A Pinch of Salt

I’ve always known that I enjoy the attentions of men. When a nice man pays me a genuine compliment I am momentarily drunk. I suspend myself between feeling guilty and feeling superior to everyone on the planet. I'm giddy. Its nice. When I am called sexy by someone whom I  consider to be sexy, it is an exciting thing indeed. Occasionally, it can be just what the doctor ordered. Other times, it can make me ill.

I discovered the ugly side of this truth at 3am last Friday morning. I was wearing an officer’s hat, an evening dress, and was sitting between my best friend, one Captain, one Leftennant and a Private in the officer’s barracks next to Buckingham palace. I had managed to invite myself along to a private party with a friend, and we had snuck into a separate lounge as an intimate party to discuss the three things contraband at all sophisticated social gatherings: religion, politics and philosophy. Considering the time, and my garb, sophistication was not my agenda.

Freddie the Leftennant was tall, dark, handsome and ready to die for his country at a moments notice. He commanded the Malbec to his lips and said to the Captain, in my direction:

“God! Can you believe just how sexy that girl is?! Its not fair!’

Despite the fact that I was midway through a discussion of the teleological argument concerning the creation of the universe, I didn’t mind the interruption one bit. (I have been known to bore leaves from trees before). I blushed, and couldn’t remember the last time a man I didn’t know was so forthcoming with compliments. The fact that he wasn’t selling me something, or trying to touch me made it all the more surprising. The thing that made my cheeks turn red was my proximity to my best friend, all 5ft 9' of her too. Let me put it this way, at school I was ‘the friend’, and she was ‘the girl’.

But tonight! Tonight I felt like the girl.

I smiled back at him, laughed, and attempted to continue with what I was saying, trying desperately not to look so crimson. Within five minutes Freddie interrupted me again;

“You need compliments don’t you Sarah?”

I stopped. Everyone stopped. The atmosphere immediately became foreign and unwelcoming. I felt hot all over. And not in a good way. I’d always appreciated compliments, but never before did I consider myself dependent on them. Until that moment.

“Yes, I suppose I do”. I murmured. This man had killed people for crying out loud! What was I suppose to say to that exactly?

One minute I’m the girl, the next I’m the fool. I just didn’t get it. Silently I watched Freddie turn all of his attentions towards my best friend instead. As history repeated itself, I made sense of the situation by putting it down to a pick up ‘tactic’. Divide and conquer. All that of nonsense.

The fact of the matter is I didn’t actually care about Freddie at all. What I did care for was that he had exposed the horrible truth behind the girls who grew up awkwardly, and those that side stepped the pubescent gracelessness that I was forced to endure. I’m talking about the girls who have always been genuinely, generously and periodically complimented, and those that always got told ‘well done for doing well at school’. I.e. my best friend, and me.

Within 5 minutes I had seen my sexuality placed upon a pedestal, and hacked down to shreds. I am now at an age where I know that looks aren’t everything, but apparently, I still give an impression to the contrary. As I sat, crucifying my personality and festering in rejection, I wondered if I had ever really outgrown my puberty.

Hear me out: girls who have always been treated as if they have good looks, don’t inherently search for that kind of treatment from others, because they know (subconsciously or not) that they will always recieve it. Whereas the girls who grew up scarcely receiving such compliments, are apparently (and obviously) still seeking that very same, illusive thing years later.

Apparently this is so obvious, so apparent, that even a complete stranger can pick up on it. Freddie, if he should ever think of me again, won’t remember my passions and interests, my sense of humor, the fact I smoked more that night than any of the other officers combined (quite an achievement) or even the way I looked. Instead he will remember the sad and simple fact that I was the girl who needed him to think I looked nice.  That’s one hangover that isn’t worth the night before.

After consideration, I still don’t quite know what it is about me that made him think that. Maybe I just shouldn’t care so much.

The problem is, I never, ever want to project myself to the world in a way that shows people so blatantly that I was an awkward and insecure teen. And that maybe I still am. Not only that, but what does that say about the God I profess to love? Where does he fit into this pattern? Isn't he suppose to make me feel sexy? 

That sounds strange. 
But I know it shouldn't. 
 
The next time a stranger pays me an aesthetic compliment, I’ll take it with a pinch of salt.

Conclusion:

1)   Never trust the words of a drunk Leftennant you’ve just met.

2)   Discern insults and compliments in the same way.

3)   Lets all compliment each other more, so this will cease to be a dependency issue. If we take the power of the compliment back from those who abuse it, we will never trip again.

