Sunday, June 20, 2010
A mutant among us
When someone is bitten by a wolf they turn into a werewolf. Forever destined to roam the moors at night, terrifying local hamlets, howling during a full moon and mauling stray children, virgins and belligerent old men. They are the stuff of nightmares, folklore and legends.
When a man is bitten by a spider he turns into a death defying super-hero who jumps from the roof of high rise buildings, only to fly from roof-top to roof-top using his spider web silk. He fights crime while also managing to pull off skin tight lycra. This is a story of courage and duty.
When a woman is bitten by a Goose, however, great legends and stories will not be written about her, as her feet will grow wide and sprawl un-naturally across the floor, wider than genetically anticipated, to form an almost web shape with its angles.
I remember a moment when I was quite young and walking through Hyde Park, London. My parents were walking behind me, guiding me along, to stop me from falling into the pond - something I had done only a reasonably short time previously. Thankfully that pond was shallow and I only fell in up to my knees. I did manage to make all the other pond visitors laugh and probably thank goodness that their children weren’t as intellectually incapacitated as I must have appeared.
Anyway, I remember this summer’s day in Hyde Park and our strolling under a rare English blue sky. I remember the pond and I remember the birds, quacking and squawking. I recall a bag of bread my mother had brought from home, which we used to feed the ducks and geese floating serenely on the water.
I don’t know what happened next, but what I do remember is a giant goose, fangs exposed and possessed by the devil, leaping out of the water, onto the bank and chasing me down until it savagely bit into my child-size calf.
Okay, so there were no fangs, buts its beak grabbed at my calf and pecked it. To this day I have no idea what I did to the goose. Yes, I was feeding its friends and family in a somewhat clumsy, chubby uncoordinated kiddy way, but surely the fact that I was providing them with sustenance would be enough of a reprieve. I am fairly sure, that at that point, I hadn’t eaten a goose either, so it’s not as though I could be held accountable for the death of the assailing goose’s distant family member. None-the-less, like a crazed lunatic, that goose did not like the cut of my jib.
And now I suffer the consequences.
No, no marks on my calves. Rather, I have unnaturally wide, somewhat freakishly wide feet. I often stare at them and wonder how it came to be, but of course, I now realise that I am a genetic mutation, sharing my DNA with a goose. An that DNA has manifested in my feet.
At their widest, a foot of mine is 9.5cm wide. LSH’s feet are 9cm wide, but are more in proportion. You see, it’s not so much the size that really bothers me, but how they look when compared to the rest of my foot. It seems that they sprawl out from my heel at an unnatural angle. Like the way a Goose’s foot does. While my toes are not webbed, they are wide. Making many a pair of summer stilettos impossible to buy.
And I love a summer, strappy high stiletto. When I think of summer, I imagine light-weight cotton frocks flowing in a light evening breeze. I imagine running across sandstone tile floors, champagne in hand, with my hair flowing behind me (bob aside. In these visions I have long wavy locks) and my legs are being held up by the daintiest of silver stilettos, with fine straps that culminate at my ankle. When I find these shoes in the store, my heart skips a beat. Finally, I think, my summer vision will be realised. With a smile on my face, I pop the little shoes on, only to have my fat feet smoodge, like blancmange, through the fine straps and out, practically onto the floor on either side. Visually, it equates to Babar putting on the glass slipper.
I have a friend who has the most perfect feet. As teenagers we’d sit for hours plucking and preening ourselves and I was always so jealous of her feet. They were long, straight and elegant. Mine were wide and clumsy, ending any hope I may have had for dating a man with a foot fetish. Thankfully, LSH likes my face so much, he hasn’t yet noticed my feet. Seven years in and he still doesn’t know about my genetic mutation. Mwa ha ha.
I was also bitten by a donkey. But that’s another story.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
My SATC2 wrap up
I don’t want to be another person to slate Sex and the City 2 (SATC2) (and there have been many), but I have to be honest SATC2 movie was offensively bad.
Not just for the racial stereotypes that had been dragged, kicking and screaming out of the 1980s, not just for any cultural insensitivity that was apparent in Samantha’s flaunting of her sexuality all over a country that considers sex taboo, but because it was so incredibly self-indulgent.
