Streptocarpus!!

I grew these from cuttings. Aren't they fabulous! (If i do say so myself!)

Sufficient Scruples Has a Post

today about abortion and choice. Go there immediately and enjoy! It's brilliant.

(note: you should be looking for the post entitled "Fetuses: The Moral Equivalent of ...Everything")

I Have a Confession To Make

I bang on a bit about fitness, I know. I like my sport and I like to get sweaty and this week I decided that I would like to get myself a bike. But you know what? I absolutely could not bring myself to go to any bike shop and try them out. Because I'm fat. And after all my preaching about fat acceptance and loving myself and feeling unashamed of my size... I am a fraud.

I pictured the (in my mind they are always male) shop assistant telling me that they don't do bikes strong enough for my massive frame. I envisaged sitting on a bike only for it to crumple underneath me as though made of tinfoil. I became overwhelmed by the image of me thrashing about on my back like an upturned turtle, unable to get myself to my feet after crushing the bike. Why am I feeling like this? What has happened to me? How can I be so frightened and humiliated by something that hasn't even happened? I am so mad at my overactive, body fascist influenced imagination that all I can do is comfort eat and scowl at myself in the mirror.

I once had a nasty experience in a sports shop when I went to buy a swimming costume as a gift for one of my slender friends. I asked a (male) shop assistant if they had any swim suits and where they were. He looked at me and said, "we have them but they won't fit YOU." This was before my feminism had kicked in, so I withered inside but smiled at him and said, "Oh, I have one for me, this is for someone else", and bought the costume. I felt so crushed.

Perhaps that's where all this new stuff is coming from? Whatever. I intend to go and try out a bike this week if only to rid myself of these stupid, offensive, hurtful thoughts.

I Am So Hot

And not in the good way...It is 30 degrees c in my bedroom this morning.

Witchy pointed out that the ads on my blog point to cosmetic dentistry thanks to my last entry. The mind boggles. I apologise. let's see what happens if I type "free, safe, legal abortion". I hold my breath...

Man Mistakenly Identified As Moron...

You probably all read about that anti-choice doughnut Pete over at "March Together for Life" and his colossal error in mistaking a satirical article at The Onion for truth and then blogging about it? It was truly humbling to see such arsery expressed so boldly. Anyway, he got thousands of comments, cruelly pointing out his moronic status (they have been deleted now so don't bother) and suggesting he try harder. It was wonderful.

Then it got better. He tried to respond to the comments with a new post about how he had a) "turned the satire back onto The Onion" and b) made the original mistake because he meets women who think like this all the time and therefore was really not a clown of the first order. This again rightly elicited more comments of the "you buffoon" type. Pick one excuse or the other, surely Pete?

Now, bless him, Pete claims that "My article was a joke, which obviously thousands of you didn't get, all the while accusing me of being the stupidest person on the planet".

You see, what most of us missed is that Pete is actually cleverer than everyone else, not more stupid. I get it now. I feel so foolish...

My Dentist Does Botox

I had my checkup on Thursday. Amazingly, my teeth are fine. While I sat in the waiting room I read and re-read the posters that advertise teeth whitening (Can't afford it) and smile perfecting (don't want it) and Botox/Fillers for my face (not even dreaming about it!). I was stunned. The before and after shots on the posters were all of women (now there's a surprise). I was concerned and not a little offended.

During my appointment I asked my lovely dentist what was going on? She told me that fillers are VERY popular, they do many each week. (I stupidly failed to ask what constitutes "many", sorry.) In particular they get women who smoke wanting the lines around the mouth smoothed out. How can this be? I was under the impression that my dentist was a health care provider, not a beautician. I was already questioning the implications of wanting whiter teeth and a "perfect" smile, feeling that this was perhaps getting too close to body fascism for comfort. Now I am to be subjected to this anti-woman rhetoric every time I need a checkup.

My point (I think) is this: there should be some places where my body and face are just acceptable. No questions asked and no fingers pointed. I should be free to seek dental treatment without having to mentally engage with inappropriate questions about ageing and beauty. The waiting room has become just another place where women are attacked and judged because of their appearance; I am very disappointed.

