Repeal the 8th. #Together4Yes

Oh here I go, about to get not-bookish and a little bit opinionated. It happens sometimes but it’s fine – it helps keep things fresh and I kind of had to make this post because I’ve seen a lot in recent weeks about the Irish Referendum to repeal the 8^th amendment and it’s really got me thinking because actually, it continually baffles me that this is even a thing.

I mean, having a baby changes your entire life, carrying a baby changes you in ways you cannot imagine and so the decision to become a parent or not is perhaps one of – if not the most – defining decisions a person can make don’t you think? How can it be fine to take that decision away? To make the making of that decision a criminal offence?

A Quick(ish) Catch Up

I’m pretty grumpy today, mostly because it’s freezing cold and I’m not caffeinated enough and also because I got up late and didn’t have time to straighten my hair (think Hermione circa CoE) – or I guess I could have straightened my hair but then I would have had to drive to work and I’m trying not to drive to work because I keep eating Crème Eggs and large(r) lunches and If I’m going to do that I need to do walking and so I’m sat in the office in a hoody with mahoosive hair and that’s fine, normally but today I got an unexpected visit from a supplier I am in a battle with and not only did I not know they were coming, the girl was also all high heels and smart suit and perfect hair and makeup and I’m looking the most unprofessional ever and felt totally wrong footed. I’m grumpy about it. Glamourous people scare me. & holy run on sentence, batman. & I have one of those hurty pieces of skin sticking out of my nail bed, you know the ones? OUCH. Ill probably rip it off later and it will bleed and hurt more and I’ll have regrets. Such is life.

In which I rant about 'Real Women'

Things I hate:

Broccoli

Cold winter mornings when I just want to stay in bed

Lies

The sound of my alarm clock

And this real women have curves bullshit.

Oh dear. I’m perhaps about to do a rant. I’m sorry – I’m tired, I did not sleep well last night, I’m a little bit grumpy and I am pissed off.

I saw a thing today on social media, not unlike things I’ve seen all over the place and all of the time that usually make me grit my teeth keep on scrolling, some kind of alleged body positivity, talking about having curves ‘like women should.’

Erm fuck off (language, bad language. This post might have it. Soz) Those are the comments that piss me off.

I mean, I’m not curvy I’m just…not. Apart from my bum, that’s perhaps not quite in proportion with the rest of my 5ft 4” self. Am I less of a woman because I’m slight, because I’m not curvy, because my boobs are small, because I have that thigh gap that seems to be the worst thing a girl can possibly have? You want to know a thing, I like my thigh gap. Stop telling me it makes me a shitty person. Stop telling me I’m not a real woman.

The definition of the word real is this:

actually existing as a thing or occurring in fact; not imagined or supposed.

So when you say that real women have curves and take into account that I do not, that I have small boobs and a thigh gap are you somehow saying that I am imaginary?

I’m not by the way, imaginary I mean – I know this because I was pushing a  twin pram at the weekend and when I banged my shin on the bottom carry cot it hurt like a bitch. I’m surprised I didn’t bruise. But that ‘oh shitting hell’ of pain, it shows that I’m just as real as any other woman. Surprisingly.

All women are beautiful (except, it seems, us smaller ones) and people need to remember that. I am by no means what you would call skinny, I’m small but I’m not skinny. What I am, is not curvy and that’s ok. Embrace your curves; be proud of who you are, you should be, but please don’t feel better about yourself or make yourself more of a woman by somehow I am implying I am less than one. I didn’t choose my body shape any more than you chose yours. You don’t have curves like women should. You have curves. That’s how that sentence should end. Anything else is pitting woman against woman and is a competition that I am pretty damn sure none of us agreed to.

You are not your bra size, your hips, your cankles or collar bones, you’re not the marathons you run or the food that you eat, you are not your curves and you are not your size 8 jeans. You are not defined by the way you look, and however you look, you are no less real because of it. What you are is the way you laugh and the way you cry; the things that make you smile and the reasons you find to drag yourself out of bed in a morning; you are the photographs you take and the way you sing in the shower and the secrets you keep and the promises you make; you are your thoughts and you are your ambitions and you are your dreams. You are so much more than what you see in the mirror.

To suggest anything else is insulting and it sends out a terrible message and to say we should look a certain way – curvy - is just as terrible actually, as calling somebody fat. I don’t have a great body image and I don’t have a great relationship with food and it’s hard for me sometimes to look in the mirror and feel ok with what I see. Don’t make that harder for me by suggesting that the shape and size I am is somehow inferior to yours, that I am less, that I am not real and I am undesirable – that no real man would want me. That’s shitty and also brings me to another thing that I’d also like to put into Room 101 (such  a great show): Real men like curves.