I groaned in my seat when these four women who I have loved for over a decade, rose from their seats in some ostentatious bar in “Abu-Dhabi” to sing “I am woman”. When the mostly female crowd roared their approval, my temper nearly rose as some stereotypically oppressed women joined in the celebration of womanhood and were figuratively liberated by these feminist crusaders.
I don’t remember SATC being that cringe-worthy. I remember watching four intelligent, capable, strong, funny, tangible women going about their daily lives without banging on about being strong, independent, capable women. It was never overt, it was always just the case. Talking about it made it seem, to me, completely contrived. Perhaps it’s because my mother always said, “the loudest tin has the least in it,” and it was one of many Asian-idioms that has stuck in my head.
Additionally, the movie foolishly and clumsily assumes that women of all races and classes want the same thing. Contemporary feminist theory suggests that not all women experience oppression in the same way. That in fact, what we perceive as oppression might not, to a woman of a different race and ethnicity, be oppressive.
I recall one of my first sociology lecturers telling us that Aboriginal women are all for the feminist movement but want something different to what western women want. In fact, I recall her saying, Aboriginal feminists want homes free of violence, not the shattering of the glass ceiling. Basically, contemporary feminist theory tells us that we need to stop assuming that all women want the same thing. At least until we do the research.
The whole movie just seemed a bit full of itself. From the ridiculously over the top saturation of wealth of the characters, to the wastefulness to concepts that were so basic they barely scraped the surface of the complexities of the roles that a women will play in her daily life – from that of mother, manager, employee, employer, wife and sex goddess. Yet the series was amazing. How did this movie fall so short?
SATC2, to me, failed to be the fabulous movie I was hoping for and even reflect the core elements that I have come to love from the show. I feel like the writers took on a subject matter that was beyond the parameters of the characters and beyond my expectations as a cinema going fan. To me, it failed as an intelligent social commentary and as far as I can remember there weren’t nearly enough shoes, Choos and fabulous frocks!
Not just for the racial stereotypes that had been dragged, kicking and screaming out of the 1980s, not just for any cultural insensitivity that was apparent in Samantha’s flaunting of her sexuality all over a country that considers sex taboo, but because it was so incredibly self-indulgent.
I groaned in my seat when these four women who I have loved for over a decade, rose from their seats in some ostentatious bar in “Abu-Dhabi” to sing “I am woman”. When the mostly female crowd roared their approval, my temper nearly rose as some stereotypically oppressed women joined in the celebration of womanhood and were figuratively liberated by these feminist crusaders.
I don’t remember SATC being that cringe-worthy. I remember watching four intelligent, capable, strong, funny, tangible women going about their daily lives without banging on about being strong, independent, capable women. It was never overt, it was always just the case. Talking about it made it seem, to me, completely contrived. Perhaps it’s because my mother always said, “the loudest tin has the least in it,” and it was one of many Asian-idioms that has stuck in my head.
Additionally, the movie foolishly and clumsily assumes that women of all races and classes want the same thing. Contemporary feminist theory suggests that not all women experience oppression in the same way. That in fact, what we perceive as oppression might not, to a woman of a different race and ethnicity, be oppressive.
I recall one of my first sociology lecturers telling us that Aboriginal women are all for the feminist movement but want something different to what western women want. In fact, I recall her saying, Aboriginal feminists want homes free of violence, not the shattering of the glass ceiling. Basically, contemporary feminist theory tells us that we need to stop assuming that all women want the same thing. At least until we do the research.
The whole movie just seemed a bit full of itself. From the ridiculously over the top saturation of wealth of the characters, to the wastefulness to concepts that were so basic they barely scraped the surface of the complexities of the roles that a women will play in her daily life – from that of mother, manager, employee, employer, wife and sex goddess. Yet the series was amazing. How did this movie fall so short?
SATC2, to me, failed to be the fabulous movie I was hoping for and even reflect the core elements that I have come to love from the show. I feel like the writers took on a subject matter that was beyond the parameters of the characters and beyond my expectations as a cinema going fan. To me, it failed as an intelligent social commentary and as far as I can remember there weren’t nearly enough shoes, Choos and fabulous frocks!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
General Anxiety Disorder - Weight update
2345 steps. Turns out, it's impossible for me to do any walking while I'm at work.