In Laws: Outlawed.

Everyone knows that they exist, and that they are scary. Some will be lucky and have nice, friendly, warm in-laws. In extremely rare and fortunate cases, people may even prefer their mother or father-in-law to their own. From my in-depth analysis (consisting of swapping horror stories about in-laws with other wives in pubs), I have deduced that these people are the exception, and in-laws from hell are the norm.

They are the high street, the Primark of the family world; what most of us will end up wearing, but not what we feel we really ‘deserve’ to be seen in. The nice in-laws are the Gucci of this familial domain, worn by the truly fortunate among us. They exist purely to make the rest of us jealous.

My own mother-in-law is rather like George from Asda. Our relationship didn’t exactly start out well. She could never understand the whole ‘young, Christian, abstinent’ thing. I swear she thought I was holding out on my husband to entrap him into marrying me. Sure. I’m a sexually manipulative goldigger. It’s what all the young girls in church are doing these days…It didn’t set things off for a good start.

When the wedding day finally came round she turned up late, making me wait in the car for a full 10 minutes. She scuttled down the aisle just before I did, in turn making everyone turn to see her (not me), and ruined what was suppose to be one of the most special moments of my life. People comment at weddings, that the groom’s face is worth a thousand words, my own groom was struggling not to turn around and scream at his mother. No amount of Italian silk, pearls or flowers could change that.

My mother in law is the kind of person who hints that I need a breast reduction, not only to me, or my husband, but also to my friends behind my back. She insisted on straightening my hair the first time she saw me wearing it curly, and meticulously corrects my speech. She is the kind of person who will try on my coat, shoes, hats and scarves (basically anything I leave lying around) and comment on how they don’t, in fact, ‘suit’ her. She is also the kind of person who measured the size of my feet to compare them to hers; this was done by making me stand on the kitchen table barefoot, and tracing around the shape of both of my feet. She also attempted to weigh me on holiday once. If you yawn in front of her, she will offer you Valium. In a nutshell, my mother-in-law is mad.

That being said, every cloud has a silver lining. Over the years I have discerned her madness from her method, her bark from her bite and have even grown to love her.  She has thickened every inch of my skin. She is a Cordon Bleu trained chef (good Sunday lunches), and, like me, she is slightly addicted to charity shops. This has resulted in me filling my martial home with everything from second hand silverware, to medicine cabinets, to sheets. She might be crazy, but that bitch has saved me thousands. Having my hair straightened whilst she wears my clothes is only a small price to pay I figure. I know underneath all the madness, she has always just wanted to connect with me, and longed to see me as the daughter she never had. So I play along, I cut her slack, who knows I could end up just like her one day....crazy, threatened, but bloody good at a Sunday roast.

"How to be a Woman", a 'how to'.

Caitlin Moran has mastered the art that has eluded brilliant men and women for millennia. Sylvia Plath, Kurt Cobain, Alexander McQueen, Virginia Woolf and even Marc Antony are just a few of the many talented, intellectually unrivaled individuals that suffered untimely ends at their own hands due to a sincere lack of humour. This combination of genius and solemnity has often lead psychiatrists to recommend ‘gifted’ children to learn several music instruments, in the hopes that this will distract them from the onslaughts of overly analytical thoughts they will likely suffer from throughout their teen years and beyond. Moran, however, appears to have all the brilliance and original thought of a sincerely intellectual person, without the woeful angst-y impression given by so many authors before her.

In “How to be a Woman”, Moran divulges a multitude of personal misfortunes that would make most people chronically depressed; extreme poverty, emotionally abusive boyfriends, mild alcoholism, miscarriages, child obesity and even abortion. Despite this, she is one of the most enthusiastic, positive and downright hilarious authors I have ever had the pleasure of reading.

It is precisely this beautiful mixture of X-rated material and laugh out loud humor, presented in a genuinely well thought out and enviously articulated form that makes “How to be a Woman” true value for money. Her accurately described ‘part-memoir, part-rant’ presents a truly unique life story, in a relatable way, and not only to women. After our wedding, my husband wanted to read “How to be a woman”, to ‘better understand’ me. My husband went to private school, loves rugby and has a doubled-barreled surname. Even his genuine appreciation for the book, along with its raving reviews confirm to me that “how to be a woman” can reach a wide audience indeed.

There was just one part that simply didn't seem to work. Moran makes a small, rushed attempt to argue that the concept of an afterlife only serves to make humanity apathetic (pg 290). To me, this sounded a little like a regurgitated ‘opiate for the masses’ spiel often overheard amongst inexperienced and overly argumentative first year university students. It sounded whiny, rather than rightfully indignant, a stance that she masterfully pulls off for the rest of the book.