Shut up. Real men (there’s that word again) like whatever attracts them personally: a flat stomach, an arse they can grab hold of, big boobs, small boobs, blonde hair, brown eyes, a dirty laugh, a shy giggle, a party animal, a bookworm.

Don’t imply I am less of a woman because I’m only a size 8 and don’t imply my boyfriend is somehow less of a man because he likes me that way. It’s nonsense.

I would never say to you that you’re too big to be desired, or that real men like thin chicks. I wouldn’t say it because I don’t think it’s true and I wouldn’t say it because I wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings. I have feelings too. (I also wouldn’t say it because OH HELLO MISOGONY, WHY SHOULD I EXSIST ONLY TO BE ATTRACTIVE TO A MAN. I am who I am for me, not for the amount of attention I get from a man but hey, another soap box;another day.)

Basically, taste your words before you spit them out, say you’re curvy and you love it, and leave out that ‘like real women should be’ nonsense, and remember being body positive means being all body positive, it doesn’t mean belittling the body shape that’s not the same as yours – what that is, is body shaming and it’s never okay.

In which I Do The Thing

Recently, blogosphere, I have been kissing a guy (and I’ve been liking it.)

I know, right.

Gulp.

We’ll call him Sexy New Guy for now, as I don’t wish to reveal his identity just yet and he’s somebody I’ve known for a while and he’s funny and clever and has a smile that reminds me of Indiana Jones and he’s just all around excellent and it’s just generally a very nice time.

It’s weird really, because if you’d have told me this time last year that by Christmas I’d be puckering up for a guy that wasn’t The Ex Boyfriend then probably I would have laughed in your face, and yet, here we are.

Maybe people will think it’s too soon, and maybe people will think it’s not soon enough, personally I think it’s been almost a freaking year good gracious and that really there are much worse things I could be doing than kissing a guy who makes my tummy do the flippy thing.

And Sexy New Guy is lovely, and you want to know another thing: it was surprisingly easy. Falling into being with somebody again, into being with him was so so easy.  I think that’s always the thing isn’t it, putting yourself back out there is hard and scary and there’s this niggling voice in the back of your mind that’s whispering ‘you’re not pretty/funny/interesting enough’ and it would be so easy to just sort of stay indoors with a good book and Netflix forever. Especially when there are so many episodes of Pretty Little Liars to watch.

But then I remembered a conversation I’d had with Jen months ago, which was in no way related to this at all, but where she said (wisely because she is so wise) ‘girls get nowhere if they don’t ask for shit.’

Even at the time I wanted to applaud her (and did, I think) and it’s stayed with me, and even though this, this new relationship, this kisses and tickles and laughter and this shiny new taste of happiness, isn’t really me asking for anything, it’s kind of the same, you know? It’s me stepping back and thinking ‘I am fucking amazing and I’ll be damned if I’m going to wither away under a patchwork quilt. & I am pretty/funny/interesting enough, if not to anybody else then at least to me. AND SO, I am going to Do The Thing.’

And I did. I Did The Thing. I went on a date and he kissed me and I went on another date and he kissed me again and two dates became three and then there was a holiday and soon there will be another holiday and dating and here we are.

For someone who’s been out of that particular game for A Long Time, it wasn’t as daunting as I had expected it to be to start to share my life with a person who isn’t the person I’ve shared a life with for years. It was kind of refreshing. It was refreshing and it was fun and I find myself falling asleep most nights these days with a smile on my face and you know what? Right now, I feel happy. I am so fucking happy.

My advice then, to you, to everyone everywhere is to always always Do The Thing.

Whatever your thing is – do it.

Cure cancer; write that book; buy your dream house; leave that job you hate and find one you love; go for a drink with that person you think is kind of cute; when that guy you like leans in for a kiss you make sure you pucker those lips, dammit.  Because like Jen said once, girls get nowhere if they don’t ask for shit and like I say, girls get nowhere if they don’t Do The Thing.

The Ice Bucket Challenge (and why I’m not doing it)

I wonder, sometimes (lots of times) if I’m maybe getting a little crotchety now I’ve hit that 30 mark, if perhaps somewhere along the line I’ve lost my sense of ‘fun.’ My Facebook feed, just like most I imagine, has been over-run lately with videos of the ALS ice bucket challenge and the whole thing is just making me think things.