After some further research into the BMI - it is practically impossible for me to be in a healthy weight range. The BMI expects me to lose 15kgs to be healthy. The last time I weighed 15kgs lighter than what I do right now, I didn't eat for half of the week because I couldn't afford food (well I could, but wine and cigarettes were WAY more important). So while I need to drop a dress size to get back to normal, I am much more relaxed about the whole thing. I think I'm about half way there. Hoorah.
Meanwhile I am completely over the Corporate Global Challenge and wearing this pedometer every minute of the day (well when I remember to at the very least). I will wear it this weekend though - I'm walking 20ks for fun on Monday. Bring that on.
After some further research into the BMI - it is practically impossible for me to be in a healthy weight range. The BMI expects me to lose 15kgs to be healthy. The last time I weighed 15kgs lighter than what I do right now, I didn't eat for half of the week because I couldn't afford food (well I could, but wine and cigarettes were WAY more important). So while I need to drop a dress size to get back to normal, I am much more relaxed about the whole thing. I think I'm about half way there. Hoorah.
Meanwhile I am completely over the Corporate Global Challenge and wearing this pedometer every minute of the day (well when I remember to at the very least). I will wear it this weekend though - I'm walking 20ks for fun on Monday. Bring that on.
My shoes and coat.
Much like everyone else, I too have people in my family that I no longer speak with. These are two of my cousins. Mind you, this might also be compounded by the fact that we don’t live in the same country. I live here and they live in England – making it rather hard to have a sit down conversation with them, run into them at Christmas, birthdays, weddings, christenings etc since we never go to anything.
While separated by distance, it has also always surprised me that cousins can be so vastly different from each other. Our fathers are brothers, and yet these brothers are two totally different people and thus, their offspring live at opposite sides of the spectrum.
One of the cousins I don’t speak with is a porn star. I can’t believe I waited so long into the writing of this blog to mention that. It’s my party piece. Just when you think I’m a regular person, with a regular job, moving through a regular life then bam, I’m related to a woman who performed in porn. I specifically avoided using the word “acted” in that sentence – as that would be a complete lie.
I’ve never seen one of these amateur porn videos – and they must have been amateur (as opposed to the high production values in those other more well known professional porn videos - ahem), but she has shown me plenty of photos of her naked.
When my grandmother was dying, my parents flew back to the UK to say their final goodbyes and help with the funeral. My cousin though it appropriate to show all these aunts and uncles from around the country and world, her portfolio of her naked self (in front of her dad, no less).
My other cousin, her brother, who I also don’t speak too is a massive douche bag, seems to be under the misguided notion that he is a genius. We have since been Facebook friends but shortly after I un-friended when one of his posts referred to “laughing at all the little people”. No joke, he said that. Pretty funny coming from a guy who lives in a council house.
I recalled, for some unknown reason this morning, one time that I had popped back to the house they shared to pick up a pair of shoes and a coat, some months after I had left the behind after a day together during my stint in the UK. I recall being met at the door by my cousin’s then fiancé (goodness knows if they got married or not). The classic element to this story is that the girl he intended to marry was up the duff already with someone else’s baby. Now that’s romance, Austen style.
Anyway, Up-the-Duff girlfriend met me at the front door of the council house, which was filled, almost floor to ceiling with clothes, furniture, boxes of stuff and piles of crap. My cousins weren’t home she explained, and so I was to deal with her.
“Righto,” I remember thinking, “If I get out of here with my shoes and coat and without a disease, I will be delighted.” And then thinking, “And these people are having children.” Fantastic.
I remembered Up-the-Duff hovering over me, with a stern look on her face, much like that of a maths teacher looking at a child who cannot grasp the concept of multiplication, with her arms folded over her six month pregnant belly. I climbed over the stuff to where I remember leaving my shoes and my coat and found them, under a pile of other people’s clothes that smelled like someone who had run a marathon, had marinated in them.
I hadn’t thought about it for the longest time, but then wondered this morning, if she thought I was going to take their stuff. So, eight or so years on, I sat in my car on my way to work and became indignant. I came up with some relatively un-witty comments like: “I wouldn’t take your crap if it were the last items of clothing in the world”. I thought about how funny it was that she would have acted that way towards me, when I had hardly anything to do with her and would never steal for starters, but least of all, if I were too steal, how unlikely I would be to steal the stuff strewn around this flat. I mean, if I were to be a thief, I’d at least be a high-end thief. Sheesh.
