A huge thank you for continuing to read The Undomesticated Goddess. I'm chuffed to bits with the response, it's great to see it's being read in Mexico, Spain, Italy, Israel and Malaysia now too.
I did have to laugh though when I saw someone had done a google search for 'flowery trowel' and had been directed to my blog, probably not quite what they were expecting.
Thanks for all your comments and feedback, I'm pleased it makes you laugh. I'm off on holiday now (gawd, three and a bit weeks with two boys, heaven knows what sagas are in store) and won't be blogging until the end of August, so see you all then. Whatever you're doing, if you're in my part of the world, have a wonderful summer and happy winter to everyone in the southern hemisphere.
The Undomesticated Goddess.
Sunday 31 July 2011
Saturday 30 July 2011
Inappropriate.....just for a while.
The Undomesticated Goddess is about to go on her summer holiday but first there's the small matter of packing to be done.
I love all those articles about the holiday capsule wardrobe that appear every year - you know the ones - everything fits into a rucksack, a swimsuit doubles up as a cheeky evening top; a sarong, when twisted and knotted in a myriad of ways, has 50 different looks. A couple of tops, a skirt and away you go. Yeah right, who are they kidding? If I tried that I'd just look like I'd forgotten to take my cossie off and put on proper clothes and, undoubtedly, the sarong knot would decide to untie itself at the most inopportune moment possible. And, what they don't say is how blessed uncomfortable a swimming costume is once it's got sand in it. Who wants to go out to dinner while being simultaneously exfoliated by their clothes?
Knot-tying practicalities aside, just think how blooming boring it'd be too. Holidays are all about freedom - freedom from routine, from alarm clocks, from normal life. A big part for me is the freedom from everyday dressing. I'm no clothes horse but I like clothes as much as the next woman. Over the years I've found a look that works for me, that makes me feel confident and, on a good day, maybe even sexy. For most of the year I'm Ms Appropriately Dressed.
Which is why I love that for a few weeks every August in France, I can become Madame Inappropriately Dressed and waft around in clothes that I wouldn't ever dream of wearing back in my UK world. I can assume a completely different clothes personality, one who wears sparkly flip flops, brightly coloured sleeveless linen dresses and strapless maxi dresses. My wardrobe alter ego, Madame Inappropriately Dressed, celebrates her cleavage and goes bare legged. She often doesn't bother with make up in the day and has even been known on occasion to go without a bra......
I'm not saying I lose all sense of reason or throw all decorum out the window, there's certainly not any cropped tops or very short skirts in this holiday world of mine. I may like to be inappropriate for a while but I certainly don't intend ever to be downright alarming.
So, the capsule holiday wardrobe isn't, and will never be, for me. It may well be extremely sensible in this day and age of airlines charging extra to check in hold luggage but, you know what, sometimes sensible just has to be ignored because it's downright dull. Anyway, I enjoy my few weeks as Madame Inappropriately Dressed too much and I never was any good at tying knots.
I love all those articles about the holiday capsule wardrobe that appear every year - you know the ones - everything fits into a rucksack, a swimsuit doubles up as a cheeky evening top; a sarong, when twisted and knotted in a myriad of ways, has 50 different looks. A couple of tops, a skirt and away you go. Yeah right, who are they kidding? If I tried that I'd just look like I'd forgotten to take my cossie off and put on proper clothes and, undoubtedly, the sarong knot would decide to untie itself at the most inopportune moment possible. And, what they don't say is how blessed uncomfortable a swimming costume is once it's got sand in it. Who wants to go out to dinner while being simultaneously exfoliated by their clothes?
Knot-tying practicalities aside, just think how blooming boring it'd be too. Holidays are all about freedom - freedom from routine, from alarm clocks, from normal life. A big part for me is the freedom from everyday dressing. I'm no clothes horse but I like clothes as much as the next woman. Over the years I've found a look that works for me, that makes me feel confident and, on a good day, maybe even sexy. For most of the year I'm Ms Appropriately Dressed.
Which is why I love that for a few weeks every August in France, I can become Madame Inappropriately Dressed and waft around in clothes that I wouldn't ever dream of wearing back in my UK world. I can assume a completely different clothes personality, one who wears sparkly flip flops, brightly coloured sleeveless linen dresses and strapless maxi dresses. My wardrobe alter ego, Madame Inappropriately Dressed, celebrates her cleavage and goes bare legged. She often doesn't bother with make up in the day and has even been known on occasion to go without a bra......
I'm not saying I lose all sense of reason or throw all decorum out the window, there's certainly not any cropped tops or very short skirts in this holiday world of mine. I may like to be inappropriate for a while but I certainly don't intend ever to be downright alarming.