Don’t get me wrong, I have absolutely nothing against raising both awareness and money (I conceded and took part in the ‘no make-up selfie’ earlier this year) and I think anything which at its heart is about those two things can only be A Good Thing.

ALS (or MND as we know it in the UK) is a horrible horrible condition, and it’s close to my heart: my Auntie lost her Mum to MND, and my cousins their grandmother. I know how awful it is, and there is no doubt at all that the £48 million donated to the cause worldwide since the ice bucket challenge started is excellent. If you want to take part, if you want to pour a bucket of ice cold water over your head in the name of charity then be my guest. I applaud you. I offer to you the highest of fives.

I shan’t be joining in, though.

Call me a spoilsport, or a killjoy, or a wimp. Call me what you will, but here’s the thing, I just think it’s gone a little crazy. I give to charity; I have a direct debit set up to the charity of my choice. I make a donation every single month and have done for ten years. I just don’t like being made to feel like I have to do something, that if I don’t do it then I will be judged or called out.  I’ve seen a couple of other people refuse the challenge - refuse the challenge but still make a generous donation - which surely is the point, right?

‘Not good enough’ the comments declare, ‘the forfeit for not taking part is £100.’

The forfeit? I do not like this, not one little bit (said the fish in the bowl to the cat in the hat etcetera)  Then, 24 hours the videos tell me. 24 hours, or what exactly? The whole thing feels too much like peer pressure and I don’t like that.

Charity isn’t about giving (and dousing yourself in cold water) because you feel like you have to. It’s about those who have a little more than they need, giving whatever they can to a cause that needs it. Raising money and awareness is admirable, but feeling obliged to do something just because a bucketload (pun intended) of people on the internet are doing the same and making me feel like I have to? It just doesn’t feel right.

It’s not a challenge; it’s a dare. I don’t like to be dared.

If I’m going to give to charity – like I already do – then I want it to be my choice. If I want to do a run, or even dump a bucket of iced water over my head and raise money by doing so then I will. But don’t make me feel like I have no choice, don’t make me feel like I will be ridiculed for not taking part, don’t make me feel bad.

& before you start, this has nothing to do with the discomfort of the icy cold water of the challenge, and everything to do with the discomfort of the situation.

Something else? There is something inherently wrong I think, in giving to one group of people in needs whilst laughing in the face of another. California at the moment is in the middle of one of the worst droughts ever recorded – taps have dried up and water wastage is being fined – but even that is nothing in comparison to the millions of people who are dying all the time because they don’t have access to clean water and here we are, millions of us who have an endless supply of water at our fingertips, literally pouring it away. For….charity. The figures I read claimed approx. 5 people per day die from MND in the UK alone, which is terrible. The number of deaths from having no access to clean water though? Closer to 3.5million a year. It kind of makes you think a little, doesn’t it?

I’ve made my donation to MND (text ICED55 and your amount to 70070 if you want to do the same. It really is a very worthy cause) and I’ve made a small donation to wateraid too, but that bucket of water? It’s staying full.

No Other City Ever Made Me Glad

In 2007, on the night I met the boy who was to become the ‘love of my life,’ he asked me – quite nonchalantly – if I’d like to go to New York with him the next Christmas. Fast forward to just over a year later and we were grabbing a yellow cab at JFK. It’s one of my favourite stories to tell about the way that we met, and, New York is quite possibly in my top two places on earth (the other is by the sea but that’s a story for another day.)

Fast forward another 6 years from that and here we are. We watched the New New York episode of Glee this week and when it ended we looked at one another and sighed a little sadly. We miss New York, we miss it in a way not dissimilar to the way you miss an old friend you haven’t spoken to in a while: it was fun and we want more and why are you so far away. That’s kind of how New York makes you feel, like it’s that holiday romance, all too fleeting but so intense that you look back on it both fondly and with a sense of longing that almost takes your breath away.

I’ve been having a lot of New York feelings recently, perhaps due to my best friend’s forthcoming wedding (in real life, not the Julia Roberts film) which has a New York theme. She got engaged in New York (top of the Empire State Building the whole shebang), super romantic, right? I KNOW. I’ve been feeling nostalgic for that week we spent there, possibly the best week of my life, and have what can only be described as a longing to go back. A quick look on Skyscanner and a check of my bank balance swiftly reminds me that that is not even a remote possibility right now. Woe is me, I know. Feel free to send sympathy on a postcard.