I left with my jacket and my shoes, only to throw both items in the bin when I returned back to my little room in London. Neither pieces were as cool or suited my new London look as much as I had remembered.
And I never saw my cousins, or Up-the-Duff again.
While separated by distance, it has also always surprised me that cousins can be so vastly different from each other. Our fathers are brothers, and yet these brothers are two totally different people and thus, their offspring live at opposite sides of the spectrum.
One of the cousins I don’t speak with is a porn star. I can’t believe I waited so long into the writing of this blog to mention that. It’s my party piece. Just when you think I’m a regular person, with a regular job, moving through a regular life then bam, I’m related to a woman who performed in porn. I specifically avoided using the word “acted” in that sentence – as that would be a complete lie.
I’ve never seen one of these amateur porn videos – and they must have been amateur (as opposed to the high production values in those other more well known professional porn videos - ahem), but she has shown me plenty of photos of her naked.
When my grandmother was dying, my parents flew back to the UK to say their final goodbyes and help with the funeral. My cousin though it appropriate to show all these aunts and uncles from around the country and world, her portfolio of her naked self (in front of her dad, no less).
My other cousin, her brother, who I also don’t speak too is a massive douche bag, seems to be under the misguided notion that he is a genius. We have since been Facebook friends but shortly after I un-friended when one of his posts referred to “laughing at all the little people”. No joke, he said that. Pretty funny coming from a guy who lives in a council house.
I recalled, for some unknown reason this morning, one time that I had popped back to the house they shared to pick up a pair of shoes and a coat, some months after I had left the behind after a day together during my stint in the UK. I recall being met at the door by my cousin’s then fiancé (goodness knows if they got married or not). The classic element to this story is that the girl he intended to marry was up the duff already with someone else’s baby. Now that’s romance, Austen style.
Anyway, Up-the-Duff girlfriend met me at the front door of the council house, which was filled, almost floor to ceiling with clothes, furniture, boxes of stuff and piles of crap. My cousins weren’t home she explained, and so I was to deal with her.
“Righto,” I remember thinking, “If I get out of here with my shoes and coat and without a disease, I will be delighted.” And then thinking, “And these people are having children.” Fantastic.
I remembered Up-the-Duff hovering over me, with a stern look on her face, much like that of a maths teacher looking at a child who cannot grasp the concept of multiplication, with her arms folded over her six month pregnant belly. I climbed over the stuff to where I remember leaving my shoes and my coat and found them, under a pile of other people’s clothes that smelled like someone who had run a marathon, had marinated in them.
I hadn’t thought about it for the longest time, but then wondered this morning, if she thought I was going to take their stuff. So, eight or so years on, I sat in my car on my way to work and became indignant. I came up with some relatively un-witty comments like: “I wouldn’t take your crap if it were the last items of clothing in the world”. I thought about how funny it was that she would have acted that way towards me, when I had hardly anything to do with her and would never steal for starters, but least of all, if I were too steal, how unlikely I would be to steal the stuff strewn around this flat. I mean, if I were to be a thief, I’d at least be a high-end thief. Sheesh.
I left with my jacket and my shoes, only to throw both items in the bin when I returned back to my little room in London. Neither pieces were as cool or suited my new London look as much as I had remembered.
And I never saw my cousins, or Up-the-Duff again.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Sometimes...
Sometimes things happen in life and they don’t make sense.
This is disconcerting.
While I’m not religious, I have, as mentioned in previous posts, been raised by a woman who is both slightly religious and slightly superstitious. As a result, I spend my life worrying if I am going straight to hell for walking underneath a ladder.
As fallout, I also genuinely believe everything happens for a reason. (I can just see one of my friends now shaking both head and fist at me for my stupidity, but there it is). I believe that when we go through something shite it’s for a reason.
For instance, LSH was made redundant over a year ago - about five minutes after the GFC started and there were no jobs to be had at all. Talent, skill, personality and company fit aside, when there aren’t any jobs, offers cannot be made. As a result of this experience we worked out that A. we spend way too much money on crap and B. when one income is taken away we are really resourceful.
While it was a stressful time for both of us, it did show us that things like bushwalking – while it used to seem quite naff, was actually a great way to get exercise, explore some far off mountains and get in touch with ourselves (in a PG rated kind of way). It also showed us that we didn’t need as many things as we thought we did. We rediscovered the library and both enjoyed pouring over books and reading things that we would never would have read before.
