case of emergency they said, so they could match mum & baby up without a problem. "It's easier when you're married", said the midwife.

There is, it seems, a preoccupation with surnames. With having the same surname as your partner, or as your child.
Like a lot of opinionated people, I sometimes find it hard to take on board someone else's feelings about a subject, especially when it's one I feel so strongly about.
And surnames is one I feel strongly about.

A few weeks back I had a debate with my friend about surnames, and women taking their husband's surname when they get married. I've just gone through the legal process of changing my surname from Smith to Smith-Bodie, and the question I got asked most often when telling administrators my new name was along the lines of "So did you get married then?" This was exactly the way my doctor put it, but others simply asked Was I still 'Miss' or Is that 'Mrs' now? In fact I got it today, at work - could I bring in a marriage certificate or deed poll certificate. Well I can bring in my deed poll certificate...
Whilst it's great that people are aware that some women add their husband's surname to their maiden name, I don't see why women should have to change their name at all.

My friend said some women just wanted to have the same name as their husband and just because I didn't think that was right didn't mean these women are idiots.

But they must be idiots if only for the one simple reason that changing your name IS NOT EASY. Or cheap!
£43 for my Deed Poll certificates & fee.
£89 for a new passport.
I haven't done my drivers license yet, but that'll be what, another £20.

And the forms you have to fill in seem pointless, and the long list of people you need to tell seems never ending.
HMRC. Banks (I have accounts with 4 banks...) Doctor. Dentist. Optician.
Oyster Card. Mobile phone provider. Amazon. Ebay. Paypal (who want photocopies of your new Passport & Deed poll certificate...)

When I move house, I'll have to do it all over again, too.


Changing my name was for me, an identity thing. I was born a Smith. Christened a Smith.
But I am so close to my maternal grandparents that it seemed crazy that I wasn't a Bodie too. And with my parents divorcing, I don't know if my mum will revert to her maiden name, but she won't technically be a Smith anymore.

I guess, in the same way, taking your husband's name is the same sort of thing, for your identity. Creating a new identity for yourself. But to me it seems like it's taking your identity away. I look at my name change as an evolution of my identity. I'm still a Smith, I'm just a Bodie too now, officially, on paper. I see taking your husband's name as a loss of identity. It's your name, why should that be taken away from you?

(And let's face it - 1 in 3 marriages ends in divorce right, so why bother changing your name if you might be that 1 in 3?)

I came across this blog post whilst looking up about this subject, and it includes this quote:

To name oneself is the first act of both the poet and the revolutionary. When we take away the right to an individual name, we symbolically take away the right to be an individual. Immigration officials did this to refugees; husbands routinely do it to wives - Erica Jong.

My name is who I am. I do not want to get married, so I will never be faced with this dilemma. But I am imploring women not to give up their names just because it seems like standard practice, or because they think you'll look less committed if you don't, or because they worry their children will be disaffected by having parents with different surnames. Just give your children double-barrelled surnames, duh. Double-barrelled surnames are, like, so cool.

**

In a quick aside, my friend is going to a pub in Redhill tonight for their Christmas stalls. Yes, that's right Christmas stalls. It is September. My mum text me this picture the other day or Christmas chocolate calendars or whatever they are called that she saw in the shops.

Let me reiterate - It. Is. September. 

Are we all so desperately lacking in our lives that we need 4 months to prepare for one day of the year that costs too much and makes lots of people fatter and is essentially the epitomy of our consumerist society?

This year for Christmas, I have bought everybody charity gifts. And then when I get back from Trek America, I'll buy some chocolate coins to go with them.

I've only bought everybody's presents already because I like to be organised. Not because, I'm like, SUPER EXCITED FOR XMAS OMG!

I haven't liked Christmas for years, partly due to resenting the fact that shops fill with fake cheer and consumerist tat, mostly due to the way my mother gets miserable and drunk every Christmas because we don't care and her grandad died at Christmas.

Now I don't have a "nuclear" family, Christmas is going to be even more awkward. This year will be the first year I wake up in a home with only one of my parents.

