The Litmus Test
You know when you were little, and there was such a clear demarcation between ‘kid’ and ‘adult’? Sometimes there was a third category – ‘teenager’ – but the boundaries were pretty clear. You were a kid, your parents were grown ups, and that was just the way it was.
And then you got into your teens, and you wanted to be a grown up, but you still secretly saw yourself as a kid. Then suddenly you’ve moved out of home, you’re in your early twenties, you’re technically an adult but you don’t know how or when it happened, and you still feel like you’re a kid trapped in an adult’s skin and you don’t know how to tell whether or not you’re actually grown up.
Well, I think I may have discovered a litmus test.
You know when you’re in high school, and you hear on the grapevine that some other girl has apparently been saying bad things about you and talking smack about how much she hates you? And you go home and cry for hours and hours, even though you hate her guts. Her opinion still matters to you so much, and you desperately, desperately want to be liked by everyone, even though you can’t stand most of them. Oh, you say you don’t care, but you still cry yourself to sleep over it.
Well, being grown up is when you hear that someone you don’t especially like has been saying horrible things about you, and you actually don’t care – and, in some instances, it even makes you happy.
Food for thought.
~Jodi
Do The Eyes Have It?
I’m sick at the moment – I’ve got this hideous throat infection which makes my voice sound like I’ve been on a three-day bender. I talk just as much (if not more) than I write, so it’s very disheartening, and I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself.
Anyway, I stumbled into the city to get myself some pineapple juice this morning, looking like the creature from the Black Lagoon (my hair in and of itself could have frightened small children.) I was just walking out of the supermarket when of the local crazies (there are a few in Canberra!) walked past me, stopped, and said, “Excuse me?”
“Yes?” I croaked.
“You have beautiful green eyes.” Then he went on his way.
Now, I don’t know whether he was on something or whether he was just in a very good mood and loved everyone this morning, but I was genuinely touched. Because, you see, I do have green eyes – and they are, if I may so myself, quite pretty. However, hardly anyone ever notices them. I vividly remember a conversation a few years back with a male friend of mine, and I was telling him about how I used to call my eyes jade when I was younger because I didn’t think green sounded nice enough, and he interrupted me and said, “But you don’t have green eyes, Jodi!”
“Um, yes, I do,” I remember replying.
“No, they’re blue!” he insisted. “Or maybe brown…”
And that was sort of upsetting, really, because I’d always considered my eyes to be one of my best features, and it was basically the equivalent of being told that no one had even noticed.
Women are always told – not really outright, but it somehow becomes generally known – that men are into either breasts or legs, and that they basically don’t look at anything else. More ‘romantic’ things – like hair, voice and, yes, eyes – don’t really matter, if you haven’t got the body to back it up. There’s this notion – and I think it’s been around for a long time – that men have these caveman-like sexual desires. You know, that Victorian idea that women were wanton temptresses and if they would flaunt their bodies about (ie. show their ankles), men could not be blamed for their reactions, however inappropriate. Not being a man, I cannot comment on how men feel desire, but I think that this notion of men as crude sexual beings, only interested in, to put it blankly, tits and arses, is kind of a hangover of this. I don’t think I’ve ever really bought into this notion personally – I’d like to give men as a whole a bit more credit. But, you know, when you’re told that your eyes aren’t green, when they quite clearly are… I don’t know if it confirms it in your mind, but it doesn’t un-confirm it, if you know what I mean.
(I apologise for my confused logic. Remember, I’m sick – I’m not thinking properly.)
Anyway, being told by a man (even if he was a crazy on drugs) that my eyes were beautiful really lifted my spirits. It’s nice to know that when you’re ill and you look like shit, your eyes still look nice – and that sometimes, people do notice. It reminded me of the song which I’ve linked at the bottom of this post, which I’ve always loved… yes, because I have green eyes, and because it’s a nice song, no matter what colour your eyes are.
But that does not answer the bigger question – do men really ever notice your eyes? Or are the things we’re told about men only noticing breasts, bums and legs really true? You see, I do notice men’s eyes, and faces – and their voices most of all (there is nothing more sexy than a good voice!) I’d like to open the floor to all readers of the Black Valentine’s Day Manifesto – but to any men out there in particular. Are women just sensitive aesthetes – or have we been doing men a great injustice in making the majority of them out to be Neanderthals?
