The defecation dilemma

During an episode of Question Time some years ago, a friend of mine (interests: eastern religions, spirituality, spoken word) urgently uttered that, "IT'S ALL ABOUT FEAR", in response to the barrage of prejudice, confusion, misinterpretation and violence that characterises contemporary existence. Whether or not he knew it at the time, this maxim continues to be one that I believe can be attributed to a large majority of social issues affecting our current milieu. Try it - I can pretty much guarantee that this concept of "fear" can be applied to an infinite number of social situations in day-to-day life, such as:

- resilience to a new proposed working style (fear of change)
- concerns over immigration (fear of difference)
- reluctance to sit at the back of the bus with the 'yoof (fear for personal safety/fear of crime, fuelled by popular media and Crimewatch)
- verbal abuse suffered at the hands of ignorant persons regarding your funky fashion sense (fear of difference)

Fear is a potent political tool, and has been used as such for centuries to ensure people remain repressed and ignorant of their reality. It works a treat, as any regular Daily Mail reader can vouch for in their 'distaste' for women, gays, Marilyn Manson, foreigners, the Euro, gypsies/travellers, video games, one-parent families, anything 'urban', drug-users - be it recreational or more of a full-time occupation - emo, Muslims... the list goes on and on. Scary.

Fear of "otherness", more specifically, is a concept that is rife within our increasingly globalised, homogenised world. It has been written about extensively and can be used to refer to virtually every "ism" out there. A recent exchange with a work colleague, however, made me start to think about fear and indoctrination in relation to women and, more specifically, how we internalise messages about our roles in the world and 'correct' behaviour.

My friend, who shall remain nameless, refuses to use the toilet at work. If she needs to 'pass water', she will make a long and fruitless journey to use the toilets of an entirely unrelated department downstairs. Passing of solids is absolute no-no during office hours. Further probing (ahem) revealed that, amongst other things, she feared the small-talk often shared in the close and personal space of the women's lavatories. Her primary fear, however, is that someone should overhear her most natural and normal of bodily functions in action.

I don't know how to express this more succintly, but: WHAT THE FUCK?! Please note that it's not my dear pal's feelings on this that upsets me most (although they're far from ideal): it's the fact that she feels like this in the first place and that these feelings have to have been LEARNED somewhere. I disregard the suggestion that such feelings are innate because virtually all the men I've known in my life simply don't have the same hang-ups regarding their waste disposal or bodily functions. Boys turn into men who continue to enjoy the same sense of pride and delight in 'letting one rip', or regaling friends with how last night's curry is 'repeating' on them... sounds familiar? Try applying this kind of behaviour to females. How many women do you know who would feel comfortable breaking wind in front of men, in the same way that men do? I know women who almost make themselves ill in their reluctance to use the toilet for anything other than a piss when in the company of men. Conversations with other female friends revealed similar attitudes. I USED TO BE LIKE THIS. But, why?

What shocks me is that so many of these women are educated and informed. They believe in equal pay and sure as hell aren't gonna be left holding the baby. So, why is it that they revert to hand-wringing, giggly, submissive little girls when the issue of bodily functions and behaviour comes up? Is is because women are supposed to act like "ladies", and that farting and shitting and spewing and indigestion and all this other shit isn't what "nice ladies" do? Am I'm being too simplistic?

I'm fast losing the impetus to continue writing... I want to read my book! But this issue, along with countless related issues, fascinates and infuriates me. Less than ten years ago, I would have considered the act of "breaking wind" in front of a potential male suitor social death. In the extreme - I kid you not. Now, although I don't make a habit of wandering over to people and discussing my recent toilet activity, I don't feel as fucking precious about it all as I once did. If people don't like it, PULL 'EM UP. Challenge them. Ask them why they think it's alright for men to behave like this, but not women. Ask yourself. Where did you learn that this was wrong? Do you really think that natural bodily functions, which serve as indicators as to internal health and happiness, are REALLY disgusting? If so, WHY?

TAKE EVERYTHING YOU ACCEPT AS NORMAL/CORRECT/PROPER AND DISSECT/ANALYSE/QUERY... YOU OWE IT TO YOURSELVES!!

Far from Heaven

I think I deserve credit for endeavouring to cover all topics referred to in my initial introductory spiel (scroll down for more info...). With this in mind, I just wanted to share my latest film discovery (something I can't really take credit for, as everyone's been raving about it for years, and I'm probably the last one to see the bloody thing): Todd Haynes' 'Far from Heaven'. Julianne Moore is predictably good. Dennis Quaid was a surprising revelation. I've just finished watching it and it left me sobbing like a fool into my duvet. If you haven't already, watch it and PAY ATTENTION.