I think birthdays are the special occasion you should make an effort with presents. Not Christmas. Christmas is Jesus' birthday, not mine. Or yours. Unless you are Jesus. I'm sure as hell not.

**

Lastly, in an even quicker aside, this morning I discovered is not easy to drive whilst having a nosebleed. Whilst it's hard enough to drive into London on a Monday morning, doing it whilst blood drips down onto your bare chest and stains your lovely magenta vest top, could result in disaster.

Good thing I'm an excellent driver then.

HA.

I'll let you know if the top survives...

20 hours later.

I love my job. I love it. I love the fact that I have in the past not left the office until 9pm. I love that I did a full day of work on Thursday, and then drove 3 hours to Derby. And then drove back from Derby after working on Friday.

And I love when you are put "on call" for something, that no one really expects to happen. And then it does.

I'm working on a show about pregnancy, and I have worked on it on and off since January.
And I have never really filmed anything before except test interviews. And once I did a pan down from the top of a shop to the door of it. Exciting stuff!

So being put "on call" for a birth in Milton Keynes, which is only an hour & 45 minutes drive away, didn't bother me. I had my overnight bag packed "just in case". I put my phone on loud by my bed on Friday night at 11pm as I settled down to sleep, having arrived home from Derby about an hour beforehand.

So when, at 3am, I heard the word "Labrinth, come in" I bolted upright and looked at my phone, luminous in the dark. I knew. I didn't know the number, but I just knew.

"Hello Emma speaking?"
"Hi Emma, it's [colleague] from work. I've just got the call - [contributor's] water's have broken."
"OK. OK. I'm on my way. I'll see you at the hospital?"

I jumped out of bed. I pulled on some clothes. I tied my already greasy hair into a bun and clipped back the remaining strands and fringe. I threw my phone charger in my bag and programmed the satnav.

I ran upstairs to my mum, to wake her up, and say goodbye. My mum went on holiday yesterday, so it was the last time I'd see her for a week. And I didn't even really see her.

I went back downstairs and said goodbye to my dad. And then I grabbed everything, including a bottle of coke, an old cous cous salad, an apple, and an open bag of pistachio nuts, and I was out the door.

I didn't even eat. I stopped at some services to wolf down the cous cous. I made good time - the M1 was empty, funnily enough. I had just got to the roundabout where the hospital was located, and I got a text message to say they were back at the flat. So I changed the satnav's instructions, and headed there.

We did some filming with the dad, as mum was resting on a ward at the hospital. We tried to sleep for an hour. Then we got up, did some more filming, and headed to the hospital. Then we waited, for the lead midwife and the communications lady to arrive.
And then we filmed.

I'm not going to tell you everything because that would be giving the show away.
But we didn't leave until about 10.30pm. We headed to the hotel that had been booked for us during the day, to find that it was located directly above a pub/club and there was no free parking.

I went to bed around midnight. I basically did a 20 hour day. I went to sleep very quickly.
And goddamn my arms hurt today from carrying that camera!

But what I really want to tell you is how I felt when I first saw that baby.

Nothing. I felt nothing.

I had wondered throughout the day how I would feel. Would I suddenly feel that supposedly "primal" instinct in my womb. Would it suddenly start screaming out "Fill me!! I NEED TO BE FILLED WITH HUMAN LIFE!!"
But it didn't.
It wasn't an ugly baby at all, but I didn't want to go "Awww!"
I just felt nothing.
Except maybe relief because the day was nearly over.

I watched this woman doing a very brave thing. Doing what women are "put here to do".
And I am telling you now, I have not been put here to do that. Nuh uh. No way.
If I suddenly one day feel like my life is missing something, and that something is not a cat, but a child, then I am adopting. Definitely.

People are always condescendingly telling me I'll change my mind.
But I saw a newborn baby. And I did not think, "I want one of those one day."
I'm fairly sure my mind's made up.

Get the hint...

I'm not really one for offering dating advice, because I've only been "dating" since I was 11, and 12 years isn't really that long.