So, the capsule holiday wardrobe isn't, and will never be, for me. It may well be extremely sensible in this day and age of airlines charging extra to check in hold luggage but, you know what, sometimes sensible just has to be ignored because it's downright dull. Anyway, I enjoy my few weeks as Madame Inappropriately Dressed too much and I never was any good at tying knots.
Friday 29 July 2011
Distraction offence
Is getting distracted with all its ensuing consequences - usually slightly ridiculous but sometimes almost disastrous - inevitable? Is it something that comes with age or are some of us more pre-disposed towards it than others?
I've long been guilty of not really concentrating on the dull stuff and the scrapes I've got myself into have happened when I've been distracted. There was the time my best friend and I were so busy chatting that, without thinking, when the barrier went up I followed the car in front of me into the underground car park. Yep, it came down on the top of my car. What still makes us giggle is that we both ducked. From then on until I got rid of that car I'd see people glancing at the obvious barrier shaped dent across the roof and knew they were thinking 'how on earth, surely not?'
The sound of the smoke alarm became the regular accompaniment to me cooking when, yet again, I got distracted, usually by a book or music, and forgot all about the saucepan boiling itself into a blackened mess on the hob.
So the last thing someone like me needs is extra help in getting distracted, unfortunately not something the 10-year-old seems to have realised.
Yesterday he chose 7.53am as being the perfect moment to bound into my bedroom, without so much as a 'morning mum' and announce that I absolutely had to hand over £20 on the spot so he could go to Toys"R"us (aka, the pits of hell) with a friend to spend it on a plastic wrestling figure, without which his life would be utterly devoid of any meaning.
When I, unfortunately for him, didn't agree that this was the truly splendid plan he thought it was, he did that noisy flouncing that pre-teens are so good at, told me I was the worst mother EVER and stropped out. All before 8am. Lovely. Just what every parent needs as they're trying to get ready for work.
Consequently I got distracted (although I'm pleased to say I didn't give in on the £20) and the result was turning up at work to discover (after some odd looks from colleagues) that I'd only put make up on one eye. Wonderful.
I've long been guilty of not really concentrating on the dull stuff and the scrapes I've got myself into have happened when I've been distracted. There was the time my best friend and I were so busy chatting that, without thinking, when the barrier went up I followed the car in front of me into the underground car park. Yep, it came down on the top of my car. What still makes us giggle is that we both ducked. From then on until I got rid of that car I'd see people glancing at the obvious barrier shaped dent across the roof and knew they were thinking 'how on earth, surely not?'
The sound of the smoke alarm became the regular accompaniment to me cooking when, yet again, I got distracted, usually by a book or music, and forgot all about the saucepan boiling itself into a blackened mess on the hob.
So the last thing someone like me needs is extra help in getting distracted, unfortunately not something the 10-year-old seems to have realised.
Yesterday he chose 7.53am as being the perfect moment to bound into my bedroom, without so much as a 'morning mum' and announce that I absolutely had to hand over £20 on the spot so he could go to Toys"R"us (aka, the pits of hell) with a friend to spend it on a plastic wrestling figure, without which his life would be utterly devoid of any meaning.
When I, unfortunately for him, didn't agree that this was the truly splendid plan he thought it was, he did that noisy flouncing that pre-teens are so good at, told me I was the worst mother EVER and stropped out. All before 8am. Lovely. Just what every parent needs as they're trying to get ready for work.
Consequently I got distracted (although I'm pleased to say I didn't give in on the £20) and the result was turning up at work to discover (after some odd looks from colleagues) that I'd only put make up on one eye. Wonderful.
Tuesday 26 July 2011
The booby prize.
Is it a fact of life that women hanker after the boobs they don't have? Do women with small ones wish theirs were bigger and do those of us with sizeable chests yearn for less of a frontage?
I love the way women nowadays are so up front, as it were, about their boobs. I can't imagine that men chat so openly about their dangly bits as we women do about our chests. In fact, I'm absolutely convinced there isn't a man on this earth who'd be happy comparing the size of his accoutrement with another chap. I'm not saying we women get them out at any opportunity but we do seem to be comfortable talking about them.
This relaxed attitude to boobs has been taken to a whole new level - a friend and I went to the theatre to see Busting Out, not knowing anything about it but expecting something similar to The Vagina Monologues. How wrong were we? What we certainly didn't expect was Aussie actors Bev and Emma whipping off their tops and turning their boobs into clothes lines (yep, complete with pegs on nipples, yowzer); drinks optics and even glove puppets. Boy, never have two women been so at ease with their bosoms as those two. The rest of us sat open-mouthed in disbelief and awed admiration but with one arm protectively clutched across our chests, wincing slightly.