On another note, a particularly memorable point was in her chapter entitled “Role models and what we do with them”. It described a rather disheartening encounter with Katie Price; “No wonder her eyes were so blank - she had nothing to think about apart from herself. She’s like the Ouroborus - the mythical serpent, forever eating her own tail”.

If you are a woman and have ever received a comment meant to degrade you, relating entirely and explicitly to your sex, this book is for you. Translated; if you are a woman, this book is dedicated to you, and therefore, in my opinion you are gently obliged to read it.

You, me and the emergency contraceptive.

“Aw shit! How, HOW could I have forgotten that Antibiotics make the pill stop working? I’ve taken six sets in the last 3 months, I should KNOW this by now! HOW could I forget! F***”
The sun was shining, the birds were singing, we were on holiday, and now I wanted to shoot myself. And Matt. And my doctor for not reminding me.

Thanks to a fortunate and entertaining contraction of my first VB. I was on my 7th prescription of Anti B’s since my wedding in July. I was beginning to think I might be allergic to my husband. And apparently, now my daily contraceptive pill. I knew I had to get the EC. Matt asked if I really needed to get it, after-all it did cost an innumerable sum of $27. He began to reel off statistics about antibiotics and its effect on the pill, low risks of pregnancy, blah blah...
I paused, glared. Stunned by the idiocy (and cheapness) I saw before me.

“You’re willing to bet?” I whispered.
“Umm..”
“You can safely, full heartedly look back at this conversation, this conversation we’re having RIGHT NOW and tell me you were right all along when I’M GIVING BIRTH in nine months time!?”
“Well...”
“Didn’t think so....Idiot”.

On route to the local pharmacy I was hellbent on striking a deal with God. Numerical figures relating to bribes even went through my mind. I was actually attempting to bribe God to avoid accidental pregnancy. I can safely say it wasn’t a high point in my spiritual walk.

I passed no less than three new mothers and their strollers on the way. In my manic state, I of course took this to be an omen of some kind. It had been three days since ‘relations’ with my husband, my time was running out. I broke into a run.

Sweaty and crazed I entered the pharmacy and in a loud voice proclaimed to see the pharmacist about the morning after pill. All eyes were upon me. It was clear that I was the most scandalous person to walk into this small pharmacy in a while. I desperately wanted to hold up my wedding ring as I signed the related documents and shout “It’s not what it looks like! I’m not going to pick up one of those take-home chlamydia testers!” I’m not one of those girls you have to watch around your 17 year old sons! Didn’t I tell you? I’m MARRIED”.

But then I had another thought. They should all be happy that i’m in here. I’m paying them 27 bucks.

Best in Show

"A Pom!? No, I couldn't see you with a Pom, definitely a Pug though. I can see you with a Pug".

As I stood perplexed and altogether hypnotiesed by this, what can only be described as mad, woman, I wondered why on earth I had agreed to come here. Like some kind of puppy fortune-teller, my dog star sign had apparently been read, my canine fate sealed; though I do not remember asking for it.

I was at my very first Dog Show. Just outside of Brisbane, the dog lovers descended, set up camp, and began the weekend of judging. I half expected them to be playing ‘Country Road’ from their trailer speakers and throwing rocks at squirrels, whilst yelling ‘Go get ‘em boi!’ to their Rottweiler or Pitbull or whatever carnivorous looking ‘pet’ they had. Suffice to say, my rather cruel preconceptions were replaced by a far more disconcerting presence. That of sheer, borderline aggressive, competition. The cause of my being in this surreal Twilight Zone place of forgotten crazies was a family friend, Tess and her miniature Schnauzer, Ivy.

During my stay in Brisbane I had come to the decision that every new experience was an opportunity to learn, and not to be wasted. I would then return to England with wild and wonderful tales of everything new and random I had picked up along the way. This, I had thought, would be one of them. In a way I wasn’t wrong.

The ten hour day began with Ivy’s meticulous grooming. This involved chalking the poor pedigree's behind, putting cornflour through her feet (to dry out the fur) and snipping her obsessively brushed beard. Nervous looking eyes met mine as I walked around, snapping pictures of dogs to fill the time. The rules were, don’t touch a dog unless you ask their owners permission first, apparently the same applied for photographs. The looks I received for wielding a camera at the animals mimicked the indigenous fear of the power of a photograph to steal a soul.

