I am Woman - Hear me Whine

 

I haven't been blogging much lately.  I haven't felt like it.  I haven't felt like much of anything.  It's time to say it - I'm middle aged.  

And... HORROR OF HORRORS!  I think I might be going through THE CHANGE.

It's early, and it's not full-on, which makes me think I am peri-menopausal rather than menopausal.  Apparently you can get lower grade menopause symptoms for years before you actually have the climb the big mountain.

Oh, joy.

Some nights I sweat, I am horribly moody and, worst of all, my skin is exploding with deep, sore, scarring pimples.  It's like being 14 again, except nobody's given me my virginity back, I'm not surrounded by tight-butted teenage boys and I don't have my whole life ahead of me.

So what's good or funny or noteworthy about this?  Why am I blogging about it?

I have no fucking idea.

Having conversations with female colleagues about where to buy cheap, breathable pillows isn't fun.  Constantly having to wash my PJs isn't fun.  Slathering foundation with a trowel on my face to hide yet another angry, red protrusion isn't fun.  

I think I'd feel better if I was rich.  If I was rich I could say "Fuck you, 22 year olds!  You can barely afford to eat baked beans on toast.  I raise my toast smothered in pate, my glass of Bollinger and I say... Fuck you!"

But, sadly, I have yet to win the lottery, so there is no Bolly, although we do occasionally have pate.

Go see a doctor?  Sure, I'll go see a doctor.  If you pay for it.

The last time I ordered a 90 day supply of three of my regular medicines, it cost me $268, so adding more pills to the bill sounds like a fine idea.  Oh, and did I mention there's cancer in my family?  I don't want to jump on the good ship HRT quite yet.

Naturopath?  I'd love to.  I'll just not put gas in the car this month, and then we'll be able to afford that, too.  And don't get all huffy with me about the car, vegan hippies!  Public transport isn't free either!

No.

What I really need is for you to start a fight with me.

Let me thrown an uppercut to bonk you under the chin, a sideswipe to connect with your left eye and a swift kick to crush your left testicle.  Let me watch you slowly go down, roll you on your side with my left foot and then kick you repeatedly in the kidneys with my right.  I want to hear the air expelled from your lungs at force, softening your screams to a barely audible moan.  I want to lift your head up by your hair and smash your nose into the tarmac.  I want to lift your head again and spit in your face.  I want to steeple my fingers, bringing my hands together, swing my arms above my head and, grunting with pleasure, slam my double fist into your ribs and smile as I hear one crack.  I want to grab a baseball bat and swing it round in the air three times before, completing a perfect arc, I let it crash into your shin.  As you double over and reach to grab your knee, drawing your injured leg up, I want to slowly place my shoe on your toes, increasing the pressure and twisting your foot, then transfer my weight forward all at once, forever destroying your ankle.

I want to hear you cry, hear you beg, hear you finally stop making any sound at all because you simply can't.

And then I want to walk away leaving you there, broken.

And this is when your real job starts.  

You have to get away, you have to magically heal, and you have to come back tomorrow and let me do it all over again.

You heard me, Life.

Bring it!

To read more in the I am Woman series, click the category link on the left.

I am Woman - Boas and Tatas

 

Last week some friends and I walked to raise money for women's cancers.  The focus was breast cancer, which my mother battled for 7 years before succumbing.  

I named our team after my mother and we joyously entered the decorated bra contest.  Basically you wear your bra outside your T-shirt and spruce it up.  We went with feather boas.  

We met at the start of the walk, milling around with thousands of other people, checking out the promotional stands.  There was a stage where they were giving out prizes and acknowledgements.  Survivors were asked to go up on stage and state their name and how many years they had triumphed over their disease.  It was very poignant.

Then we heard the announcement that decorated bras should come up on stage.  So up we went.  There were already a bunch of people on the platform and they had music blaring, so we danced across the whole stage to the other end, where there was room to stand.  

A guest announcer from a local TV station took the microphone, and I began to realize that there weren't many women on stage... a bunch of people with decorated bras in the audience hadn't come up.  "Well," I thought to myself, "maybe they're shy."