I went from no chest to va-va-voom frontage in what seemed like 0 to 60 speed when I was in my early teens and it was excruciatingly embarrassing. Forget A and B cups, I was in a C cup before I knew it and it continued steadily from there until finally settling in the higher reaches of the bra cup alphabet. Then, there was nothing I wanted more than to be a 30A like the other girls. PE was an absolute nightmare (all that bouncing around) as this was before my mother cottoned on to me needing industrial strength underwiring. Now, with the confidence of age, I'm finally ok with my chest and have realised it's as much a part of who I am as my personality and my curly hair. Clearly I like to hope that it doesn't define me so much that I'm referred to as 'that woman with the enormous tits'.....
Seeing as we women spend so much time talking and joking about our chests, it's interesting that the vast majority of us are walking around in the wrong size bra. I was lucky enough to stumble across Bravissimo where I discovered I was in a bra four back sizes too big and three cup sizes too small. No wonder my chest was fast heading for my waist. Those fitters are amazing, no tape measures, they do it all by eye, although for one heart-stopping moment I was sure mine was going to take hold of my boobs in her hands as if she were weighing them.
There are times when I wish my chest was smaller, zumba is definitely one of them. It was like those ghastly PE sessions all over again until I finally found a sports bra that can cope with the challenge, although it does rather resemble something you could sling between trees and lie in on a summer's day. It also has to be on so tight to keep the girls in place that when I undo it, it flies off like a slingshot and could take someone's eye out if they were standing too close.
There are positives though - a larger chest makes your waist look smaller and balances your bum. I've also recently discovered that it's a brilliant prop for a Kindle, look mum, no hands.....
I love the way women nowadays are so up front, as it were, about their boobs. I can't imagine that men chat so openly about their dangly bits as we women do about our chests. In fact, I'm absolutely convinced there isn't a man on this earth who'd be happy comparing the size of his accoutrement with another chap. I'm not saying we women get them out at any opportunity but we do seem to be comfortable talking about them.
This relaxed attitude to boobs has been taken to a whole new level - a friend and I went to the theatre to see Busting Out, not knowing anything about it but expecting something similar to The Vagina Monologues. How wrong were we? What we certainly didn't expect was Aussie actors Bev and Emma whipping off their tops and turning their boobs into clothes lines (yep, complete with pegs on nipples, yowzer); drinks optics and even glove puppets. Boy, never have two women been so at ease with their bosoms as those two. The rest of us sat open-mouthed in disbelief and awed admiration but with one arm protectively clutched across our chests, wincing slightly.
I went from no chest to va-va-voom frontage in what seemed like 0 to 60 speed when I was in my early teens and it was excruciatingly embarrassing. Forget A and B cups, I was in a C cup before I knew it and it continued steadily from there until finally settling in the higher reaches of the bra cup alphabet. Then, there was nothing I wanted more than to be a 30A like the other girls. PE was an absolute nightmare (all that bouncing around) as this was before my mother cottoned on to me needing industrial strength underwiring. Now, with the confidence of age, I'm finally ok with my chest and have realised it's as much a part of who I am as my personality and my curly hair. Clearly I like to hope that it doesn't define me so much that I'm referred to as 'that woman with the enormous tits'.....
Seeing as we women spend so much time talking and joking about our chests, it's interesting that the vast majority of us are walking around in the wrong size bra. I was lucky enough to stumble across Bravissimo where I discovered I was in a bra four back sizes too big and three cup sizes too small. No wonder my chest was fast heading for my waist. Those fitters are amazing, no tape measures, they do it all by eye, although for one heart-stopping moment I was sure mine was going to take hold of my boobs in her hands as if she were weighing them.
There are times when I wish my chest was smaller, zumba is definitely one of them. It was like those ghastly PE sessions all over again until I finally found a sports bra that can cope with the challenge, although it does rather resemble something you could sling between trees and lie in on a summer's day. It also has to be on so tight to keep the girls in place that when I undo it, it flies off like a slingshot and could take someone's eye out if they were standing too close.
There are positives though - a larger chest makes your waist look smaller and balances your bum. I've also recently discovered that it's a brilliant prop for a Kindle, look mum, no hands.....
Saturday 23 July 2011
Bing.....bong-kers.....
Another celebrity baby arrives and, as someone who has a bit of a thing for slightly bonkers names, I've not been disappointed.
What a summer this is turning out to be....Mylene Klass's new daughter Hero (I have to admit to a sneaking admiration for that one although I'd never have been brave enough to go for it); Half past Seven Beckham; Mariah Carey's Morrocan and Monroe; Alicia Silverstone's Bear Blu and now the Bellamy-Hudson arrival.
Matt Bellamy (Muse frontman with the fantastic soaring voice and rather unhinged lyrics, yep, I know if aliens ever do land he'll have been spot on after all) and partner, actress Kate Hudson have called their baby son Bingham. Apparently it's his mother's maiden name and Kurt Russell's dad is Bing.
Bing Bellamy......hmmmm. I know it didn't do Bing Crosby any harm but, consequently, I can only think of an benign older chap with a pastel woolly-pully warbling melodically while wandering around a (fake) snowy film set.