As the judging continued throughout the day I saw more dogs than I had ever seen in my whole life. The variety was incredible. The fashion of the competitors, however, something else entirely. Lime green trousers, white jackets with brown patent shoes, diamontee studded jeans, pink visors. You name it. It was all at the dog show. Even though I class myself as a ‘dog’ person, it was undoubtably more interesting to watch the owners jog round the ring with five identical dogs. The rumours i'd already heard about the judges having their 'favourites' in each division, once vindicated, only increased my disappointment in the event so far. Watching the same judge pick the same dog to win ten different, yet equally dull competitions is in no way entertaining.

After eight hours of shows, six cigarettes and a thunderstorm, I abandoned Tess and went to sit in the car. With my book and a bottle of wine I entertained myself for the next two hours. Upon my return to the ring I had discovered the secret to making dog shows interesting, in fact the secret that has made all awkward and dull events interesting for millennia; alcohol. Through my haze, the dogs became a lot more interesting, their owners magically more agreeable, the autistic looking judges, more entertaining to watch.

The purpose of the dog show became clear. It wasn’t really about dogs at all. It was a safe place where like-minded people could pass their time with mans best friend. They might have been judged in the ring, but on the sidelines they were safe from cruel societal labels of ‘freaks’ and ‘zoosexuals’. Realising this I felt slightly ashamed of my initial impressions, and in a small way became a bit of a dog-show convert. I was, at last, able to appreciate one of those rare places where people can really express themselves, like a comic book convention, or a death metal rock concert. It was a place where ‘normies’ were extinct, resulting in true human expression.

Ivy had gained twelve show points, by default (apparently the thunderstorm had scared away the expected competition). As we drove home exhausted, Tess asked me if i wanted to join her next weekend in Marylebone for another show. My answer was no.

If in any doubt of the people I have attempted to describe above please watch: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_KrSWI8F2E

How to be the 'perfect' bride

As some of you may know, i'm getting married this summer. July 16th, Bath Abbey, save the date! It's been a pretty hectic nine months so far, and i've learnt a few things along the way that i'd like to share with other brides-to-be. Numerical order seemed most appropriate:

1) Make it up as you go along. It’s what everyone else does. I believe the whole process, however much help you have, is designed to be a real learning curve.

2) Ignore all bridal magazines. They will only make you crave the ubiquitous and homogeneous wedding related junk that only serves to make your day look tacky. In fact, ignore most things regarding the popularised wedding industry, it is all far too materialistic. One of the most disappointing experiences of my own bridal adventure was my trip to the “national wedding show” in Earl’s Court last year. Between the ‘bridal confidence coaches’ and the ‘Dreamboyz’ male strippers, the only bridal blushing I was prone to, was purely embarrassment related. No one wants to go to the same wedding twice, and shopping for your wedding day at fairs like these will ensure that you will loose a lot of your originality. The same goes for honeymoon brochures. Y a few to spark the exotic imagination may help, but after your fingers begin to bleed by turning the pages, hell bent on finding the ‘perfect honeymoon destination’, it’s time to realise that over indulging in them will make you compare your choices with unrealistic expectations.

3) Disregard all comments that relate only to yourself, they will only increase the pressure you are already feeling. Reassuring yourself that this is all ‘your day’ is, let’s face it, really selfish, and will only mean that you are even more responsible for every detail of ‘your day’. So, when the flowers are late, or the best man is drunk before 2pm, this means that, as it’s totally ‘your day’, things like this will be horrifying, instead of hilarious.

4) There is no perfect groom to be. Remember, their imperfections are their crowning glory. By saying yes to that big, shiny engagement ring your heart has already made the choice to constantly forgive all annoying habits.

5) Keep on reminding yourself and your fiance that this is a celebration. When things get a little crazy, and the stress really gets to the both of you, make sure you always have an ‘emergency’ bottle of bubbly in the fridge. Cracking it open when your at your wit’s end (or at each other’s throats) will help to remind yourself of the joy that is found in publicly celebrating love and commitment.

6) Do a lot of underwear shopping. Let’s face it, there is nothing better than a) buying something pretty, and b) knowing that it makes you look amazing when you’re pretty much naked. Bridal lingerie is a work of genius. For me, bridal, and lingerie go hand in hand. A wedding is a perfect opportunity to buy something really special and expensive, and a couple of other things....and of course you need that silk slip....and three different garters, just to make sure that you have enough choice on the day. Most women I know would spend far more on the clothes they wear on show, rather than what they’re wearing underneath. I, however, with my forthcoming nuptials in mind, have realised the true importance of lingerie, and most importantly, the amazing excuse that a wedding can give you to shop relatively guilt free in that area.