The announcer then proceeded to detail winners of various decorated bra categories - individual, group and child.  

And that's when it hit me.

These people had all decorated their bras before the walk and sent in photos.  They were the winners of the categories. 

So everyone on stage got a prize and applause and we stood there, smiling and clapping.  I whispered to my friends what was going on and we all saw the funny side... we were fierce feather-boaed femmes fatales and we had totally just got up on stage and gatecrashed a prize-giving ceremony!

It gets better.

That night, on the local news, footage of us can-can dancing, boas aloft, featured on the local news when they reported on the event.

YEAH BABY!  I'm forty, fabulous and famous!  And all for a good cause!

To read more in the I am Woman series, click here.

I am Woman - Cunt

 

What do you think of when I say "Vagina?"

Oh, right.

A vagina.

Let me rephrase.

What do you feel when I say "Vagina?"

It's an interesting word, isn't it?  Well, perhaps not the word itself, but our reaction to it.

How about "Cunt?"

There's a word that makes you feel all sorts of things, right?

Why, in the Western world, is naming a woman's sexual organs so taboo, so funny, so shameful?

I mean, we all have them, right?

Sometimes I get sick of the shame that society has pinned on the very essence of womanhood.  

I get mad that there is no word for a penis or testicles that is considered as rude as Cunt.  

A few years ago, I went to see the Vagina Monologues in London.  The actresses told us we had to reclaim the word Cunt.  Make it positive.  Make it happy.  Make it beautiful.  They had the audience yell the word again and again and again.

While I was yelling CUNT!  CUNT!  CUNT!  CUNT!  I began to wonder if this exercise would make any difference.  Men around me (the few that were there) were squirming a little, and had lopsided grins on their faces.  Even some of the women were snickering.  I am not sure they were reclaiming the word so much as enjoying the guilty pleasure of yelling it out - like a naughty child.

Ever since then, when someone in my presence uses the word, I counter with:

 "Hey!  A cunt is one of the most beautiful things in the world!"

It usually shuts them up - except, of course, if I'm with my gay friends, who tend to collapse in heaps of sarcastic laughter.

I also try to use swearwords that demean male genitalia, in a one-woman attempt to even the odds.  But they all sounds so... well, facile.  Even flaccid.  

"Dick!"

"Prick!"

"Balls!"

Pathetic.  

The only word that comes close is "BOLLOCKS!"  But it has the added dimension of being foreign in the US - it's peppered, therefore, with an exotic, humorous quality which, again, lowers the impact.

And so I live with the fact that even swearwords reinforce our society's pervasive gender inequality.

But I did discover one good thing through my contemplation of the female reproductive form... 

I saw a documentary on the BBC once, about "Ladies' parts," as some would say in the UK.

For once, I got to see vaginas close up.  All sorts of vaginas.  Large ones, small ones.  Firm ones, soft ones.  

Vaginal lips, I discovered, are as varied as facial lips.  Some are small and firm, while others hang, draping like curtains protecting a wonder behind them.

Of course I ran to get a hand mirror and take a look at mine.  I think it's a strange and empowering thing the first time a woman actually looks at herself "down there."  It wasn't the first time I'd done it, but it was the first time I had something to compare to.

And that is how I came to scare the living crap out of my husband as he came home from work.  He walked in the front door to find me standing at the top of the staircase, naked from the waist down, holding my labia spread apart, excitedly squealing:

"I have a pretty vagina!"

To his credit, and keeping in mind that he did not have any context to frame this behavior, he immediately agreed.

My husband is a really great cunt.

To read more of the I am Woman series, click here.

I am Woman - Stress Management

 

It's taken till I'm in my 40's, but I think I am starting to understand my personal patterns with stress.  

Infection

Why does my stress build to an unmanageable level?

Well, there are people who run every day and get rid of all the stress they have pent up.  If they've had a bad day, they run more miles.  I admire them, but I'm not like that. 

Exercise works for me to a certain extent, but not all the way.

My theory is this...