Friday Morning

I feel so down today. Just thinking about Abir Hamzah, the war in Iraq, the bombings in Mumbai, Israeli action on Lebanon, kidnapped Israeli soldiers...it just goes on and on. I want to DO something more than I do now. But where to start?

Youth Work Training Evening Gets off to a Bad Start. Again.

After the male police officer had handcuffed his guinea pig, he pushed her head down and made stupid jokes about fucking and showed us how very easy it was to control the woman whose body he was using. He made jokes about dicks and length and truncheons and "tugging", he was suggestive and lewd and gross and I called him on it. I said, after some minutes where I was frightened of sounding stupid or reactionary or aggressive: "I will rip yours off if you mention dick again, there's only so much penis I can take in an evening". Then I went silent. Feeling a bit silly because people laughed and because it came out wrong and a bit "Carry on Matron", I wished I hadn't said anything. Later, I went to the guinea pig ( a feminist who I have respected and admired) and apologised for my outburst (I still often have a need to do this, but I will get over it); I explained that the copper and his omnipresent prick had triggered my rage. She patted my shoulder and told me that never mind, he's a great guy, always joking around, that's just his way. Amazingly, I felt better about the whole thing. If that's just his way then he needs to be challenged and belittled until it stops being his way. Its not fucking good enough to be always joking around, especially when that joking around looks like sexual assault.

What Not to Wear?

There is a mini debate starting to boil over in the letters section of the Independent (I know, I should stop buying it). The argument is about Muslim women who wear various forms of veil/covering dress.

There are those who are arguing against women wearing full or part burqa in Britain; they say it demeans women and oppresses them. They say that there is no place in this country for such control over women's dress and behaviour. I agree.

There are those who argue FOR the veil, jilbab, burqa etc. saying that the type of dress commands respect and makes women safer from some forms of abuse. That may well be true.

There are those that have said that the sight of a veiled woman is much less degrading to women and less offensive in general than the sight of a half-naked, drunken woman staggering the streets. This is just reactionary; I think that its too easy to put these two particular images in direct opposition, as if women are necessarily either one thing or the other, but that's another argument.

Here's what I think: I don't think it is freedom when women are routinely wearing lashings of make-up, starving themselves, shaving themselves, sticking on long false nails and pouring chemicals on their head. To me, it all amounts to much the same thing as purdah: women have to mask their real appearance before they go out in public. It is wrong to think that women in Britain have a free choice about how we dress; we might THINK that we are free to choose but we all know that we have been socially and culturally coerced into thinking about body and dress the way that we do. It's become just too easy to point to Muslim traditions and criticize, all the while feeling smug about alleged Western freedoms.

I wanted to go out to the shops today wearing my khaki shorts and a t-shirt. It took me over half an hour to decide whether or not it would be A) appropriate for a woman of my size and B) worth the harassment that goes along with it. I decided that the answer was yes in both cases. I am determined to make actual choices about my clothes. I am utterly sick of being told what to wear and how to wear it. I want to control my own appearance and identity. It's a lot to ask.

And then it just gets worse...

Heart at Women's Space/The Margins has this astonishing post about Iraqi women up today. I link to it but warn you, it will upset you. But you need to read it anyway.

Amy's Mix Came Today!!

Having taken part in the great Feminist Music Swap organised by the delectable Ms Jared at Sinister Girl, waiting for the post has become more exciting than I could imagine! So far I have had six mix CDs loaded with amazing feminist music. I have fabulous new music options! I am loving SleaterKinney, Azure Ray, Alix Olson, Dirty 3, The Donnas, Pink ( who would have thought!) Dar Williams, Vienna Teng, Judy Small and others... I am thinking of distilling all the best songs into one great big mixed mix version!

I bought the Dixie Chicks new CD too; I have an embarrasment of riches! Thanks you women!