I never expected to love it so. I went because Ian wanted to, mainly. I mean, I wanted to go, don’t get me wrong: who doesn’t want to go to New York, but I hadn’t spent the 25 years of my life prior to my trip with New York City dreams. I’m not a city girl. At all. I like the feel of the sea breeze on my face; I like the feel of grass between my toes; I like wide open spaces and making daisy chains in a field knowing there might not be another person for miles. That feeling, of being the only person in the world? I love it.

My grandparents owned a farm when I was small and I grew up collecting eggs and venturing as far away as I was allowed (which looking back wasn’t all that far but which felt like a million miles to me) and rolling down the hills in the top fields, faster,faster,faster. I was nettle stings, and grass stains, and sitting on a fence, laughing when the goats tried to eat my shoelaces. My cousins moved to Manchester when I was in my teens and visiting them, whilst an adventure, left me feeling like a fish out of water: it was big – too big- and loud – too loud- and dirty and all of the people were in such a hurry to get nowhere and I longed to go home to my small town life.

 

London was the same again – a big city, too much too fast, although I was older when I first went there (for my 21^st birthday) and I kind of got caught up in it all – I love me some time in the capital, but I’m always ready to come home again after a couple of days, to the relative peace of a hometown that doesn’t even have a shopping centre, where a 5 minute walk has me feeding the ducks in the park.

I thought New York would be the same: bustling, and a little insane, too many people in too much of a hurry and so much to see it would make my eyes burn. I thought I’d be ready to come home after a couple of nights; I worried our trip would be too long.

It was exactly what I expected: New York is bustling, and a little insane, with too many people in too much of a hurry and so much to see it made my eyes burn.

& I loved it.

Our trip wasn’t long enough.

I loved the line of yellow cabs waiting for us when we left the airport, bundling our cases into the trunk and giving the driver our hotel address, and the way Ian’s hand felt in mine as we crossed over to Manhattan. My heart raced and my stomach churned and I was just so freaking excited. Excited and overwhelmed and head-over-heels in love.  I loved the way it looked; the way it smelled; the way it sounded. I loved wandering through NoHo on our first night, grabbing a coffee and not being able to quite believe I was really there, being tired and grumpy but not wanting to stop walking those streets, ever.

 

We went in December, so it was cold, and the Christmas Tree was outside the Rockerfeller Centre and all the shops on Fifth Avenue were lit up with pretty lights and we got to go ice skating in Central Park. There was a Christmas market at Union Square and every day was so cold I could see my breath mist in the air in front of me. We walked and walked and walked til my boots wore away a patch of skin on my ankle; we didn’t catch the subway once. One night as we wandered hand in hand through Greenwich Village to John’s Pizzeria on Bleeker St it began to snow, enough for me to leave noticeable footprints on the New York sidewalk, and I stuck out my tongue – do New York snowflakes taste different than those back home in Lancashire? They do: they taste like possibility and dreams coming true.

I loved the people, the ones in the street and in the shops and in the all night deli on the corner of the block near our hotel (Washington Square baby) where I could buy hairspray and takeout food and a packet of Cheetos all under one roof. I loved the amazing concierge we made friends with in our hotel, and the guy who gave Ian a high five when we stopped for a slice of pizza in the pouring down rain when even my best Carrie Bradshaw couldn’t secure us a cab (you’re from England. Happy holidays!) and the lady with the broadest of New York accents who handed me my plate of pancakes and bacon in the diner we shared with the NYPD and a massive big dog. She said ‘coffee’ like they do in the movies. I kind of wanted to sit there all day. I loved the shopping (as did Ian. So many pairs of shoes oh my god) and the food and the sights. I loved the atmosphere. I loved how everything somehow felt familiar but at the same time utterly unknown; the view from the Empire State building that blew my mind and the view from the Statue of Liberty that did the same; Ground Zero which made my heart hurt and my eyes burn; Times Square and Wall Street and Bloomingdale's and Grand Central Station and City Hall and The Brooklyn Bridge and this tiny little café almost hidden by some scaffolding where the lino was peeling at the edges and the grilled cheese tasted like something straight from heaven.

I loved it all, so very much and even if I never get to go back I will be forever grateful that I ever went at all.

Oh New York. No other city ever made me glad.

In which I have nothing much of import to say about anything.

What have I done since my last blog update?

I've eaten too many Malteser MaltEaster Bunnies, which have replaced Creme Eggs as my seasonal treat of choice and who thought that would ever happen?

I've hung out a little with these cuties:

The baby is my niece Daisy. She's the best. The puppy is the new addition, Charlie. He's a 13 week old retriever and is made of love and fluff and happiness.