It's one of those names that poor newborn Bing is just going to have to grow into. He might get there when he's 84......
What a summer this is turning out to be....Mylene Klass's new daughter Hero (I have to admit to a sneaking admiration for that one although I'd never have been brave enough to go for it); Half past Seven Beckham; Mariah Carey's Morrocan and Monroe; Alicia Silverstone's Bear Blu and now the Bellamy-Hudson arrival.
Matt Bellamy (Muse frontman with the fantastic soaring voice and rather unhinged lyrics, yep, I know if aliens ever do land he'll have been spot on after all) and partner, actress Kate Hudson have called their baby son Bingham. Apparently it's his mother's maiden name and Kurt Russell's dad is Bing.
Bing Bellamy......hmmmm. I know it didn't do Bing Crosby any harm but, consequently, I can only think of an benign older chap with a pastel woolly-pully warbling melodically while wandering around a (fake) snowy film set.
It's one of those names that poor newborn Bing is just going to have to grow into. He might get there when he's 84......
Friday 22 July 2011
Schools out......
Now I like to be organised and to get ahead with things if I can, but I'm beginning to wonder if the world is on fast forward. The retail world definitely seems to be.
A few days ago, the little son and I headed off to Sainsbury's to stock up on holiday clothes for him. There we were happily pottering amongst the flip flops and swimming trunks when a perky voice announced over the tannoy that everyone should hurry to the TU clothing department without delay because the new school uniforms were in stock.
'Everything you need for back to school,' she proclaimed, or words to that effect. WHAT????
The poor kids hadn't even broken up for the summer holidays and the retailers were already wanting us to be thinking about September and the new school term. Surely we should have been walking in and hearing Alice Cooper's 'Schools out' blaring out over the sound system rather than being persuaded to start stocking up on new rulers and PE shorts?
The last thing son number two, who's 10, wanted to be doing was trying on V neck woolly pullovers and school trousers and thinking about moving up into year six. At the age of 10, six weeks is an eternity, the summer holidays stretch ahead and going back to school is a thought on the dim, distant horizon, and it shouldn't be any other way.
The summer holidays should be a time of total freedom - long, leisurely (hopefully, sun-drenched, hot but hey, this is Britain) days doing whatever you want, day after endless day of time spent having fun and just enjoying being a kid.
I have to admit I had one of those grumpy old women moments. Harumphing to myself, I shot upright from the flip flops and announced loudly to no-one in particular, (much to the surprise of the couple passing with a laden trolley) 'For heaven's sake, the schools haven't even broken up yet, this is ridiculous.'
I was all for marching to the customer services desk and giving the manager a flea in his or her ear but son number two vetoed the idea as being just too embarrassing.
My son's school finally broke up for the summer today and the holidays have begun. I know, without a doubt, that when we return from France at the end of August, the Christmas cards will be on the shelves in the supermarkets.
And I'll be the mother rushing around frantically the day before school starts on September 1 getting new uniforms and school kit - which is exactly how it should be.
A few days ago, the little son and I headed off to Sainsbury's to stock up on holiday clothes for him. There we were happily pottering amongst the flip flops and swimming trunks when a perky voice announced over the tannoy that everyone should hurry to the TU clothing department without delay because the new school uniforms were in stock.
'Everything you need for back to school,' she proclaimed, or words to that effect. WHAT????
The poor kids hadn't even broken up for the summer holidays and the retailers were already wanting us to be thinking about September and the new school term. Surely we should have been walking in and hearing Alice Cooper's 'Schools out' blaring out over the sound system rather than being persuaded to start stocking up on new rulers and PE shorts?
The last thing son number two, who's 10, wanted to be doing was trying on V neck woolly pullovers and school trousers and thinking about moving up into year six. At the age of 10, six weeks is an eternity, the summer holidays stretch ahead and going back to school is a thought on the dim, distant horizon, and it shouldn't be any other way.
The summer holidays should be a time of total freedom - long, leisurely (hopefully, sun-drenched, hot but hey, this is Britain) days doing whatever you want, day after endless day of time spent having fun and just enjoying being a kid.
I have to admit I had one of those grumpy old women moments. Harumphing to myself, I shot upright from the flip flops and announced loudly to no-one in particular, (much to the surprise of the couple passing with a laden trolley) 'For heaven's sake, the schools haven't even broken up yet, this is ridiculous.'
I was all for marching to the customer services desk and giving the manager a flea in his or her ear but son number two vetoed the idea as being just too embarrassing.
My son's school finally broke up for the summer today and the holidays have begun. I know, without a doubt, that when we return from France at the end of August, the Christmas cards will be on the shelves in the supermarkets.
And I'll be the mother rushing around frantically the day before school starts on September 1 getting new uniforms and school kit - which is exactly how it should be.