When we are kids and we  fall down, or something upsets or frustrates us, we cry.  We let it out, there and then.  Two minutes of bawling at high volume, a hug from Mommy or Daddy, and it's all over.

First, as adults, we can't just burst into tears when we're frustrated in a meeting (more's the pity).  And so all the minor frustrations, humiliations and real hurt we sometimes feel at what someone says or does are stored inside.  

For me, this builds.

Second, as adults, there is no mommy to hug us.  Yes, you have your spouse or partner or friends, but it's not the same.  When you are a child, your adult hugging you is a big force - both physical and emotional.  The adults take care of everything.  

Now that you are an adult, a hug is comforting, but temporary.  There's comfort, but no solution.  When that person pulls away from you, the problem remains yours to solve.

Third, there's physical fatigue.  Busy weekends, lots of gym sessions or yoga classes, long walks with the dogs, lots of socializing.  I get tired, plain and simple.  But I have to keep going, because work is still there, the dogs don't walk themselves, and I have to burn those calories.

And so, slowly but surely, I get infected.  Stress and fatigue build inside me to a poisonous level.

The molten rock builds inside the volcano, increasing the pressure, and the physical fatigue weakens the lid on the volcano until finally, it all has to come out...

Catharsis

If I recognize it in time, I take time out to allow a Catharsis.

I have let it out, and it's very helpful if I cry.

Hence the Chick Flick Crying Trick.  

There's nothing like a night alone at home with the dogs and a DVD that my husband wouldn't be able to sit through.  The lamer the tug at the heartstrings, the better.  

Postcards from the Edge, Beaches, The Hours, Away from Her, Marley and Me, The Notebook - all excellent Catharsis movies.

But, sadly, I don't always feel the seismic movements in the volcano...

Mis-Diagnosis

In my busy life - as busy as any normal person's - I often don't realize how stressed or tired I am.

Sometimes I am too deep in Mis-diagnosis to force Catharsis.

I am an intelligent, capable, energetic woman, and I believe that I can handle anything that's thrown at me, and I do.

I forget: 

• Being at a networking meeting where you don't know anyone is stressful
• Going to brunch with new friends, and not being sure if they'll like you and your spouse as much as you like them, is stressful
• Presenting in a meeting is stressful
• Questioning the decisions made on a project that you think is heading in the wrong direction, without demotivating your colleagues, is stressful
• The weekend packed with activities, parties, chores, is stressful
• Hell, even meeting the CIO in the elevator and making intelligent small talk is stressful.

And so, as the molten rock in the volcano starts to move and flex, I don't feel it, and now we're headed to an unplanned eruption...

Paralysis

It all comes to a head when, because my brain won't stop, my body stops for me.

Simply put, I get sick.

A cold, usually, or a migraine.

In this, I now realize, I am my father's daughter.

As a child, I remember his car coming up the driveway earlier than scheduled on a weekday.  The tension in the house would be palpable:  Daddy was home with a migraine.  

Mess was hurriedly cleared so that nothing would annoy him on his direct trip from the back door to my parent's bedroom.  There had to be quiet in the house for the evening.  Thank God the TV room was the other side of the house, or it would have been a real downer.

Now that I go through what he did, I wonder if he, too, had to cry.

After the eruption, there's that eerie silence, as the ash falls, and now it's time to...

Healing

As pathetic as it is, it takes all this to make me actually take time to really stop.  Stop moving, stop thinking, stop doing.  

To just sit, to not think, to not plan or write lists, to not do laundry or housework, to not go shopping or to the gym or have lunch with a friend.

To just rest.  To heal.

Di-section

Let me share an example of how this might play out.

Stress had been building in my new job.  Not nearly as badly as in my old one but, this will give you a sense of what's been getting to me.

So yesterday I start to get a headache.  It's a perfect storm of four hours in a windowless training room under neon lights, not having enough to eat at lunch, and my post nasal drip running like a tap because I can't afford to buy the most effective hay fever medicine with my new healthcare plan.