~Jodi
The Best Revenge
The quote for today on the kitschy page-a-day garden-variety-corporate-issue calendar I have on my desk is this:
‘No one ever forgets where they buried a hatchet.’
~Kin Hubbard
Pretty true, if you ask me. That Corrs song ‘Forgiven, Not Forgotten’ never would have been a hit if it weren’t.
The landscapers in our apartment complex seem to have taken the day off, so Luisa and I actually watched Sunrise this morning instead of dreamily staring out the window. In their breezy, shallow, breakfast TV way, they had quite an interesting piece this morning – it was about revenge. The piece was at 8.15, and they were advertising it about half an hour earlier. Mel said something along the lines of, ‘find out at 8.15 – is revenge really worth it?’ Luisa and I both said ‘yes!’ immediately.
The example they showed of relationship revenge was pretty extreme – some abandoned wife in American pushed her husband’s beloved motor-show car out of a plane. But that got me to thinking – extreme or not, all revenge is pretty much arising out the same desire. The psychologist they had explaining it said that it was the desire to hurt the other person as much as they’ve hurt you, but I’d like to add something to that: I think it’s the desire to show someone that you can still affect their life, that you still have some kind of power over them. Physical revenge becomes a tangible reminder of that.
You never feel more powerless than when you’ve been rejected or dumped. Relationships are one of the few things in this world that aren’t based on merit – you can be as fabulous as you like, but if they don’t like you that way, they don’t like you that way, or they don’t feel like that about you any more, or whatever, and there is nothing you can do to change that. You might want to hurt them, yes – but mostly you want to show them that you still have power over them, and in my amateur psychological opinion, that is where the desire for revenge springs from.
So, if we think about our desires for revenge this way, can we channel them more productively? Instead of pushing a car out of a plane, can we use them to empower ourselves? Instead of dragging him down and hurting him, can we turn our desire for revenge into a desire to re-establish our equality? I think that just by thinking about it that way, we are making a forward step – because if you think about your feelings in terms of yourself instead of in terms of the other person, you’re already putting yourself first. It’s kind of a precursor to the ‘screw you!’ moment, I suppose!
You know that fantasy that just about everyone has of going to their school reunion and everyone being insanely jealous of their fabulous life? I think we should apply that to relationships as well. Who wants to be remembered as the insane bitch that poured perfume all over an ex’s new leather car seats?
What I certainly would like to be remembered as is the one that got away. You want power? You want to make him regret what he’s done? Be classy about it. The best revenge we can have, my friends, is being totally fabulous.
~Jodi
The Nerve
There’s some landscaping going on in our apartment complex at the moment, and the landscapers turn up quite early in the morning. So every day, Luisa and I eat breakfast, nominally watching Sunrise… but really watching the landscapers. Because, let’s face it – landscapers are rugged and musclebound, and these particular ones are very, very nice to look at.
Flash forward to lunch time today. I was wandering around the city, minding my own business, when I caught this guy in a business suit giving me what Becky Bloomwood might call the Manhattan Once-Over – the eyes start at your face, move slowly down to your feet and back up again. Checking me out, basically – and I caught him at it.
So what does he do? Smiles at me and winks. I try to be cool and fabulous and grin right back, but unfortunately you don’t look quite so cool when you’ve blushed bright red.
Now, if one day the landscapers happened to look in our apartment window and catch us watching them, I can guarantee that my first reaction would not be to smile and wink. I’m just not wired like that. It would probably be something along the lines of… oh, dying of shame.
So why I am ashamed to be caught checking someone out while this dude in a business suit is totally down with it? Why is it cool for a man but not for a woman? Or is my mental wiring something out of the Victorian period?
Where, in short, do men get the nerve?
~Jodi
The Peculiar Power of Panties
We’ve all had those days: the days when you just want to cry. Your boss is yelling at you, your housemate won’t take out the garbage, the boy you’ve been seeing just won’t call, and you feel fat and ugly. All you want is a block of chocolate, a pint of icecream, pajamas and bed.
Stop! There IS a better option.
Don’t go off an emotionally eat. Emotional eating, much as we as women love to indulge in it, is really bad for you. It’s an unhealthy habit that can easily get our of control.
Instead, why not go and buy yourself a nice pair of panties.
Seriously.
While panties can be pricey, you can usually find a nice pair for not a whole lot more money than the chocolate sundae you had planned to eat would have cost.
Buy a pair for you and you alone. Whether it’s a lacy pair to make you feel sexy, or a cotton pair that are plain and comfy, just pick panties that make you feel happy.