But remember Neil from Addiscombe?

The other day I got a text message from him asking how I was. I ignored, and deleted, it.

And then today I got another one. And this time I replied. Here's how the conversation went:

Neil: hi Emma, wanna hang out next week?

Me: no thank you.

N: why not?

M: because I'm not interested. Thanks anyway.

N: why did you give me your number?

M: because you pushed me into taking yours, and then made me drop call you. It was 2am and I'd been drinking

N: did I push you? All I said was take my number. Then you gave me a miss call. Why aren't you interested?

M: because I have a boyfriend, like I told you, when you approached me, when I was alone at 2am. So thanks, but no thanks.

N: alright cool. Remember you said you a have obsessive bf, is that right?

M: yes. That is correct.

N: alright do you like having a obsessive bf?

M: yes.

N: I would have thought. You need some escapism, correct?

M: and that is why I work long hours. I can't see where this conversation is going, so goodbye.

N: just making a point thats all

N: you can chill round my place if you like

N: like if you wanna escape, you can chill here

N: if you change your mind. Text me.

This is copied word for word, and with any typos either of us made.

I'm not an expert at dating or love or talking to women, but I'm telling any men reading this, you should learn when to get the hint.

I may have lied about my "obsessive bf" (and does anybody EVER like having an obsessive bf? I know I don't, but it was the easiest lie I could come up with at the time) but if I did have a real boyfriend, why is he still trying it on? I haven't got the best track record but is that not sacred? What kind of man approaches a young woman on a dark street at 2am, and despite being told she has a boyfriend, continue to try it on with her?

Should I admire the fact that he tried? 

Should I have said to him that I only took his number to get rid of him? Because I was worried about that if I continued to say no he'd get aggressive? 

What would he have been like if I had said I was single but not interested?

Maybe I should have just said I was a lesbian? But then he'd probably say I wouldn't be gay after a night with him.

But now I'm making assumptions.

But seriously, 4 texts after I said goodbye.


*UPDATE 7.9.12* He text me again during the night, about 1am.
N: would you come and see me for one night?

I have not replied. I'm kind of hoping he just goes away eventually...

Colour me sceptical...

I went out clubbing last night for the first time in longer than my memory goes back. My memory is pretty terrible you see.

I was half-expecting to hate it. I sit in on Saturday nights, feeling like Emma-no-mates and wish I had that huge group of mates everyone else seems to have that they go out with every weekend to drink and dance and have LOADS of fun.
I was thinking on my way there, that maybe it was just dancing I wanted to do. And if that was the case, I could just start dance lessons somewhere.
I thought I'll probably hate how loud it is. I'll hate the way the floor sticks. I'll hate the leering men and the constant smell of Red Bull.

But I didn't hate it all. Yes the music was loud at times but you get used to it. Yes the floor sticks, but when you're a bit drunk and therefore uneasy on your heels that can be useful. And it didn't smell like Red Bull.

But the men. The guys. The boys. Urgh.

It seems that in clubs, women are meat. The men have come to the market, hoping to find something they can take home straight away.
These men try it on with EVERYONE. They'll try smiling or looking seductively at all these women. They'll try and cuddle up to you on the dancefloor or at the bar. You'll notice them staring at you, salivating slightly, when all you're doing is headbanging to Nirvana.

A few weeks ago I went to a midnight performance at the Globe, and was waiting at the bus stop in London with my sister at about 3.30am. I suddenly realised a guy was standing very close to me, and when I looked up at him, he immediately began conversation. How was I? Where had I been? Did I have a good time? On and on and on. Eventually he asked for, and I gave him, my number (I am NEVER quick enough to programme in a fake number. "Just change one digit" people tell me. But I never think quick enough!) He then moved on, while I was still standing waiting for my bus, to another woman standing around and started chatting to her.
Needless to say, I never heard from him, and funnily enough, I wasn't bothered.

But this is what men seem to be like, in clubs more so than anywhere. They try their luck, if they strike out, they move on. Kind of predator-like.