Training is supposed to end at 5pm, and I have to leave at 4:30.  I make some lame excuse about a meeting and head out.  At the bus stop, it takes at least 15 minutes for the bus to arrive.  I get on, and there's a child on the bus.  He is crying, wailing ("Honeeeee, use your wooooords!" his ineffectual mother whined), then nasally conversing with her, describing everything he sees.  

His talking is not the problem.  He's a child, after all.  It's the volume.  The child's voice is so loud and piercing, classical music on my iPod can't drown him out.  By this stage, the light is starting to hurt my eyes.  I get three quarters of the way home and have to get off the bus.  

My husband comes to get me and I'm starting to get nauseous.  As I put my head back against the headrest in the car, I feel light-headed.

Back home, I take pills and try to sleep.  The dogs are amazing, cuddling, licking and spooning me - the perfect cure to any illness.

Paralysis sets in - I am in bed, lying still, forced to stop.

This morning I wake up and I've had a dream where I was at a wedding.  It was the wedding of my childhood BFF, Ellen's little sister.  The reception is huge and I recognize all sorts of people I went to school with - random people who are not really friends.

As the wedding ends, I stop to talk to Ellen and ask how her mom is doing with such a huge wedding.  I realize I have hardly spent any time with Ellen at the wedding and I feel bad.

When I wake up, I remember that Ellen is dead, and that I had to speak at her funeral.

And that is when Catharsis comes, and I cry and cry and cry.

Then the puppies come and lick my face and I feel better.

And so we move to Healing through rest, which today will involve cuddling my dogs, sitting on the couch and watching bad comedies.  

It's going to be a good day. 

To read more in the I am Woman Series, click here. 

I am Woman - Listen up, Single American Woman

 

Every single female in the USA should watch I'm with Lucy.  

This isn't a highbrow film.  It's not Oscar material.  But it's excellent education for any woman who is dating and wants to find the right man.

[Spoiler alert!]

Basically, Lucy has a very bad breakup, then dates 5 different men.  

We know early on that she is going to get married, and we flash back to fragments of the dating, trying to guess which one she will end up with.

But here's why I think it's important.

This film details the compromise that most women have to make if she choose monogamous, heterosexual commitment.

Yes, yes.  I know you will tell me that your man is different.  He doesn't fit into one of these categories.  He's got A and B and C and there's nothing else you would want, bla bla bla. 

Well, my dear, pat yourself on the back.  You're in the special 5%.

The rest of us have a choice to make.

Lucy's choices are the archetypes most of us, as women in America, have to choose between:

Man No. 1: Sweet, loving, sees you as an equal.  Not afraid to make an ass of himself, and you laugh a lot together.  He shows you new things, hobbies, but nothing too out there.  He tries hard to please you and genuinely loves you.   Your backgrounds are similar and so you have a common understanding.  Sex will be nice, even good.  Your family will like him.  You'll be comfortable, but not rich.  If there are any ups and downs, they're on an old-style wooden rollercoaster, not one of those newfangled ones with the flashing lights.  Everything will be ok.

Man No. 2: Sensitive and sweet, this man will worship you.  He's not afraid to cry, and not afraid to give his whole heart.  Sex will be soft and sensuous, and he will be generous.  He may even have a fetish or two.  Intelligent and very well read, this man will have a very large book collection and not be particularly sporty.  You'll never have screaming fights - you'll talk through things, sometimes ad nauseum.  Not much passion, but a lot of tenderness.

Man No. 3: Great sex.  Very different world view from you.  Amazing sex.  Opens your heart to art, or music, or theater.  Experimental sex.  Not much else in common.  Mind-blowing sex.  Not much conversation.  He may very well like to have sex with people other than you.  Still, when he comes home, it's incredible sex.

Man No. 4: A manly man.  There will be body hair.  Will make you feel safe, and feminine.  He's into sports, beer, rock music.  Innate sexism and probably other -isms.  Conversation will only go so deep.  Vivacious, virile, if vanilla, sex - assuming he hasn't pissed you off that day, of course.  Will expect you to breed.  Good, if conservative, father.  Your daughter will probably rebel and be a goth.