Thursday 21 July 2011
Forgotten password?.....Er, yes.
I'm in danger of being locked out of my life - I can't remember the password.
Am I the only person who is starting to feel that this password lark is getting out of control and it might be time for the clever old IT people to think of something new?
I'm all for having lots of passwords protecting my bank accounts, the more the merrier if it means my dosh is secure, but now it seems it's becoming impossible to do virtually anything online without one. Actually I don't mean one, the reality is dozens.
I wouldn't say that I use internet sites any more than the average person - I book flights and hire cars; order clothes; download music for my iPod and books for my Kindle and do my banking - but I had a quick count up of the sites that I use regularly that demand a password before I can access them, and it came to a staggering 43!
Add to that the pin numbers for bank accounts and it's no wonder we're all suffering headaches more than we used to, it's the stress of trying to remember all those numbers and words.
Use memorable words, they say, or a combination of words and numbers and then comes the stern warning not to use the same one for everything and not to write your password down in case someone should find it. Er, hello....I'm 48 and most days I have trouble remembering where I've put my car key or my shoes, there's no way on earth I'm going to remember the password to my Bravissimo account the next time I need to order a new red bra.
I've listened to all the advice about not using obvious passwords and pin numbers that could be guessed relatively easily, kids' names, birthdays etc. So, how proud was I when I came up with some pretty obscure combinations and got an online pat on the head as the phrase 'password strength - strong' appeared on the screen.
The only problem was.....the reason they were so strong was because they were completely impossible to remember and every time I was faced with the 'enter your password' box, could I think what it was? Nope, not a hope. Consequently, the 'forgotten password?' function and I have become extremely well acquainted. Each time I press the button, I almost expect the words 'what....you again?' to appear.
So my wonderfully obscure, but impossible to remember, passwords are now recorded in a book that is locked away securely in a place known only to me. The security whizzes would have a blue fit, I'm sure.
I had to laugh the other day to discover that it's not just me, and it's definitely not an age thing, when son number one, the 16 year old, sent me a text from the cashpoint to ask if I knew his pin number as he'd forgotten it.
Am I the only person who is starting to feel that this password lark is getting out of control and it might be time for the clever old IT people to think of something new?
I'm all for having lots of passwords protecting my bank accounts, the more the merrier if it means my dosh is secure, but now it seems it's becoming impossible to do virtually anything online without one. Actually I don't mean one, the reality is dozens.
I wouldn't say that I use internet sites any more than the average person - I book flights and hire cars; order clothes; download music for my iPod and books for my Kindle and do my banking - but I had a quick count up of the sites that I use regularly that demand a password before I can access them, and it came to a staggering 43!
Add to that the pin numbers for bank accounts and it's no wonder we're all suffering headaches more than we used to, it's the stress of trying to remember all those numbers and words.
Use memorable words, they say, or a combination of words and numbers and then comes the stern warning not to use the same one for everything and not to write your password down in case someone should find it. Er, hello....I'm 48 and most days I have trouble remembering where I've put my car key or my shoes, there's no way on earth I'm going to remember the password to my Bravissimo account the next time I need to order a new red bra.
I've listened to all the advice about not using obvious passwords and pin numbers that could be guessed relatively easily, kids' names, birthdays etc. So, how proud was I when I came up with some pretty obscure combinations and got an online pat on the head as the phrase 'password strength - strong' appeared on the screen.
The only problem was.....the reason they were so strong was because they were completely impossible to remember and every time I was faced with the 'enter your password' box, could I think what it was? Nope, not a hope. Consequently, the 'forgotten password?' function and I have become extremely well acquainted. Each time I press the button, I almost expect the words 'what....you again?' to appear.
So my wonderfully obscure, but impossible to remember, passwords are now recorded in a book that is locked away securely in a place known only to me. The security whizzes would have a blue fit, I'm sure.
I had to laugh the other day to discover that it's not just me, and it's definitely not an age thing, when son number one, the 16 year old, sent me a text from the cashpoint to ask if I knew his pin number as he'd forgotten it.
Tuesday 12 July 2011
Men are from Mars......
Making stereotypical pronouncements about the shortcomings of men is normally something I'd avoid but this email that's doing the rounds did make me chuckle and reflect on some of those moments that we've probably all had.
'Wico (Women in charge of everything) is proud to announce evening classes for men, open to men only, all are welcome....