Random Monday Thought on Being Fat

I played a couple of hours of football yesterday. I was knackered when I finished but I defy anyone not to be. On Friday evening I played several games of badminton; I'm not brilliant but I have excellent reflexes and am improving. I work up a sweat, I get up a good heart rate and I am very limber. I'm not unfit. I am, however, quite fat. I likes my chocolate! (Actually, joking aside, I have a compulsive eating disorder and have suffered with bulimia.) I don't want to be thinner; I love who I am. I have muscles and they are becoming more defined. I jiggle a bit when I run and I have stretch marks that prove my mettle. I am brave and strong and large and fat. I am absolutely gorgeous!

So, while I was nipping into my local shop yesterday to get a post-match cold drink, a young male passer-by shouted at me to "get on a diet". Here's my answer: "No. Now fuck off before I chase you down and kick your arse." And I can.

I'm Back!

I went away for a few days, so I haven't posted much. I shall be making up for lost time later today! I have also neglected to read anyone else's blog so I have loads to catch up on! I am looking forward to it!

New Feminism?

I am told that there's a conference tomorrow in London where the principal discussion will be "New Feminism". I am told that in the New Feminism women are encouraged to strip, be sexually available and even to pole dance, thereby liberating themselves from centuries of physical and sexual oppression. It is okay to wear make up, diet to the point of organ failure and have unimaginably large breast implants. It is fine to embrace traditional and cultural interpretations of femininity. It is okay to do these things because actually it all qualifies as reclamation. It turns out that women are empowered by being sexually objectified because they are CHOOSING to be objectified. They are celebrating their bodies and the sexual arousal that they provoke in men. These New Feminists are not being coerced therefore they must have agency in these situations!

Ahhhh.

And there I was, labouring under the illusion that this kind of thinking was 20th century Feminist - fearing, woman - loathing, lads' mag - type bullshit, engineered in order to fool women into staying thin, small and powerless.

This Old Feminist had been thinking that it might be great if women had complete control over their reproductive rights and could have abortion on demand, or could feel that their large or small, sagging or pointy -uppy, stretchmarked, blue-veined breasts were just fine thanks. Or could get equal pay for a good day's work and could walk home safely at any time of day or night. I thought it might be good if women could report rape without fear of being made to feel slutty or stupid or untruthful. It might be amazing and important if women didn't get raped at all. It would be nice if women's sports paid as well as men's and got the same tv coverage. It would be grand to get decent maternity rights and quite nice to see women over 7 stone on tv sometime. It might be wonderful if girl children were treated the same as boy children and not pushed into "gender appropriate" familial roles. It could be fabulous if hairy legged women were commonplace. It would be fantastic if Cunt was not a dirty word...

How did I get Feminism so wrong? Honestly, some days I feel so foolish.

My Green Fingers.

I was awestruck by Yawning Lion's fantastic post today over at Feh-Muh-Nist. She talked about her imagined garden and how bare and dry it seemed, with its unwanted electric fence. She talked of relationships and memories, and the delights of summer. She talked about taking down the walls that keep us in and others out. She is getting the hard work done. It was a delight to read. In honour of that delicious post I am showing you my good garden.

Everything within the fences has been begged, borrowed or stolen. I try not to spend money on plants if I can help it. I go to my garden when I need some rest or some energy; I do the work that needs doing and it refreshes me. It is not the garden of my dreams, but it is close! My metaphorical (feminist) garden is sometimes way behind in development and is often wanting for water and nourishment, but I'm working on it!

PS: Ignore the washing lines!

It's Here!!

I have been waiting for today, excited to join in with Feminist First's challenge to blog for the women who support us. I had a hard time deciding on my "woman" (maybe this should be a monthly thing?!) but today this is for Alison.

I am honoured to have had the opportunity to share my story with you. You listened and talked, always nurturing me and never judging. You pointed out new pathways when I felt lost and stumbly; you helped me read my own map! I am grateful to you for your loving, strong, ferocious support. I am encouraged by your very existence! Today I am dedicating this blog to you and the work that you do.

I Knew There Was A Reason....

that I could never bring myself to even pick up a copy of "Bridget Jones' Diary". Some small voice nagged away at my subconscious saying don't do it, don't read even one word, it will drive you insane with anger... I should have payed closer attention to that small voice because yesterday a bit of BJ (how appropriate) snuck into my eyeline and I accidentally read Fielding's column in the Independent. You just know what's coming don't you? Well, get ready for it.