I've read Will Grayson, Will Grayson and had a lot of happy feelings about it. You should probably go read it, because a: John Green and b: it's really good.

I've watched Magic Mike and had a lot of unhappy feelings about it. Seriously though, oh very deary me. It's terrible.

I've been to an 'introduction to patchwork' class as 2013 is going to be the year of craft. That was fun, actually.I felt rather accomplished by the end of it! I shall never be a huge quilter like my Mum or my Granny, but it was a fun way to spend a Saturday and I can see myself making the odd bit of something as time goes on. It's good to know I can if I wish.

I've taught myself to crochet. That was last night, in bed. Wow. I am so rock and roll. Again though, year of craft. I wish to crochet myself a massive blanket like the one my Mum made last year that I have been trying (and indeed failing) to steal! So far I am part way through a scarf for a borrower so it might take me a while but still, watch this space! Maybe by next winter I will be snuggled under my own crocheted blanket and everyone will be jealous.

I’ve fangirled over John Green. I love him. [here he is making dinnerwith his son Henry, tell me it’s not adorable.]

I’ve cried at Les Mis. More than I did at the stage show, actually, which surprised me. The film gave me actual tears from Fantine dying onwards where as on stage I just had a lump in my throat til Val Jean croaked it. Go figure. Also Jackman? Super hot.

I’ve almost finished reading Ian McEwan’s ‘Sweet Tooth.’

I’ve downloaded ‘The Silver Linings Playbook’ to my Kindle ready to read next week after the above book is finished. I have done this because Jen said so and if I have learnt anything it's that if Jen says I should read a book then probably I should read it. Also, I want to see the film and the law dictates I read the book first. Who would see the film adapatation without reading the book first? What kind of crazy is that? *cough*youknowwhoyouare*cough*

I’ve worked. A lot. But that’s not all bad because there’s a cute new coffee place opened in town and I went for coffee and cake last week under the guise of ‘business meeting.’ All important meetings need cake. This is a fact of life.

I’ve drunk too much coffee. This is not just recently, this is always all of the time.

I’ve facetimed Helen and gone for dessert with Jane and emailed with Jen and Sue and realised that actually, my friends are the best. I am beyond lucky and if you are in that little circle of people I hold most dear I hope you know I am grateful for you, each and every day.

I’ve also practised the art of procrastination, proven by the exsistence of this very blog post.

things that go bump in the night

So last night Ian’s at the unit working and I’m in bed reading my book when there’s a massive thud on my bedroom window. At first I think it’s Jasper [hush,  I know, but I was in book-head. I wasn’t thinking properly about real life] but then I hear him downstairs, so it can’t be. And then it happens again.  

Thud.

Loud and solid against my bedroom window. My upstairs bedroom window. My heart starts to race a little bit because it’s dark outside and something is banging on my bedroom window [thud] and all I have for protection is the world’s most skittish cat. Nothing about this is fine and it plays right into the hands of all my fears – I’m not going to lie; when I’m home alone I do jump at every creaking floorboard and jump across the landing when I have to cross the top of the stairs to the bathroom. I am that girl – and I’m just sat frozen for a second, Kindle in white-knuckled hand, staring at the gap in the curtains.

It happens again.

Thud.

My first instinct is to call Ian and demand he come home; he did sign up to be my knight in shining hoody after all and I'm so scared I feel a little sick, but then I think no. It’s 2013 and I am not a damsel in distress. I can deal with this headless zombiefied ghost murderer monster [PROBABLY IT’S VOLDEMORT!] that is trying to break into my house and I can deal with it on my own, thank-you very much, who needs a man – yeah I know, you can just call me Hermione. I slip slowly, quietly out of bed, shiver a little because despite my flannel pj’s and fleecy poncho it’s still cold outside of the covers, and tiptoe towards the window. I get hold of the curtain, I take a deep breath and I pull it back, hard, in one swift movement.

There’s nothing there.

At least, not at eye-level. There are some odd round white marks though, here and there on the glass. Like, like snow. I look down.

There on the street is Ian looking up and waving, a massive grin on his face and my panda hat [complete with bear ears] atop his head. I wave back, and he jumps up and down on the spot,  the ears on his hat bouncing with the movement, and grabs another handful of snow from the top of my car, throwing it up at the window and it still makes me jump as it hits the glass, even though I know it’s coming.  He punches the air, grabs another handful and I laugh partly in relief and partly because he looks so damn adorable and I think God, I love that boy.