It’s incredible what a good pair of panties can do, and it’s the affordable type of retail therapy.
~Erin
This Woman’s Work
For me, there is no voice as quintessentially female as Kate Bush. I first heard her music when I was quite a small child, and if my life were ever to have a soundtrack, I think at least half, if not above three quarters, would be Kate. She speaks on a beautiful, lyrical level. There is a Kate song for just about any situation. She can write songs from male, female, multiple and no perspectives at all (sometimes all at once) but to me she is the voice of all women, everywhere. Her sound is the epitome of femininity.
So yes, there will be a lot of Kate featured on the Black Valentine’s Day Manifesto, in case you’re wondering.
Kate’s first album, The Kick Inside, came out in 1979, when she was only nineteen. Her most recent album, Aerial, was released in 2005. Her musical career has spanned four decades, and as she has grown, so too has her music. This is not to say that only some of her music is applicable depending on what stage of your life you’re at. Kate’s music is music for all seasons. She documents the female experience, and there are some things about that that are eternal.
Some people aren’t Kate fans. She does have quite an unusual sound – and I admit that I do know people that hate her reflexively because I like her so much. But really, you have not lived until you have watched the film clip to Wuthering Heights and then danced around your house imitating her crazy kooky pseudo-balletic dance moves. There is a Kate song for every moment I can think of. Kate can make you laugh. She can make you cry. She is possibly the only person in the world who could imitate a mule in the middle of one of their songs and make it work. She is the only woman for whom I think I could ever write a love song, purely because her music has meant so much to me over my life.
The song I’d like to share with you today is from the album The Sensual World, though many people remember it better from the movie She’s Having A Baby. It’s called This Woman’s Work, and though I have applied it to many situations in my life, it is nearly always about my beloved grandmother for me. She died in 2005 and I cannot remember ever being sadder. I cried at her funeral more than I thought I could ever cry in my life, and beside me, my sister did the same. But I also vividly remembering smiling through her eulogy, listening to all the things she had done in her life, and remembering what a wonderful, wonderful person she had been and how much she had meant and will always mean to me, all through my life – remembering, in short, this woman’s work.
~Jodi
Deep Thought
Sometimes, I wish I were married. Then I think about having to share my limited 65 gig of monthly downloads, and I breathe a sigh of relief at the fact I am single.
Cross-posted to All Good Naysayers, Speak Up.
~Erin
The Mostly True Adventures of Fabulous Fictional Fran
Today, I’m going to introduce you to a new character who will be popping up a lot on the Manifesto in the near future. Her name is Fabulous Fictional Fran, and she is both fabulous and fictional… as you may have deduced from her name. As it happens, a lot of people have a lot of stories but aren’t real keen on attaching their name to them in public – which I totally understand! – but the story still needs to be told. That’s where our fabulous fictional friend Fran comes in. She lives in… um, Launceston (definitely NOT Canberra!) and apparently leads a very busy life, considering she lives out all the stories I’m given but am not allowed to attach names to, with a variety of fabulous men (renamed), and many, MANY not-so-fabulous ones (who I may or may not rename, depending on how much that story’s Fran cares). Fran could be anyone, anywhere at any time. She could be me. She could be you. Only one thing is certain – while Fran is fictional, these stories aren’t!
So, without further ado, I present you with the First Adventures of Fabulous Fictional Fran!
It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and Fabulous Fictional Fran was wandering through the streets of Launceston with her friend, Rational Rowena. They’d just been shopping and were laden with bags. They were talking and laughing, and Rowena had an ice-cream. All in all, a gorgeous summer day.
There was a little Latino band playing in the park, and a small crowd had gathered to watch. Fran and Rowena joined them. Rowena dropped her shopping on the ground. “I’m exhausted!” she whispered to Fran.
“Mmm,” Fran replied, distracted. The lead singer of the band had caught her eye, and he was not half bad looking. Not half bad looking at all.
Rowena followed Fran’s eyes. “Fran!”
“What?” Fran replied. “I can look, can’t I?” She looked back defiantly, and caught the singer’s eye again. And then – “Ro, did he just wink at me?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“No – he did – oh my God, he’s coming over here!”
“No he’s – oh my God, he is!”
Fran and Rowena stared, dumbstruck, as the singer flung himself at Fran’s feet and started serenading her. The crowd cheered and wolf-whistled. Rowena’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Fran flushed bright red.