Having had her baby boy, Bridget's perineum is being sewn up after her tear/episiotomy. The doctor asks Bridget's boyfriend if he would prefer a 16 or a 17 (it may even have been an 18, I cannot bring myself to re-read the passage) Boyfriend Daniel opts for 14. I can only assume that this refers to the tightness of Bridget's vagina as it might have been at various ages. I am reeling in shock.

Is it ironic? Am I not understanding something? Is this post-feminism? An allusion to the designer vagina or the possible aesthetic value of the pubescent cunt? I cannot find this funny. Or clever. I find that I have been right to avoid the books; if this is a representative section then clearly there is nothing in them worth reading. I can only hope that I have seriously misunderstood the passage and it is actually a discussion about dress size or penis length.
Hmm.

UPDATE: I have checked the actual wording in Thursday's Independent. here is the sentence in it's entirity:

There was some disgusting stitching to be done, and distinctly heard doctor say, "Ok, Daniel, what's it to be - 16-year-old or 17-year-old?", to which Daniel replied, excitedly, "Could you make it 14? Thank-you Doctor!". Humph.

I thought so. I absolutely despair. How any woman can read this and not feel revulsion is beyond me.

I Am Left to My Own Devices!

I had my last therapy session yesterday. I have wept copious tears in preparation for our parting and I wept more last night and this morning. I have been seeing my amazing therapist for a few years; each time I got up the nerve to go it alone something traumatic happened and I crashed, needing more time. Well, this time I am making the leap out into the open world no matter what happens. We have worked together for ages, getting me equipped with coping strategies and ridding me of my depression demons and for that I am more grateful to her than anyone could imagine. But now I have to test my mettle, or I will never test it at all.

So now I am free-falling into my own space and hoping that my landing is a safe one. My feminism will sustain me. I hope.

Real Football! Not that World Cup Rubbish...

I went to a local women's football training session on Monday. I took my small friend hoping that she would join in and expend some energy; she has aggression issues and needs to convert all her rage into something positive. She loved the games and the training and to my surprise, so did I. I play badminton once a week but I really need to do more exercise and I think this may be my answer!

The training ran for two hours and it was such an uplifting delightful sight to behold. There were approximately 20 young women aged 12 and up, legging it about on a field getting sweaty and muddy, falling over and leaping back up, booting the ball and playing really great football. I was electrified. The power on that pitch was tangible. There were all sorts of body shapes and sizes, tall women and short women, fat women and tiny women. I was wearing my work clothes and couldn't really get involved in the games but I can't wait to join in. I can't adequately express my joy at having stumbled into this energising, woman - centred space. I am going to buy new sports kit!!

Nip? Tuck? Anyone?

Some time ago I complained to the Advertising Standards Agency about an advert for the Sky one series "Nip/Tuck". The advert appear in one of the Sunday magazines and went like this:

The two main male characters were sitting in an empty operating theatre. They were wearing their finest suits and looking mean and brooding. Draped across one of the men's laps was a slender and white naked woman with scalpels inserted into her body at various points. There was a similar naked woman standing elsewhere in the picture.

I got annoyed and dashed off a complaint. To me it seemed obvious; the advert was offensive on many many levels, not even considering the programme it advertised. It was not obvious, however, to the folk at the ASA. Here's the important part of their reply:

"the advertisement reflected the content of the programme, which was an adult drama about the private and professional lives of two male cosmetic surgeons" Yeeeeees? "the pose of the woman lying on her back was stylised; there was no blood emanating from around the scalpel" aaaaah, I get it.."The advertisement was unlikely to encourage violence against women or to cause serious or widespread offence to readers of national press titles." Ok then.

So, it's not offensive because there's no blood, the pose of the women was stylised and the fictitious men were plastic surgeons. The problem is that it SHOULD be offensive. The general public ought to be recognising that these are violent images of powerless women. Instead, these images just wash over people and their influences seep into the collective consciousness. We become more tolerant with every picture. I intend to complain more often, and with a louder voice.