Man No. 5: Mmmmm, a charmer.  Intelligent.  Educated.  Good family - your mother in law will probably be a bitch.  Works hard.  Makes good money.  You'll be sitting pretty.  Maybe you won't even have to work.  He'll be in damn good shape, and you better stay in shape too.  Luckily he can pay for plastic surgery.  Seeing as he's paying for everything, you better play ball.  Subconscious sexism.  You need to be the proverbial whore in the bedroom (clad in Victoria's Secret), chef in the kitchen (cooking a la Julia Child), maid in the living room (or at least know how to hire and direct cleaning staff), perfect hostess in the dining room (knowing Emily Post by heart), and model mama on the playground (clad in Lulu Lemon).  One slip up and there'll be a younger model waiting in line to replace you.  Try to marry without a prenup.

I've spoiled enough of the movie without telling you which one Lucy chooses.  

I find the American dating ritual - where you keep your options open by seeing several people at once, like you are house-hunting or something - bizarre.  Checklists, rules.  

Loosen up, girls!

The point is, as my mother used to say, "Marriage is compromise."  

And so is finding someone to marry in the first place.

So which man are you dating, Single American Woman, that you have disqualified because he only rated 8 out of 10?

Lucy actually says, at the end of the film, she's hasn't found the perfect man - she's found the right man.

I am Woman - But I ain't no frickin' Della

Dell have decided to market to a new segment: Women.

So they've created a lovely new site called "Della" which talks about cute notebooks which can fit in your purse.  

It also has helpful hints and tips, like "Seven Unexpected Ways a Netbook can Change Your Life" because women need to learn that "Once you get beyond how cute they are, you'll find that Netbooks can do a lot more than check your email."

What "more" I hear you ask?  Check the stock portfolio?  Run a small business from home?  Create a presentation for the Board?

Nope.

• Schedule mini meditation breaks for you throughout your busy day
• Find recipes online 
• Watch online fitness videos
• Map your running routes

Well, this is interesting.  I've just gone back to the Della site and the article has already been changed.  Looks like this shite is already hitting the fan, then. 

The text has changed.  Now there are apparently only 5 ways to use a Netbook and the content is more politically correct.  But there are still other pages...

Ooh!  Ooh!  The Products page!  You can customize your laptop and put a snazzy design on it!  Because that way, you'll be the coolest Yummy Mummy at the Starbucks!

And there's an Accessory shop!  I can get a laptop sleeve that matches each of my Juicy Couture tracksuits! 

And of course, there's a Give page, because women who sit around at home all day like to give to charity so they can feel useful and superior at the same time.  Look!  It has Green tips, because we all know that housewives have bugger all to do so they get their knickers in a twist about the environment.

This is completely un-fecking-believable.  

Let's see if this would be an acceptable prejudice if it was sexual-preference or race based...

The Dell site for gays... De-llite!  As you log on there'd be some pumpin' tunes, a hot guy with his shirt off, an androgynous woman with short hair in a suit and lots of colors! Colors! Colors!  There'd be a link to sign the petition for gay marriage and an Events page listing all the gay pride events accross the world.  Laptops would come in either lavender or a rainbow design.  And there'd be tips on how to fly under the radar when you visit a small town in a square state, how to get to see your life partner in hospital without being actually listed as family and how to behave at a BBQ with straight people.

Sound acceptable?  

The Dell site for African Americans... Dellah!  As you log on there'd be southern blues and Mammy would pop up and ask howya doin' chile.  There'd be advice on how to search out black history, a map of towns that have the biggest Klu Klux Klan numbers (we ain't gonna holidayah theyah, Clarence!) and a tribute to Mr King.  In fact, the strapline would probably be something like "He had a dream of freedom, and with Netbook we're making yours come true."

Sound acceptable?

Well neither is a pastel blue site that talks about recipes.

Whoever came up with this at Dell is a pillock.