The song finished. The singer took Fran’s hand in his, kissed it and said, “I would like to take you out to dinner, if you don’t mind.”
He had an accent. Fran’s knees nearly gave out. “I’d like that,” she said quietly.
Rowena waited patiently as Fran and the singer sorted out their evening arrangements. “You’re not really going to go, are you?” Rowena demanded.
“As if I wouldn’t!”
“You don’t know anything about him!”
“Ro, he’s Spanish. He can sing. And he just serenaded me in a park. I think I know all I need to know.”
Rowena rolled her eyes. “Well, at least make sure he pays.”
At a few minutes after seven, making sure she was appropriately fashionably late but not so late it was rude, Fran met the singer at the door of the restaurant. She was wearing a little black dress, bright red lipstick and very high heels. She knew she looked pretty damn fabulous.
The singer took one look at her, grabbed her and kissed her. “You are so beautiful,” he growled. Fran nearly melted. She guessed she wasn’t wearing quite so much lipstick any more.
His name was Diego, and he was a great conversationalist, as well as being a great listener (which, Fran considered, was probably even more important.) He asked her about her life and what she did and her friends, and she listened eagerly to his stories about growing up in South America. His accent was unbelievably attractive. He had total bedroom eyes, dark and inviting. He held her hand across the table. “Come back with me, after dinner,” he said to her.
She bit her lip. “Maybe,” she said, hearing Rational Rowena’s voice in her head.
He smiled. She knew he could see her wavering.
They talked some more. He was fascinating, and she was on the verge of throwing herself at him across the table when he leaned back in his chair, looked at her, smiled, and said, “You know what? You remind me of someone.”
“Really? Who?”
“My wife.”
Her heart froze. “Your – wife?”
“Yes, my wife.” He smiled again and then proceeded to tell her all about his beautiful wife, who was back home in South America. Fran felt sick. She didn’t want to ask whether or not they had children, and hoped he didn’t tell her. The beauty of the moment, of the day, of being serenaded in public, vanished. Sitting in front of her was an ugly, ugly man.
“Will you excuse me a moment?” she said.
“Of course,” he answered, winking at her.
She grabbed her handbag and all but fled to the bathroom. She locked herself in a stall, put her head between her knees and tried to take some deep breaths. “Calm down, Fran,” she said to herself. “Calm down. You can get out of here.”
She had a flash of inspiration and pulled out her mobile phone. “Ro, Ro, you have to help me!”
“I told you this wouldn’t turn out well.”
“Ro, he’s married!”
Rowena was silent for a moment. “Where are you?”
“The bathroom.”
“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”
Fran’s phone rang again about five minutes later. “All right, I’m here,” Rowena said. “Can you make a run for it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got the engine running. Go!”
Cautiously, Fran stuck her head out of the bathroom. Diego was staring out the window, tapping his fingers on the table. She resisted the urge to go back into the bathroom and throw up, resisted the equally strong urge to run, and instead walked calmly out the door without him noticing and into Rowena’s car.
“Frannie, are you all right?” Rowena asked.
She stared back at the restaurant as they drove away and found herself, oddly, smiling. “At least I got a free meal out of it,” she said. “The bastard’ll have to pay.”
~Jodi
The Fat Facts
I was watching bad breakfast television with Luisa this morning, and I saw something that enraged me. No, it was not David Koch, nor was it Mel Doyle or any of the other members of the Sunrise team – though they are exceptionally annoying, with all that botox and fake laughing. No, it was not them. It was an ad.
I’m not in the habit of being enraged by ads – or, in fact, taking it seriously – but this one revealed to me a fundamental flaw in the modern world. It was an ad for one of those pharmacy weight loss programs (can’t remember which one, which is probably good for them, because of then I’d have to name and shame) and it ran something like this: ‘Tubby hubby? With this program, he can lose up to nine kilos – and you can lose six!’
I’m sorry?
I’M SORRY?
WHY IS THIS AD SPECIFICALLY ADDRESSED TO WOMEN?
The last time I checked, the audience of Sunrise wasn’t exclusively female. Men aren’t banned from watching it, and if my family is anything to go by, they do. So why, WHY did this company think it was even the smallest bit appropriate to address this ad about weight loss specifically to women? Who was the genius who thought that was the right thing to do?