Oddly, the lesson we learnt was to enjoy the simply things in life a little bit more.
And this approach is all well and good, except when ridiculous things happen to other people for no perceiveble reason. For instance, I have a friend who is really sick. Too sick, surely for one woman to have to deal with. Unfairly sick, for someone of her age and contribution. Her husband, and now ex-husband, has turned out to the be the most awful, useless, self-absorbed human being and I can’t find anything that will bring sense to her situation.
Usually, a friend would provide guidance along the lines of:
“Have you tried looking at things from this perspective?”
“Here’s a list of well thought out and considered reasons for why you are better off now.”
“Perhaps try this awesome solution.”
Or even a golden platitude, “things will be better tomorrow.”
At this point in time, I can’t say any of those things. I know the story and I can't find the bright side. I certainly can’t see the silver lining – except to say that she has shed a man who is weak and shameful and a true scourge on the human race. Is that enough consolation? I doubt it.
Oddly, I feel castrated. My proficiency as a friend has been removed. All I’ve to offer are two ears and a shoulder. And I don’t feel that is enough. I feel ashamed that I can’t find the right words or have the knack of saying the right thing – because she’s smart enough to know fluff from real insight. There are no words of wisdom and there are no salient points to be made. There is no logic, there is no rhyme and there absolutely is no reason.
Nothing about this situation makes sense. I can’t fathom any of it and it’s not even happening to me so I can’t even begin to try to explain or truly comprehend what she deals with on a daily basis. Sometimes, it seems - and destabilising at it is, things are just shit just because they are really shit and sometimes that's not good enough.
This is disconcerting.
While I’m not religious, I have, as mentioned in previous posts, been raised by a woman who is both slightly religious and slightly superstitious. As a result, I spend my life worrying if I am going straight to hell for walking underneath a ladder.
As fallout, I also genuinely believe everything happens for a reason. (I can just see one of my friends now shaking both head and fist at me for my stupidity, but there it is). I believe that when we go through something shite it’s for a reason.
For instance, LSH was made redundant over a year ago - about five minutes after the GFC started and there were no jobs to be had at all. Talent, skill, personality and company fit aside, when there aren’t any jobs, offers cannot be made. As a result of this experience we worked out that A. we spend way too much money on crap and B. when one income is taken away we are really resourceful.
While it was a stressful time for both of us, it did show us that things like bushwalking – while it used to seem quite naff, was actually a great way to get exercise, explore some far off mountains and get in touch with ourselves (in a PG rated kind of way). It also showed us that we didn’t need as many things as we thought we did. We rediscovered the library and both enjoyed pouring over books and reading things that we would never would have read before.
Oddly, the lesson we learnt was to enjoy the simply things in life a little bit more.
And this approach is all well and good, except when ridiculous things happen to other people for no perceiveble reason. For instance, I have a friend who is really sick. Too sick, surely for one woman to have to deal with. Unfairly sick, for someone of her age and contribution. Her husband, and now ex-husband, has turned out to the be the most awful, useless, self-absorbed human being and I can’t find anything that will bring sense to her situation.
Usually, a friend would provide guidance along the lines of:
“Have you tried looking at things from this perspective?”
“Here’s a list of well thought out and considered reasons for why you are better off now.”
“Perhaps try this awesome solution.”
Or even a golden platitude, “things will be better tomorrow.”
At this point in time, I can’t say any of those things. I know the story and I can't find the bright side. I certainly can’t see the silver lining – except to say that she has shed a man who is weak and shameful and a true scourge on the human race. Is that enough consolation? I doubt it.
Oddly, I feel castrated. My proficiency as a friend has been removed. All I’ve to offer are two ears and a shoulder. And I don’t feel that is enough. I feel ashamed that I can’t find the right words or have the knack of saying the right thing – because she’s smart enough to know fluff from real insight. There are no words of wisdom and there are no salient points to be made. There is no logic, there is no rhyme and there absolutely is no reason.
Nothing about this situation makes sense. I can’t fathom any of it and it’s not even happening to me so I can’t even begin to try to explain or truly comprehend what she deals with on a daily basis. Sometimes, it seems - and destabilising at it is, things are just shit just because they are really shit and sometimes that's not good enough.
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