I am Woman - Low-grade sexism

I went to a work "morale event" this week. It was go-karting. I was one of three females there. I had to put a helmet sock over my head and mess up my makeup and hair. I've only done karting once in my life - unlike the guys who said "we know these" when the rules guy did the safety briefing. I don't think of myself as a crappy or hesistant driver... I can be pretty aggressive. But I suck at karting.

I really tried. I tried to get the feel of the car. I tried to be aggressive. I tried to copy what the guys around me were doing. But all I got was the blue flag waved frantically at me which meant "pull to the right and get the feck out of the way because you're blocking guys behind you who are better than you."

I came off the track and said - very loudly - "They do team days at spas, you know!"

I felt really uncomfortable through the whole thing.

On the way home, I started thinking about the morale events we've had over the last few years. Bowling, Pool, Karting, Baseball, Basketball.

Yes, women bowl. Yes, women play pool. Yes women can drive karts. Yes, women like to watch baseball and basketball.

But you gotta admit, these are all more mannish activities.

There are four strategies that I can think of to deal with these events:

1. Don't go (i.e. miss the networking opportunity)


2. Go but don't participate (i.e. be a decorative woman)


3. Go and be so good that you beat the men at their own game (this takes talent or a lot of practice - who can be bothered? - and ends up getting you seen as one of the boys)


4. Go and participate and be crap (i.e. be humiliated and be forced to be a "good sport" even though this activity isn't something you would ever choose to do or pay money for).

I tend to go with 4, and try to leave early. But I don't really have that much fun.

Am I reading too much into this, or are these events evidence of a low-grade sexism?

(feel free to answer in the Comments)

I am trying to think of team events that I'd be more comfortable with. The goals of a team event are decompression, interaction, networking, fun.

How about:

• Linedancing?


• Karaoke?


• Salsa lessons?


• Booking up a comedy club and asking them to pause between acts for us to eat and hang out?


• Trivia night booked at a pub?


• Wine tasting basics evening?


• Cooking class?

Now I'm looking up stuff online. Check this out:

• Drum class


• Rowing


• There's a guy that comes and reads your palm! Now we're talking!


• Go to a local tourist haunt (how many people see tourist sites in their own town?)


• Geocaching or treasure hunts
• Chocolate tasting class! YEAH!

And yes there are cooking classes, wine tasting, etc., too.

OK now I'm being pro-active. I'm going to email these links to my boss. We'll see what happens...

I am Woman - Chick Flick Crying Trick II

I forgot to tell you that the perfect sequel to the Chick Flick Crying Trick is the Comedette.

That's a word I just made up. It means a comedy film revolving around women.

You know the kind of thing I mean:

• The Witches of Eastwick
• Death Becomes Her
• The Banger Girls

So I am watching The Women, wondering how a director, screenwriter and editor have managed gather the most amazing female actress ingredients and yet cooked up something so very, very bland, when Bette Midler hits the screen.

And there I am, on the TV. The character she's playing in that moment, is me.

Let me set the scene. Whatsername from When Harry Met Sally... Mey Ryan! Yeah. Well, her character's husband has cheated on her and so she is getting a divorce. She isn't dealing with it well so she goes off to some yoga camp thingy. There are four women and a butchish instructor stretching by the side of the lake, next to wooden canoes. And along comes Bette, in full regalia: jangly jewellery, jumbo purse, velveteen tracksuit. 

Instructor: OK everyone, take a deeeeep, cleansing breath. Look around. Respect the power of nature. This is why you have come to the camp. Let it heeeeeal you.

[...bla bla other stuff you don't need to be bored with...] 

Bette Midler: Hold on, I'm coming! Don't start without me! Oh my God! I'm sorry. I'm just not used to getting up at the crack of friggin' dawn (excuse my French). Is this the time you always start? Because I'm pretty sure the lake will still be here at noon.

Instructor (crossing arms): We always canoe at dawn.

Bette (shrugging): I always fake my orgasms. That doesn't make it right.

Oh yeah, that's me.

As I always say when people talk about camping (after I snort with derision) "No room service - no deal."