The ratio in the club last night was at least 4 males to every 1 female. Women would be dancing on the dancefloor, on a raised platform, at the edge of the bar, and there would be scores of men standing around, looking awkward, possibly pretending to dance, but mostly just staring. At the women. So it's inevitable that you get stared at. But cuddled up to, and in my case last night, randomly grabbed for a photo. Errr, kind of bemusing, little bit terrifying.

And then as I walked to the taxi rank, I suddenly have a guy walking alongside me. How am I? Have I had a good night? Where did I go? Was it good? Who was I with? What is my name? Do I want to share a cab (in opposite directions mate? Are you mental?! Oh wait, you meant to yours... no thanks...) Will I meet up with him next week? (cue shambles story about jealous boyfriend...) Take my number, he goes. Then, drop call me, he says. Text me when you're home safely, he asks.
(When I didn't, he text me.)

URGH.
How can I give out the wrong number if I have to drop call him?

Neil from Addiscombe, if you're reading this - you're not my type, sorry. I don't really like men who come on to girls walking alone at 2am. I don't want to visit your flat. I'm not sorry that I lied to you about being taken. But let's be honest, I was scared of you. I wasn't going to say, "No I don't want to come to yours at any point because I don't like the look of you". Because I was ALONE. At 2AM. 
 And I have been trained to be cautious because I am female and if I'm unlucky, I'll get raped.
But at least I don't have to worry about getting pregnant, as long as it was a legitimate rape. Or maybe it wouldn't have been, because he didn't jump out the bushes, he introduced himself.

Sigh.

Another thing that has been bugging me all week:

Marriage. (yes, still...)

The other weekend, when a couple I am friends with were talking about marriage, I sort of went on a rant about how I don't believe in marriage so don't expect me to be genuine when I congratulate them on their wedding day.
I'm sitting here in my bedroom, hiding from the situation I live with everyday - the crumbled and dilapidated marriage that once belonged to my parents.
Colour me sceptical, but on your wedding day, I will say congratulations, but I won't mean it, not really. not from the bottom of my heart. I will say "I'm so happy for you both", and really what I will mean is "I'm so happy that you are happy, but I'm sad that you felt you happiness depended on getting married."
I was sceptical even before my parents decided to call it a day, by the way. It just made me less "hmmm not sure marriage is my thing...", and my made me more "Marriage is not my thing."

A few months ago now I went out with two former teachers of mine, and the random woman I was introduced to turned out to be the new wife of one of them - they'd just gotten married 2 days ago. Later it was revealed the other teacher had just made the decision to get married, after having been with his partner for 6 years.
This latter teacher described it as being the "next step". Here were two grown men making what is considered to be the ultimate commitment.

And I just don't get it. If you are committed, why get married? Despite what people say, I think society plays a huge role in this. Even if you don't feel like society is trying to get you married, it still presents you with two of options: get married or be single. There never seems to be anything in between. Everyone sees moving in with someone as the step before getting married, not the "final step", just one of the steps. These steps, where did they come from? And how can I avoid them please?



I found also, last night, that I was judging EVERYONE on what they were wearing. Men included. Some outfits were a talking point with my friends, but often I thought "I don't like what she's wearing" or "She's brave to be wearing that."
I suppose it was an improvement that I wasn't lamenting how much better everyone looked compared to myself, but criticising everyone else in my head isn't much better.
But I'll keep working at that. I realised what I was doing, and tried to stop.

Worrying about what I look like comes and goes. Worrying about being healthy enough to run away from attacked worries me, even though it shouldn't do because I shouldn't have to run away from an attacker because no one should be attacking me in the first place.
I have gotten to a point where spending time worrying about my skin or my thighs etc is pointless. It's futile. Why am I sitting here worrying about my weight, when I am probably 4 times heavier than an African child who has only eaten once this week and has no fresh water?
Why am I fussed whether my thighs are too thick for skinny jeans when there are people being trafficked?