The course will cover the following:
How to fill ice cube trays - step by step guide with slide presentation
Toilet rolls - do they grow on the holders? Round table discussion
Differences between laundry basket and floor - practising with hamper (pictures and graphics)
Dishes and cutlery - do they levitate/fly to the dishwasher/sink by themselves? Debate with a panel of experts
Remote control - losing the remote - help line and support groups
Learning how to find things - starting with looking in the right place instead of turning the house upside down while screaming - open forum
Empty milk cartons - do they belong in the fridge or the bin? Group discussion and role play
Real men ask for directions when lost - real life testimonial from the one man who did
Is it genetically impossible to sit quietly as she parallel parks - driving simulation
How to be the ideal shopping companion - relaxation exercises, meditation and breathing techniques,
Calling when you're going to be late and remembering important dates - bring your calendar to class
Getting over it, learning to live with being wrong all the time - individual counsellors available'
Now, I don't hold with the assumption that women are in any way superior to men, I like the fact that we're just different, but some of that email certainly did ring true.
I've watched in disbelief as my 16-year-old son has dropped his dirty washing on the floor in front of the laundry basket and clearly both he and the 10-year-old fear losing their fingers if they dare to open the dishwasher so they just leave the dirty crockery on top of it.
And what is it about men and their attitude to women and parking? I don't know why, maybe I had an extremely good driving instructor, but for some reason I am cracking at parallel parking. I was parking in a tricky spot and had a male friend in the car who turned to me and announced in a disbelieving tone 'wow, you can actually park'. I'm just amazed he didn't pat me on the head while he was at it, although he'd have been in danger of losing a part of his anatomy he'd probably rather like to hang on to if he had. It's like me popping round while he's cutting the grass and saying 'goodness, aren't you good at mowing'.
The refusal to stop and ask for directions is another one although it's probably dying out thanks to sat navs. My father was a past master, his greatest moment came on the New Jersey turnpike when he turned in a panic to me and my mum and shouted 'which way do I go?' How the heck were we supposed to know, we'd never been there before either.
I'm doing my best to bring my two boys up to be open minded, fair men who wouldn't dream of being sexist but every now and again, I've wondered about the nature over nurture issue. Can we really influence our boys or are they all born with just that little bit of chauvinism, some more than others?
My boys have witnessed me in full fury mode when I've been patronised and understand all about feminism and equality, so I was stunned into horrified silence when the little one yelled at me one day 'that's your job, you're a woman' when I'd told him to pick up his dirty plate and put it in the dishwasher. He's clearly still a work in progress.
The day they stop stepping over the things I've put at the bottom of the stairs for them to take up to their rooms is the day I know I've cracked it.
'Wico (Women in charge of everything) is proud to announce evening classes for men, open to men only, all are welcome....
The course will cover the following:
How to fill ice cube trays - step by step guide with slide presentation
Toilet rolls - do they grow on the holders? Round table discussion
Differences between laundry basket and floor - practising with hamper (pictures and graphics)
Dishes and cutlery - do they levitate/fly to the dishwasher/sink by themselves? Debate with a panel of experts
Remote control - losing the remote - help line and support groups
Learning how to find things - starting with looking in the right place instead of turning the house upside down while screaming - open forum
Empty milk cartons - do they belong in the fridge or the bin? Group discussion and role play
Real men ask for directions when lost - real life testimonial from the one man who did
Is it genetically impossible to sit quietly as she parallel parks - driving simulation
How to be the ideal shopping companion - relaxation exercises, meditation and breathing techniques,
Calling when you're going to be late and remembering important dates - bring your calendar to class
Getting over it, learning to live with being wrong all the time - individual counsellors available'
Now, I don't hold with the assumption that women are in any way superior to men, I like the fact that we're just different, but some of that email certainly did ring true.
I've watched in disbelief as my 16-year-old son has dropped his dirty washing on the floor in front of the laundry basket and clearly both he and the 10-year-old fear losing their fingers if they dare to open the dishwasher so they just leave the dirty crockery on top of it.
And what is it about men and their attitude to women and parking? I don't know why, maybe I had an extremely good driving instructor, but for some reason I am cracking at parallel parking. I was parking in a tricky spot and had a male friend in the car who turned to me and announced in a disbelieving tone 'wow, you can actually park'. I'm just amazed he didn't pat me on the head while he was at it, although he'd have been in danger of losing a part of his anatomy he'd probably rather like to hang on to if he had. It's like me popping round while he's cutting the grass and saying 'goodness, aren't you good at mowing'.
The refusal to stop and ask for directions is another one although it's probably dying out thanks to sat navs. My father was a past master, his greatest moment came on the New Jersey turnpike when he turned in a panic to me and my mum and shouted 'which way do I go?' How the heck were we supposed to know, we'd never been there before either.
I'm doing my best to bring my two boys up to be open minded, fair men who wouldn't dream of being sexist but every now and again, I've wondered about the nature over nurture issue. Can we really influence our boys or are they all born with just that little bit of chauvinism, some more than others?
My boys have witnessed me in full fury mode when I've been patronised and understand all about feminism and equality, so I was stunned into horrified silence when the little one yelled at me one day 'that's your job, you're a woman' when I'd told him to pick up his dirty plate and put it in the dishwasher. He's clearly still a work in progress.