Galaxy Cookie Bars

Just had a quick peek at my first blog entry and realised that one of the issues I claimed to be blogging about was "Food/drink/other", so I thought I'd share my latest obsession with you:

GALAXY COOKIE BARS

These are the fucking BOMB, I'm telling yer. Our local supermarche launched them long enough for me to get a serious flavour for em', before cruelly and thoughtlessly withdrawing them, leaving me wild-eyed and frenzied in the confectionery aisle... not fun. A few months later, they relaunched them. Sucked in, I proceeded to buy the buggers in bulk. Less than a month later, they withdrew the fuckers for a second time. I wouldn't be surprised to discover that they'd installed a CCTV camera above the relevant shelf, just to watch my stricken face as I desperately rifle through the array of Galaxy products, trying to identify the desired cookie-goodness, to no avail. They relaunched them for a THIRD time less than a month ago - but I remain cautious. I'm no fool. I refuse to be sucked into this psychological head-fuckery any longer. (Occasionally, when desperate, I will snaffle as many of the fuckers as humanely possible, hiding them under my Weetabix, whilst maintaining an air of nonchalance. At this point, I can hoover up more than two massive bars in one evening, no bother, without the most distant feeling of nausea. I actually woke up on Saturday morning, and troughed an entire bar before throwing back the covers. I dream about them at work. (Is this love? Or am I dreaming?) Upon reflection, I would not be surprised to discover that Galaxy Cookie bars are single-handedly contributing to the decline of my mental health.

So: Galaxy Cookie Bars. On limited release. APPROACH WITH CAUTION.

And what is this, we see? No blog entries for three months then two in one day?!
"Madame - with these endless blog entries, you is spoiling us..."

Straightening out (my head)

So, it seems that I'm not actually all that successful at maintaining my blog after all... disappointing! I haven't written anything on here since April, but I'm only actually aware of two people that are reading it. Both these people I know, love and trust, so spilling my emotional guts everywhere isn't anything that they haven't seen before...

Further to my maxim that "all people should be in therapy - all of the time", I am, of course, taking my own advice and trying to make sense of the scramble that is my head with the help of someone who is trained to be nice to me and indulge my neuroses. (Actually, this isn't strictly true. My counsellor-lady maintains that I'm far too hard on myself and that all my head-mess is TOTALLY valid and reasonable, so the self-flagellation stops here. Or at least I'll TRY and make it stop here - just comes so natural, like...) The way I see it, we're all big girls, boys and inbetweeners now, and I think people have a responsibility to take responsibility for their own shite, instead of inflicting it on innocent passer-bys/colleagues/friends/family/etc. If you're blessed with a natural disposition to run down those people around you who do something well, or succeed in some way, for example, I think it's your responsibility to try and address WHY you act in certain ways - and fix it - because it's only yrself you end up hurting, lady, when yr pals don't want to speak to you anymore... I find it quite difficult to sympathise with people who act like tossers and expect it to be excused because they've got 'issues': we've ALL got fricking issues, and it's up to you to sort it, for wider humankind AND yr own benefit.

The last year's been my messiest so far, so I've been trying to deconstruct my brain with the help of some seasoned 'professionals' (not actually sure if they're 'seasoned' or not - just like using that word. Makes em' sound like they're covered in a cajun spice, or some such). I was gonna write some more about how this has been going and what's emerged, but the clock's ticking and I'm going to my first Yoga/Meditation class tonight, as part of my efforts to mellow the fook out and CHILL.* The people who run the joint seem a bit 'culty' - I just can't help feeling suspicious of people that seem to be happy all the time - or maybe they've just had a lobotomy. Who knows. I'm about to find out...

And now for something completely different: has anyone seen the 'Glaswegian Dolmio' adverts on YouTube? Fucking hilarious, if you can actually understand what the fook they're saying. I think that I need to see/do more things that make me belly-laugh, so if anyone has any genius recommendations, please let me know.

*THAT'S why I haven't kept up with the blog: it's so bloody time-consuming, and there simply aren't enough hours in the day!

STOP PRESS! "Stop-gap jobs rob graduates of ambition"

STOP PRESS!! Research findings in today's Times newspaper include the startling revelation that graduates in "stop-gap jobs"* "can get so depressed by the boredom of their work that they damage their proper career chances".

NO! Really? There's more to come:

"Those in stop-gap jobs achieved lower scores on every measure, including diet, alcohol intake and sleep."

Joy.

"Most of the underemployed graduates had given up the idea that they were going to get into the sort of jobs their education predicted they should get into. They were too tired or busy to take steps to get a proper job and their distress grew."