It's hard to negotiate what matters in this life. I can't stand the way the media and society try to make me believe that material goods are important, that marriage and kids are important, that money is important.

I would like, just for one moment, to be able to work out what is important to me.
I'll start with what isn't important to me: being able to suit prints, being tall, having glossy hair, and fitting size 6 dresses.

Diary entries

My diaries, in the last few years, have massive gaps in them. I write quick, snatched, bits and pieces about what's going on in my life, and often don't try to catch up my diary on what's been going on. Why would I? The only person who'll read it is me, right?

I sat to try and get some thoughts and feelings onto paper in my diary today. I spent a lot of time working through what I was thinking in order to see if I could have any epiphanies or revelations as I was writing.

I am currently house sitting for a friend of my mother's. This woman, used to be my idol - single woman with a great career, living in a beautiful home with 2 cats for company.
And then she met a man, and is getting married this autumn.
And he has 3 kids.

I don't want to get married. I don't see the appeal in legally binding yourself to someone, or having to have an actual wedding day, with all it's pomp and overpriced accessories. Or taking someone else's name... (although I have to concede that some people would want to do that. Even though it SYMBOLISES BECOMING SOMEONE ELSE'S PROPERTY. *ahem* sorry. Just my anti-marriage tourettes.)

I have thought about marriage a lot. The decision that I do not want to get married is not something I have come to lightly. If I'm honest, my own parents recent separation and impending divorce is something that strengthened my resolve that marriage is not for me. Yes, I know my marriage wouldn't be the same as their marriage. The point is, their marriage is 1 in 3 marriages you will aware of that will end in divorce. If you take the marriages of my father and his 2 brothers, he is the 1 in 3. But if you look at my grandparents and their children ( my mother and uncle, who are both going through divorces) my grandparents marriage survival is 1 in 3, so 2 out of those 3 marriages have collapsed.

Anyway, the same decision making applies to the subject of children - I have considered very seriously the implications of having children.

I sort of understand why people have kids. Reasons range from just simply adoring children, to wanting to continue and secure the bloodline or family name. (Which is ONE reason many women do not change their name, and why it can be seen as sexist for the woman to have the change their name to their husband's surname. Basically, by changing their surname, the woman loses her individual family name, and her identity is then dependent on a man. If we're honest, kids will most likely have the father's name if the parents are not married (and still together) or the woman keeps her own name. So therefore, a woman's surname is at all times (with exceptions of course, i.e single mother families) that is given to her by a man. So maybe, if you don't like your dad, take your husband's name. I love my dad, so I'm keeping his. Although mine is now a double barreled creation of my family name and my mother's maiden name. So I belong to both clans, now that they are separating you see...)

Anyway I'm getting off topic!

I do not want children. Yes! It is that simple!
Yes, I am "only" 23, but I have thought about it a lot. My reasons for not wanting children include but are not limited to:
1. I will get fat.
2. I will get stretch marks.
3. It will ruin my body (which I do have issues with but on the whole quite like it how it is, inside and out!)
4. I don't like children (and sometimes/frequently they scare me - I have a theory, but I won't go into it...)
5. I am too selfish.
6. I don't want anyone.anything that dependent one me (that's why cats are purrfect hehe)
7. I don't want to push anything the size of a football out of my vagina,
8. I don't really want to spread my DNA. I was a horrible child. I couldn't cope if it turned out like me.

I don't see how having children will automatically complete my life. Like, really? How?! By costing me time, effort, and lots of money? Money I could spend on chocolate?
Is the result really worth it?
I don't think so.
Especially not if it has to come out of my lovely vagina, and grows up to be anything like me.

What really angers me about people, society, and friends is that they collectively say "you'll change your mind".
Why? Why would I change my mind? Oh wait, yeah, because getting married and having children is what all women want to do. It's our natural course in life. It's what we were built to do. Because we have the little baby houses inside us that they rent for 9 months.
So I am going against nature by not wanting kids.