The day they stop stepping over the things I've put at the bottom of the stairs for them to take up to their rooms is the day I know I've cracked it.
Monday 11 July 2011
It definitely could have been worse.....
The Beckhams have announced the name of their new baby daughter and, as with every Beckham arrival, there's been much comment about the choice.
Well, they were never going to call her Jane were they although I did wonder if there might have been a Chanel in there somewhere. Actually I think the child got off relatively lightly with Harper although Seven is something else, just makes me think of the film of the same name that gave me the heebie jeebies for weeks.
Harper Seven Beckham doesn't exactly trip off the tongue and does sound rather like a stop somewhere near Walthamstow on the London Underground but, hey, each to their own.
I like to think VB and Goldenboots have come over all literary and have named their new arrival after Harper Lee, author of the classic To Kill a Mockingbird, although I suspect not. According to the American press, the Beckhams have said that Harper is 'an old English name'. Er, no it's not, well maybe as a surname perhaps. I wonder if it crossed their minds though that if anyone tries to shorten their daughter's name, as is bound to happen, the poor child is going to go through life as Harpy.....
At the other extreme Claudia Winkleman has shown that not all celebs lean towards eclectic names by naming her new baby son, Arthur.
But even the Beckhams can't come close to my current all-time favourite, Laurel-Ann Hardie......
Well, they were never going to call her Jane were they although I did wonder if there might have been a Chanel in there somewhere. Actually I think the child got off relatively lightly with Harper although Seven is something else, just makes me think of the film of the same name that gave me the heebie jeebies for weeks.
Harper Seven Beckham doesn't exactly trip off the tongue and does sound rather like a stop somewhere near Walthamstow on the London Underground but, hey, each to their own.
I like to think VB and Goldenboots have come over all literary and have named their new arrival after Harper Lee, author of the classic To Kill a Mockingbird, although I suspect not. According to the American press, the Beckhams have said that Harper is 'an old English name'. Er, no it's not, well maybe as a surname perhaps. I wonder if it crossed their minds though that if anyone tries to shorten their daughter's name, as is bound to happen, the poor child is going to go through life as Harpy.....
At the other extreme Claudia Winkleman has shown that not all celebs lean towards eclectic names by naming her new baby son, Arthur.
But even the Beckhams can't come close to my current all-time favourite, Laurel-Ann Hardie......
Sunday 10 July 2011
Searching for my sale gene.....
I'm rather worried that I'm not a proper girl, that I'm missing some essential chromosome, the one that makes all women just love a sale.
I can't abide the things. I took the 16-year-old off to the shops on Friday to buy shoes for his prom and everywhere there were sales. It's incredible how a perfectly pleasant looking store can be transformed into the equivalent of a jumble sale just by sticking a huge, red sale sign in the window.
It's strange but goods that previously looked perfectly fine when they were displayed nicely on shelves suddenly leave me cold when they are stacked higgledy piggledy on sale racks or jammed together in bargain bins. Something inside me, ever contrary, seems to say 'well if you don't want them then I don't either.'
I really don't have a clue why I'm so sale averse, after all everyone loves to bag a bargain and I'm no different, but I just can't be bothered with all the rummaging and nonsense that goes with it. I like my shopping to be a relaxed experience that gives me a nice, satisfied glow as I come back with my purchases.
Now I tend to avoid the sales like the plague and wait until everything is back to normal. I'm sure I'm missing out on some fantastic bargains and perhaps I should take lessons from my sister who is a bargain hunter extraordinaire. She's always been like it, from an early age, she's been able to root out the sale of the century.
Last year I noticed that every day on holiday she was appearing in a different bikini - turned out she'd got them all for two for £5 and her collection of 26 bikinis only came to fractionally more than my one full priced swimsuit. She'll turn up in a fantastic outfit and when complimented will say 'oh this, cost me a tenner', I honestly don't know how she does it.
There was the occasion when I almost got myself a stonking bargain. I found a shoe that I loved and it was some ridiculously cheap price, I soon found out why when the other foot was nowhere to be seen. I searched the entire store convinced it had to be there somewhere but, no, it was just one shoe. Now how on earth is one shoe a bargain to anyone?
In an attempt to locate my clearly underdeveloped sale gene, I'm going to give online sales a whirl this year. I'm not holding out much hope but it's a start......
I can't abide the things. I took the 16-year-old off to the shops on Friday to buy shoes for his prom and everywhere there were sales. It's incredible how a perfectly pleasant looking store can be transformed into the equivalent of a jumble sale just by sticking a huge, red sale sign in the window.
It's strange but goods that previously looked perfectly fine when they were displayed nicely on shelves suddenly leave me cold when they are stacked higgledy piggledy on sale racks or jammed together in bargain bins. Something inside me, ever contrary, seems to say 'well if you don't want them then I don't either.'