7) Try not to compare. No one likes a jealous bride. Your guests are there because they love and support you, no level of perfection will change that. Make choices, and stick to them. Don’t start listening to what other bride’s have or havn’t done and think that you’ve made some kind of mistake. In fact, choose to believe that there is no such thing as a wedding related mistake. Only, wedding ‘alternatives’. This may include, forgetting to choose the order of service and leaving it to the last minute, no one will judge you for stealing the speculated Royal Wedding line up, purely out of desperation. It may also involve you never looking at another wedding dress magaizine/website, just to maintain your own satisfaction with your choice. Leave the stories of the women who buy ten dresses and wear one to the more eccentric/full on crazy of us brides to be.

8) If comparison urges do set in, and you can’t control them, then visit websites such as this religiously: http://www.uglydress.com/ugweddec.html

A Personalised Guide to the “Yes” Campaign:

On the 5th of May, we Englishmen (and women) have the chance to change voting history. The ‘yes’ campaign is also known as the Alternative Vote. Aimed at eliminating ‘safe seats’ and to provide fairer representation of the voting public, this new anti-apathetic scheme is very exciting news. It works by using a numerical preferential voting system. Candidates who get the least amount of votes in their constituency, are automatically eliminated. Their votes, according to the voters preference, are distributed to the other candidates, resulting in an overall winner. For more information check out: http://www.yestofairervotes.org/ or if your short for time and want it all explained to you in 3 minutes, see this cute video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Y3jE3B8HsE

I have to admit, i’m a new convert. Apart from my AS level C grade in “Government and Politics”, and occasional trips to Parliament for touristic and charitable lobbying, my general knowledge of the way in which our government actually works was pretty weak at best. My involvement in AV began when my brother told me about an advert he was going to film on the campaign’s behalf. It was to be a satirical play on the stereotypical ‘safe’ MP, only in office due to past, not present achievements. The plot of the advert sounded pretty funny, so I decided to go along for the day and help out. It was to be an experience i’d never forget.

The day started with me waking up on my brother’s couch, in his two bedroom flat, with one permanent graduate/squatter sharing the living room space with me. One cheap instant coffee downed and me and my brother were on our way to meet our MP for hire, Andrew. An actor by profession, his impersonation of a ‘caring’ MP never failed to impress me. The aim was to film a montage of the MP doing wonderful and energetic things for his community, and enjoying the unfailing popularity he received. This hilarious series of clips of the most unbelievably lovable MP in history was to abruptly end with the same MP, waking up from a nap in his office in Parliament. He would then describe his dream (with disgust) to his secretary, saying something like “I had the most awful nightmare; I dreamt I actually had to work for peoples votes!”

We began the project by filming Andrew kissing a baby, and swooning over her and her mother. I’ve never had to knock on the door of a new mother’s house before, and ask if we could film some random actor kiss her baby, then leave! The baby was pretty adorable, despite it’s crying swiftly after Andrew touched her. We then met up with two other helpers and headed to the Elephant and Castle market. If you’ve never been before, i’m not going to recommend visiting it. We were shunned by the elderly, asked if we could share any profits of the (clearly voluntary) film with a Rastafarian shop assistant, and at one point we were threatened by a rather shifty undercover policeman not to get him in any of the shots. These, though amusing, did little to help out cause.

Our situation was saved by meeting some AV campaigners along the Embankment. Clad in bright purple with “Vote Yes!” balloons, the dramatic effect looked great on film. After staging a inspirational lecture from Andrew, we stole half of the campaigners and asked them to come with us to a nearby Nursery School. Some cheap red tape and a pair of fake novelty scissors, though laughable in reality, did the job and our Nursery was dramatically transformed into Andrew’s latest community favor. The ‘grand’ (insignificant) opening of the ‘new’ (dilapidated) School was the finale to our filming for the day. Even the misappropriated “Just Married” confetti, which my brother had purchased by mistake, looked great on film, and sealed the dream-like effect intended.

The entire day was pretty surreal and dream-like in itself, and most of it, admittedly was spent simply laughing at the bizarre-ness of it all. It’s not every day I get to film an Actor sweet talking policemen, commuters and unknowing pedestrians, and i’ll happily let on that I have a small cameo role in the advert itself! Let’s hope that this short film goes lengths in turning the “Yes” dream into a reality we can all be proud of on May 5th.