I might be "only" 23, but I have been thinking about this for at least 10 years. And probably longer, because no doubt this sexist crap was introduced at nursery, in order for it to become subliminal or unconscious thought by the time I actually had to start thinking about it.
I remember, playing "husband and wife" under the age of 8. When my "husband" came home from "work", I had his "tea" ready for him on the table in our "house".
N.B Everything in the above sentence with quotation marks indicate pretend things. Imagine someone sarcastically bending their two fingers. That's the stuff.

People say that because I get so angry and fight so viciously to convince people that this is my choice, that that means actually I'll change my mind. "Lady doth protest too much" (no sarcastic finger bending here btw.) This "lady doth..." theory of theirs makes me think I should just shut my mouth. But why should I? Why should women who don't fit into society's norms be silenced?
If we stay quiet, the others won't know we're out there.

Unfortunately, I have come to realisation that if I tell men I don't want kids, then that must mean I don't want commitment right? Because surely, any woman who wants to get "serious" must mean get married and have kids...

I do want commitment. I want someone I can grow old with. Spar with. Enjoy life with.
That does not mean marriage and kids. And it doesn't mean a joint bank account (because you can repair a broken heart if they turn out not be trustworthy. However, you cannot get back any money they spend without your consent, no matter what it went on. Unless it was a vehicle, which you might be able get some money back on.)

I'm not saying I want to find that person NOW.
I'm just saying that when it comes down to it, we won't need to have a discussion about marriage and kids.
Or at least, it'll be a short one.

Why I Need Feminism.

I was bored this evening, so I checked up on Feminist Frequency, to see if there was a new post. There wasn't. So I re-read some old stuff, and then found some links I hadn't looked at.

These included links to Jezebel, and also to Geek Feminism. So, about an hour ago, I wanted to go to bed I was so bored. And now somehow I've managed to read for an hour.
Now I sort of see how people waste time watching YouTube videos. It's those "Related" whatnots in the sidebars that get you...

So anyway. I have been reading, and it's got me thinking.

I am glad I live in the UK. Yes, we have our problems, like the Coalition government, and our public transport system. But at the same time, these things aren't always negative (our political system isn't completely corrupt, and our public transport is like, 96% on time most of the time...). We in the UK have these things AND more to be thankful for.
I get my contraceptive pill free from my NHS pharmacy. Lets break that down - this means that a) I am able to get the contraceptive pill, b) I get it for free, from c) the NHS. Free (or subsidised) healthcare.
Like our public transport and Coalition government, the NHS has it's problems. But it and our government make it possible for me to protect myself from pregnancy. Abortion is also legal in the UK, and whilst some politicians have made a few attempts to attack women's reproductive rights, we remain a pro-choice society.

America, on the other hand, paints a very different, bleaker, picture. The land of the free... or is it the brave, or the biggoted, or the sexist...
I've always thought America would be a great place to live. New York, for example, never sleeps right? If I fancied a chocolate bar at 3am, I could go get one.
However, if I wanted contraception, emergency or planned, that might be significantly harder to get, because some states allow pharmacists to refuse to provide contraception to women. Pharmacists have been known to tell women they don't provide contraception because it's "dangerous".
Dangerous? To who?? The moral fabric of the great nation that is America, apparently.
And it's not just America this is happening in...

Mitt Romney, the American Republican presidential candidate, also thinks contraception is dangerous. He has also chosen a VP nominee who sponsored a bill that would have changed abortion rights in America to the extent that even if your father had raped you, and you got pregnant as a result, he could then sue you if you tried to get his baby aborted. I kid you not.

I mean, how much of that makes sense to you? Because to me, none of it does. At all.

The other thing that makes no sense to me is our perpetuating rape culture. My Facebook feed directed my attention the other day to this photo, which is part of the campaign This Is Not An Invitation To Rape Me. What I seriously couldn't believe with my own eyes were people commenting on the photo to say that really women shouldn't wear such and such an outfit, or they shouldn't dance a certain way. What right do these women have to complain if they get assaulted or raped if they danced that dance that everyone knows means "come and rape me"...
This is victim blaming, and endemic in our rape culture. Today I found this defining rape culture - it's worth a read I promise.