Let's talk after four years and ten, LONG months of it, pal.

According to Tony Cassidy, of the University of Ulster, and Liz Wright, of De Montfort University, graduates were "more distressed, less motivated and more likely to fall into depression than those who were unemployed", AFTER JUST NINE MONTHS of "low-grade work".

The study concluded that graduates "would be better off staying on the dole".

I shit you not.

*So THAT'S what we're calling them these days. I've always preferred to describe MY particular role as "that soul-destroying activity I spend most of my waking hours engaged in, where my combined low-status of being female and the admin dogsbody provides sufficient justification for colleagues to treat me like shit, resulting in my frustration, depression, adverse bank balance and rage."

But that's just me...

Work, and the tossers I work with (part 1 of an infinite series)

I'm currently working as an administrator in the IT department of the NHS. Which is as exciting as it sounds. I'm grossly overqualified, underpaid and SERIOUSLY frustrated. (Reasons why I'm stuck in this mess to follow...). Approximately 80% of my colleagues are male. The remaining 20% of females tend to occupy similarly menial roles such as mine. This is depressing enough in itself, without the fact that some, repeat, SOME, of the men are old-skool - in the worst possible ways. I'm talking casual sexism, homophobia, racism, ageism - you name it, they're into it. It's hard to tell how much of the shite that spews forth from their gullets comprises actual belief and hatred, and how much is blokey banter. Either way, it leaves me feeling utterly powerless, isolated, depressed, desperate and, on occasion, psychotic. Anyone who's worked in a similar role, in a similar environment knows how the relentless torrent of propaganda can seriously wear you down...

Today, for example, we've been interviewing temps for posts as stimulating as mine. Poor bastards. I wanna run at them, screaming, "You don't know what yr doing, you don't know what yr doing!", whilst beating their chests - then mine - shortly before scooping up the arrogant, smug little fuck whom we're seriously expected to respect as our Project Manager*, climbing to the roof of the building, Manager in outstretched palm, roaring, before throwing his feeble body to the ground...

... apologies - I digress. Where were we? Interviewing temps... this involves my male colleagues giving potential co-workers marks out of ten based on whether they're "fit" or not. As you'd expect, the qualities that constitute their definition of "fit" are limited in the extreme. One of the Project Managers sitting in front of me actually moved seats to the desk behind me so he "could get a proper look". Discretion is not a familiar concept to these men, so I'm forced to stare intently at my screen and feign complete ignorance, whilst analyses of women's arses fly around me.

Sigh.

* "Project Manager"?! See? I've been completely indoctrinated. In a non-work capacity, I'm still writing his job title in capital letters. HE DOESN'T DESERVE CAPITAL LETTERS!

Allow me to introduce myself...

Before you all start getting hot under the collar, I can assure you that my 'late development' does not refer to my physiology... beestings did not develop into bazookas overnight. No sir. The late development I refer to is more of a mental, social and educational affliction of simply existing in the world and behaving 'appropriately' (whatever the hell THAT means...). It's about me trying to make my way through the world, and learning from my mistakes. Pondering on why it seems to take me three times as long as every other fucker to: finish education, learn how to 'make friends' - and keep them - hold down a job, figure out what I want to do, interact with people in the workplace (SO not there), the street, my family and friends, without self-combusting/ bursting into tears of frustration, confusion and fury/refusing to ever leave the house again. Confused? You will be...

I will be mostly blogging about the following:

- feminism
- knob-jockeys I have worked with, past and present
- my debilitating debt
- food, drink, other
- my attempts to stay on the straight and narrow
- politics
- the great outdoors
- my chequered CV and failed career
- films, music, books
- sexuality
- religion
- the meaning of life

There will be no room for self-congratulatory commendations. Similarly, I will be trying to avoid endless self-deprecation and flagellation. My blog aims to offer sanctuary and solace for fellow fuck-ups and social deviants, with the occasional thought-provoking insights and/or amusing anecdotes (ahem). It's also meant to be a record of one woman's journey through a cold and cruel world...

... did you buy it? Sorry - couldn't resist ;)

Any questions?

I'm 27. I have a girlyfriend. I used to go out with a boy for nearly six years. I have a wicked relationship with my parents. I'm a graduate whose degree certificate has only served as a useful paper hat. (So far. I desperately want to remedy this). I live with a pal in a university town in the south-east of England. All I wanna do is return to university, read loads of books and GET KNOWLEDGE. But I can't, because it's too expensive and I'm in too much debt. More on this later...

I've never done this before. Go easy on me.