Fact: a lot of women are neurotic about their weight. Not arguing there. I’m one of them. I go to the gym and I try to eat healthily as much as possible within my means (and cravings). It is safe to assume that women would, yes, be interested in a weight loss program, BUT –
Fact: a lot of men are neurotic about their weight. This is not an exclusively female phenomenon. Men care. Oh yes, men care. I suppose on occasion there might be some more emphasis on muscle-building than you see with women, but generally, I think the whole weight loss issue covers both sexes. Both men and women are neurotic about their bodies. Fact, fact, FACT.
But wait, one might say. Look at the stats for anorexia and bulimia! Sure, some men suffer from it, but they are vastly outweighed by women! Clearly women are the more neurotic! A-ha! You are WRONG, Jodi!
You know why more women suffer from this diseases, as well as from conditions like body dysmorphia? I have absolutely no proof for this theory, but I would still stake just about anything on it. You know why?
Social conditioning. ADS LIKE THESE. Women are socially conditioned into feeling like they should be neurotic about their weight. Sure, it’s healthy for men to lose weight as well, and the message is out there, but compared to the pressure that’s on women, that’s nothing. Nothing. And this ad is only contributing to the problem.
Obesity is a problem in Australia for both sexes. However, I heard a very interesting stat the other day – two thirds of Australian men are overweight (as in, have a BMI that exceeds the ‘healthy’ level). I didn’t hear the stat for women, but if they aren’t touting it about, it can’t be anything like as bad. So two out of every three men is overweight – and we’re addressing our weight loss ads to women, telling them that they can lose weight… and, oh yeah, they can nag their husbands into doing it too.
Nice work, random pharmacy weight loss program, for fostering a continuation of a stereotype which is both outmoded and outdated and should be entirely done away with – the neurotic women who nags her husband. I hope you’re really proud of yourselves for your excellent advertising campaign. Really, really frigging proud.
~Jodi
The Importance Of Saying ‘Screw You!’
This morning I received the first ever negative comment I’ve had on any post of the Black Valentine’s Day Manifesto. It was on the post ‘The World’s Best Drinks Menu and Other Things’, and it read thus:
‘from one who has been married twice, and has had her heart broken many times into shards, the kind of sentiment you express in your poem, is not healthy or helpful.
jokes of anger and bitterness dont help.
they turn pain and sadness into something not useful, not even for the sake of venting.
it is better not to turn disappointment and suffering into bitter and angry “ragging.”
…..work it through in other ways.’
This got me to thinking. I’ve already responded in the comments section of that post, but I’d like to elaborate a little here, because responding to this comment crystallised a few things in my mind.
I cannot speak for all women, but in my opinion, everyone needs to say ‘screw you’, every now and again. The little poem my friends and I put together for our Black Valentine’s Day party was obviously tongue-in-cheek and never meant to be taken seriously, and I would never advocate that sentiment as the sole appropriate way to react to heartbreak/dumping/ rejection/infantile male behaviour/whatever, but I do think it is important to do.
This is how it is for me. You cry a while. You listen to your Damien Rice, mope and eat a lot of chocolate. Then you have a moment of realisation, when you draw yourself up, pull yourself together and say, ‘You know what? You are not worth my time. I am not crying over you any more. Screw you.’ You realise that the most important thing in your life right now is not him, no matter how much you miss him and how much he has meant to you. The most important thing in your life is, always has been and always will be, you.
That may sound selfish. That’s because it is. But, in my book, it’s all right to be selfish sometimes. Sure, I’m no great moral commentator, but when it comes to relationships, I think you have to be selfish. (‘Yes, I am high-maintenance… but I think you’ve gotta be!’ as local heroine Kath Day-Knight tells us). You have to put yourself first, or you’re going to lose yourself. And who among us values herself so little that they want to lose themselves in a man?
This is not to say that you should hate men who screw you over – at least, not forever. I think a little hatred at the outset is only natural, but it, like all things, should pass in time. Obviously, you should not use loathing or revenge as ways to get through a break up or other kind of heartbreak or whatever has gone on. But I think that if you deny yourself your ‘screw you’ moment, you’re denying yourself something pretty key. Heartbreak is as much an ego blow as anything else – and when you say ‘screw you’ and put yourself first, that, for me, is the first step to recovery.
This clearly needs to be tempered with other ways of healing – other ways that self-help books and the like might call more productive. But if you want to have your ‘screw you’ moment – well, sister, I’d be the last person to stand in your way.
~Jodi
The Black Valentine's Day Manifesto 