A friend of mine said that whilst victim blaming is bad, that's what society is, nothing is really going to change (at least, I think that was the gist of what he was saying, I was fuming so much I couldn't hear well over the blood being pumped furiously through my veins at what he was saying- sorry!)
The point is that is HAS to change. Not that 'yes, it should change, but will it ever really, probably not etc etc'. That is moot. The point is that is HAS TO.

I reserve the unequivocal right to say no. At any point. Because if I do not feel safe or comfortable, if I say no and he persists, then that is an infringement on my rights. Whether or not I have already kissed said guy, whether or not I have alcohol in my system, whether or not I'm a virgin, and whether or not I am wearing a short skirt, does not change the fact that I am saying no.

It's really, really hard not to victim blame. I know because I blamed myself when I was sexually assaulted by a friend. I don't like to talk about it, because I don't want to make it a big deal - but the fact that so many other women have been sexually assaulted or raped by people who they are meant to be able to trust means that it is a big deal. The normalisation of sexual assault and rape is a big deal.
I blamed myself because I trusted him enough to let him buy me drinks, and walk me home. I blamed myself because I let him come into my house for a glass of water, and when he asked if he could stay because it was such a long walk home and he was so tired and it was so late, I said ok.
I blamed myself because even though I had a boyfriend at the time, I let him into my bed.

At no point did I ever say I was sexually attracted to him. At no point did I say I wanted to do anything other than sleep in my bed.
At no point did I say, "yes, it's okay to roughly grope my breasts and press your body up against me".
In fact, I said no, stop.
At no point did I say, "yes, it's okay to straddle me and punch me in the face 'playfully' because I'm trying to stop your unwanted sexual advances".
In fact, I told him to get off.
And then I told him to get out.

And after he pouted and took his time leaving, I still hugged him goodbye. Because I felt guilty that he had to walk all the way home. I felt bad because I must have done or said something that led him to think that he was going to "get some", when I really hadn't meant him to think that.
And when I woke up with a black eye, I remember telling my mum that it was 'play fighting'.

But it wasn't 'play fighting'. It wasn't playing at all. And it wasn't my fault. Just because I kissed him years ago that was not an invitation to assault me. Drinking alcohol that he paid for was not an invitation to assault me. Trusting him to share my bed as a friend was not an invitation to assault me.


If you ask me why I need feminism, I would say I need feminism because I am sick of being looked down upon for enjoying sex, for not wanting marriage and kids, and for being made to feel inadequate. But above all else, I need feminism because I am sick of being made to not feel safe just because I am a woman.

Still searching, got distracted

It's been a while. I've been busy. I was unemployed for a week in January, so I was busy on L.A. Noire. And then I worked 6 day weeks for a while. And then most recently I have spent most of my free time on the Mass Effect trilogy. Which I finished a month ago and I am still heart-broken.

But what I have been doing, is reading a lot about, and exploring more of, feminism. This year so far I've read books like The Equality Illusion, Fat is a Feminist Issue, and Honey Money.

What I've realised from my reading is that no wonder there's a stereotype of feminists. People don't seem to understand that feminism encompasses a lot, and that there are different schools of feminism thought. So they find it easier to use stereotypes. Everyone finds it easier to stereotype. One stereotype of feminists is that they are all man-hating lesbians. I am now single, and have been for 5 months today. I feel a bit like I had a lucky escape, but of course getting dumped has soured my relations with men. For a while they were all pathetic excuses for human beings, none of them worth my time and especially not worth my tears. The slight bitterness I held toward them - aka man-hating - did not automatically mean I was a lesbian. In fact I am back to my normal amount of indifference to men in terms of love or hate.

I guess what I'm taking from all that I've learned from experience and books this year is that now I feel less pressure to know what kind of feminist I am and what kind of feminism I advocate. Every equality campaign has different factions, and sometimes it takes time to work out the compromises between them.

It will be exciting to see where feminism goes, and where it takes me.