I really don't have a clue why I'm so sale averse, after all everyone loves to bag a bargain and I'm no different, but I just can't be bothered with all the rummaging and nonsense that goes with it. I like my shopping to be a relaxed experience that gives me a nice, satisfied glow as I come back with my purchases.
Now I tend to avoid the sales like the plague and wait until everything is back to normal. I'm sure I'm missing out on some fantastic bargains and perhaps I should take lessons from my sister who is a bargain hunter extraordinaire. She's always been like it, from an early age, she's been able to root out the sale of the century.
Last year I noticed that every day on holiday she was appearing in a different bikini - turned out she'd got them all for two for £5 and her collection of 26 bikinis only came to fractionally more than my one full priced swimsuit. She'll turn up in a fantastic outfit and when complimented will say 'oh this, cost me a tenner', I honestly don't know how she does it.
There was the occasion when I almost got myself a stonking bargain. I found a shoe that I loved and it was some ridiculously cheap price, I soon found out why when the other foot was nowhere to be seen. I searched the entire store convinced it had to be there somewhere but, no, it was just one shoe. Now how on earth is one shoe a bargain to anyone?
In an attempt to locate my clearly underdeveloped sale gene, I'm going to give online sales a whirl this year. I'm not holding out much hope but it's a start......
Monday 4 July 2011
Life's a beach....
The glossy magazines are jammed full of features right now about how easy it is to be a beach goddess - all golden limbs, swingy hair naturally highlighted by the sun and luminous skin.
I would hazard a guess that most women take one look and harumph quietly to themselves knowing that the reality is somewhat different. I've just returned from a lovely girlie week in the South of France, most of which was spent lying on a sunbed under a very big parasol at the beach plugged into my iPod looking out over an azur sea. Heaven.
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I took the opportunity to do my own little straw poll of this year's beach fashions and, as the days passed, realised that it is possible to tell someone's nationality from their swimwear. The Italians were all drama and bling, a woman who had long passed 50 desported herself alongside me in an emerald green sequin bikini and her friend was in gold lame, brave indeed.
The French were the epitome of chic, usually in black complete with Louis Vuitton bags, although I have to admit to a sense of satisfaction that even the slimmest of French women can get it wrong, and that a thong is not a good look on anyone over the age of 18 months after which buttocks no longer resemble dewy peaches more chicken skin.
The Dutch were all sensible crocs and hefty tankinis, my favourite was the chap who clearly loved his homeland so much that he'd stepped out in orange crocs, orange t-shirt and orange patterned shorts, a head to foot tango experience.
And then there were us Brits. I always think of the teacher who'd write 'could try harder' on my school reports when I'm trying to put myself together for the beach. In my mind I'm going to look just like one of those glossy magazine features, after all I've found a flattering swimsuit and wrap, had the St Tropez tan, painted my toe nails, slicked on the lip balm.....
I really should have learned by now that it's a waste of time and money....within minutes of stepping foot on the beach there's sand in every orifice, my hair looks as if I've stuck my fingers in an electric socket and my nose is bright pink. Still, a girl can but dream.....one day I'll crack that beach goddess look.
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I would hazard a guess that most women take one look and harumph quietly to themselves knowing that the reality is somewhat different. I've just returned from a lovely girlie week in the South of France, most of which was spent lying on a sunbed under a very big parasol at the beach plugged into my iPod looking out over an azur sea. Heaven.
St Aygulf
Cap Dramont
I took the opportunity to do my own little straw poll of this year's beach fashions and, as the days passed, realised that it is possible to tell someone's nationality from their swimwear. The Italians were all drama and bling, a woman who had long passed 50 desported herself alongside me in an emerald green sequin bikini and her friend was in gold lame, brave indeed.
The French were the epitome of chic, usually in black complete with Louis Vuitton bags, although I have to admit to a sense of satisfaction that even the slimmest of French women can get it wrong, and that a thong is not a good look on anyone over the age of 18 months after which buttocks no longer resemble dewy peaches more chicken skin.
The Dutch were all sensible crocs and hefty tankinis, my favourite was the chap who clearly loved his homeland so much that he'd stepped out in orange crocs, orange t-shirt and orange patterned shorts, a head to foot tango experience.
And then there were us Brits. I always think of the teacher who'd write 'could try harder' on my school reports when I'm trying to put myself together for the beach. In my mind I'm going to look just like one of those glossy magazine features, after all I've found a flattering swimsuit and wrap, had the St Tropez tan, painted my toe nails, slicked on the lip balm.....
I really should have learned by now that it's a waste of time and money....within minutes of stepping foot on the beach there's sand in every orifice, my hair looks as if I've stuck my fingers in an electric socket and my nose is bright pink. Still, a girl can but dream.....one day I'll crack that beach goddess look.
My French hideaway.
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