And yes, I have seen the beauty of mother nature in the morning... Back in my twenties when we used to go clubbing and stay up all night. 

I am Woman - The Chick Flick Crying Trick

Sometimes, I can feel myself starting to get tired.

It's the mornings and evenings when it really hits. I feel heavy in the mornings, and struggle to get out of bed. Going to work seems like a chore even though, once I am there, I enjoy what I do. Once home from work, I don't have the energy to do anything social and I plonk down in front of TV, generally preferring to watch mind-numbing stuff.

Then something happens to really tip me over the edge. A bad incident at work, a misunderstanding with a friend or, as happened today, Puppy Dog being really sick and having to have a barrage of tests at the vet.

And then the crawling headache starts. It's like a demonic octopus-type creature is sitting in the middle of my back and it starts to stretch out its tentacles, sending an ache creeping between my shoulders, pain into my neck and throbbing across my temples. Finally the creature really takes hold, wrapping itself around my forehead in a tight, tight grip. All this comes with soupcon of sensitivity to bright light and a charming little nausea.

I only get these things about 4 or 5 times a year, but I've got better at spotting the signs early on, and taking a sick day. But lying in bed or on the couch watching daytime TV doesn't cut it.

There are five key elements to the cure:

1. Painkillers (obviously)
2. Couch
3. Very long, very hot shower
4. Lots of cups of tea
5. The Chick Flick

The Chick Flick (today it was Nights in Rodanthe) is not there to renew my faith in true love of the bonds of family. It is not there to make me feel empowered as a woman. It isn't even there to give me a chance to perv at the male lead.

It's there to make me cry.

There was a bit of a hitch today when a friend came to check on me in the middle of it, but luckily he arrived before the shower, the faded PJs and food-stained dressing gown, the red nose and bloodshot eyes and the clumps of soggy bits of kitchen roll. (I don't know why, but I never buy boxes of tissues.)

I think I need to have the catharsis of achieving suspension of disbelief and of having a good old wail at the trails and tribulations of others. Because, let's face it, my life is pretty good, and there is nothing in it that would make me actually want to turn on the waterworks. So I let actors, screenwriters and directors show me a situation that does warrant the boo-hoo-hoos, and I go at it.

Now, please note: the Chick Flick for the Crying Trick needs to be chosen carefully. It has to be well acted, and have a decent story. It has to be something I can relate to - where I could see myself in the shoes of the protagonist. And it has to be sad, but not too sad.

Terminally ill child? Too depressing. Gritty documentary about set somewhere hot and sticky? Too messy. Feelgood movie about a handicapped person overcoming adversity? Too corny. Death of a faithful dog? I want to cry, not kill myself. Old Yeller is out. Irritating overplayed-heartstring-tugger starring Tom Hanks? Puh-leeeeeez.

Here are some of the best examples of Chick Flicks for the Crying Trick:

• Terms of Endearment
• Fried Green Tomatoes
• The Notebook
• Beaches
• Thelma and Louise
• Steel Magnolias
• Postcards from the Edge
• Sophie's Choice
• The Hours

And here are some others that aren't chick flicks, but will do the trick:

• Away from Her
• In the Bedroom

Gay flicks that will do the trick:

• Longtime Companion
• Torch Song Trilogy
• Brokeback Mountain

Chick flicks I haven't seen held in reserve:

• Kramer vs. Kramer
• Coalminer's Daughter

I heartily recommend the Chick Flick Crying Trick... I already feel so much better.

I am Woman - The glass ceiling shimmers brightly still

Today I was in a casual conversation with two male colleagues, one considerably older the other.

Man 1 - let's call him Hottie, because he is - told a story about some ridiculously athletic and energetic vacation activity. I began to tell the story of something related to that when Man 2 - let's call him Old Fart, because he is - interrupted me.

I got so mad I didn't say anything for the rest of the conversation, and just started to watch what was happening.

Hottie made eye contact with me and made reference to me when he spoke. Old Fart did the opposite. After the interruption, he did not glance my way at all for the rest of the ten or so minutes we were together.

Men interrupt women more than the other way round in mixed-sex conversations. Women ask almost three times as many questions in mixed-sex conversations as men. If a man and a women are talking, men talk longer than women.

Think I am spouting a bunch of crap? Sorry ol' chum, there's research to back me up:

http://www.mentalhelp.net/poc/view_doc.php?type=doc&id=286

 

Zimmerman & West (1975) and West & Fenstermaker (1993) investigated mixed-gender conversations and linguistic inequality in gender-specific styles. Thirty-one conversations were taped in public places such as libraries, coffee shops, drug stores and the University of California. The data were composed of eleven mixed-gender conversations, ten male-only and ten female-only conversations.

The findings indicated significant differences between same-gender pairs and mixed-gender pairs regarding the use of overlaps and interruptions.

Overlaps were defined as an act of anticipating the end of a sentence spoken by an interlocutor while articulating it with a topic-related response. An interruption, on the other hand, was considered as a violation of turn-taking rules whereby topical disarticulation is flagrant.

Results showed that all the overlaps were caused by male speakers and that 96% of the interruptions resulted from men interrupting women. Interestingly, men rarely interrupted each other, primarily using interruptions when speaking to women. Women used fewer overlaps with men than with women due to the fact that men tended to perceive overlaps as interruptions: "Male interruptions of women bring less social punishment than female interruptions of men" (Steinem, 1991).

Zimmerman & West (1975) and West & Fenstermaker (1993) observed that in mixed-gender conversations men tended to infringe on women's right to speak. As a result of male interruptions, the same study indicated that women tended to be more silent than men. Silence periods in single-gender pairs averaged 1.35 seconds, while they averaged 3.21 seconds in mixed-gender groups. Interestingly, the illocutionary act of silence was also defined as clearly gender-specific.

Females have been observed to fall silent after male interruptions, indicating their powerlessness, while males primarily used silence preceding minimal responses such as yeah, indicating, according to Zimmerman & West (1975) and West & Fenstermaker (1993), a lack of interest in the interlocutor's topic, denying women the right to control the topic of conversation.

West (1984) has shown that male interruptions apply even when females have a higher social status. Her study was conducted among male and female doctors interacting with patients: "Whereas male physicians (as a group) initiated 67% of all interruptions relative to their patients' 33%, female physicians (as a group) initiated only 32% of interruptions relative to their patients' 68%" (West, 1984, p. 92)

I heard of one writer who theorized that an organization was a collection of conversations. If women are constantly interrupted and subordinated in conversation, what chance do we have within the organization? The Glass Ceiling isn't just salaries and bonuses, it's not making ourselves heard every day, in all those little conversations, discussions, meetings.

Unfortunately for me I did a little side course in Women's Studies led by an ardent feminist back when I was at university, and it opened my eyes to things which, were I still in blissful ignorance, probably wouldn't bother me.

So, not only did I let Old Fart interrupt me, and then fall silent like a willing subordinate, but I knew I was doing it.

WTF?!?!?!?

I am going to go to my room and flagellate myself now.

I am Woman - I love you John W Nordstrom

I love Nordstrom.

A few years ago I found myself in front of a photograph of the original shoe store, with Mr John W Nordstrom in it, and I did a Wayne's World "We are not worthy!" in front of it three times. These are the moments my husband walks away and pretends not to know me.

What do I love about Nordstrom?

I love the stores, I love the website, I love the Nordstrom Notes discount vouchers, I love getting invitations to pre-sales events (my husband does not love this), I love the fact that they come out from behind the cash register to hand you your bag, I love the sales assistants who are all like personal shoppers, I love the woman at the cosmetic counter who sends me a personal thank you note, I love crazy makeup artists at the Mac counter, I love the huge fat lady section, I love the massive, clean toilets, I love how well they reconditioned my battered handbag and steamed out the beer smell, I love the valet parking, I love the shoes, shoes, shoes, shoes, shoes (us girls are all thin when we try on shoes) and I especially love the sales.

I love the fact that I can finish this blog and go online and find something nice to buy....

Gotta go!