Tuesday, 31 December 2013

2013: Curse of the Lucky, or, Damn Well Kicking

I swore I wouldn't make a list of all the good and bad things that happened this past year - you know, the usual crappy stocktaking we all do when faced with a 'new' year.  Is it new, though? Isn't every day new? So what makes one year different from another? Well, nothing at all really.  It's a convention agreed on centuries ago to mark the passage of time with numbers, so we got used to marking mid-winter as the end of one year and the beginning of another.  And around this convention, we've built a whole gamut of traditions to make this particular moment in time seem more important than any other time of year.
Newsflash, darlings: it's not.  It's just another day in our lives, and there is nothing different about it in the least.

Not that I'm complaining.  For one thing, it's a public holiday, and I love public holidays as much as the next person.  Possibly more, because I usually have to be pushed into taking any leave from work, and it's never to relax anyway, so they usually provide me with some much needed R&R.  [But I digress.]

There is something satisfying about laying the past to rest, and opening your arms and heart to the future.  The more time passes, the more I realise that most people don't do this on a regular basis and actually require the rigmarole of New Year to carry out this essential mental and emotional cleansing.  I do it every few months anyway, because I've learned the hard way that letting dead issues stack up in my mind is the correct recipe for a festering, maggoty mess inside my head.

Got that cheerful postcard firmly imprinted onto the screen of your imagination? Excellent! There's nothing quite like the mental scarring of some good advice for some character-building! ;)

I've decided that instead of regaling you, dear reader, with a list of glorified 'Thank god it's over!' and 'Thank god that happened!' moments from the past year, I shall write you a list of lessons that have served me well.  Yes, lessons, because whoever said education stops at school or university or any kind of formal training was lying to you, the bastard.

1. You will find yourself faced by obstacles of all types throughout your life, because life is hard, and would be terribly boring if it weren't.  Accept this fact and get on with living - because if you don't, what's the alternative? Losing your place in the gene pool? Oh dear.

2. Humans are a destructive, invasive species.  As a sentient being, appreciate that you, your loved ones, and the rest of the race are a poison to the very planet that supports you.  Be kind to your environment while you can, before it becomes as poisonous for you as you are for other organisms.  Because once it does become deadly to humans, memories of the non-murderous environment may be the only thing keeping you warm at night.

3. Stupidity abounds! Be grateful for your intelligence, and understand that the smarter you are, the greater your capacity for stupidity - 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall', as it were.

4. Medicine is a godsend, but deities are renowned for their cruelty as well as their kindness.  I'm talking about side effects.  I'm talking about chemical dependency.  Mostly, I'm talking about quality of life.  Don't swallow a pill when another solution exists.  Pills should be used with caution, when necessary, and not because you want a quick-fix to your health problem.  Quick-fixes are notorious for a reason.

5. Treat your body with respect: it's the only one you have, and the only thing you'd be left with if you lost everything but your life.

6. If you don't want to do something, for whatever reason, but it has to be done and there's no way around it, quit whining, suck it up, and do it.

7. Always have at least one hobby: you'll socialise, you'll have something to talk about, you'll have an outlet for stress, you'll be a better, happier person overall.

8. Resist technology at your peril.  We live in an age where society is no longer just physical, but digital, and any attempt at staying away from the digital world will actually cut you off from a growing portion of society.  I'm not saying go out and buy the latest hardware and software; but I am saying get comfortable with the changes in social interaction.

9. Get creative.  Use your imagination, exercise it.  Watch movies, read books, view visual art, listen to music, sing, dance, act, paint, make things; but more importantly, engage with whatever creative outlet you're into.  Passivity is for puppets, and last I checked we're not made of wood.

10. The single most important bit of advice that I've come across in my short lifetime: keep moving forward.  Don't dwell on your failures, don't dwell on the past, don't obsess over 'what if?', and don't get stuck in the now.  Just... Keep. Moving. Forward.  


As posts go, this is perhaps one of the grouchiest I've pattered out.  I have yet to experience a year's end free of stress, running about like a beheaded chicken, free of ridiculous expenses, and so on; in short, I have plenty of reasons to be grouchy [don't we all?].  And I'm thankful for that, because it means I'm (a) alive, (b) surviving, (c) in control, (d) happy, (e) doing my damnedest to keep things that way.  I am lucky enough this year that I can tick off (a) to (e), and while it's hard, because living is hard, I'm bloody glad about the whole thing.

Here's to us, my friend.  We're alive, and we're damn well kicking.

Sincerely, 

Macs

Saturday, 26 October 2013

Running Commentary: Rehab by Amy Winehouse

I don't know about you, but whenever I watch a movie, tv show, listen to a song, or do anything that involves taking in popular culture, I hear a voice in my head with a running commentary.  This affords me no end of amusement and food for thought.

Case in point: the song Rehab by Amy Winehouse.  

If you don't already know this, Ms Winehouse lost her war against her demons, fell to temptation once again and died of alcohol poisoning on 23rd July 2011.  She was diagnosed with manic depression, had a drug habit that she amazingly managed to kick after several years, only to once again develop an addiction albeit to a different - and legal - substance [alcohol].  Although she tried to help herself, she didn't want outside help, refusing psychological treatment.  And not long after that, she drank a hell of a lot of alcohol and died.  Draw your own conclusions.

Now on to my nefarious yet humorous observations.

1.  Is there a more fitting vice for someone with a surname like Winehouse? I swear it's like Malvolio or Toby Belch in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night!

2.  She wrote a song in 2006 about refusing to go to rehab, because at the time she thought she didn't have a problem.  Looks like Alanis Morissette's Ironic needs another unironic line: It's like refusing to go to rehab, then dying of alcohol addiction. 

3.  I now present you with the lyrics to the song, undermined by my comments. [Spoiler alert: I have a very catty running commentary voice.]



They tried to make me go to rehab, I said, "No, no, no" - I think you'd agree now that that was a bad idea.

Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know, know, know - We would, especially since now it would require a feat attributed only to Jesus and other unnatural beings.

I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine - you're 24 and you still think Daddy always knows best? Oh honey.
He's tried to make me go to rehab, I won't go, go, go - Tantrum, anyone?

I'd rather be at home with Ray - Really? You can't listen to music anywhere except at home?
I ain't got seventy days - Not any more you don't.
'Cause there's nothing, there's nothing you can teach me 
That I can't learn from Mr. Hathaway - Shall we make a bet?

Didn't get a lot in class - *Gasp* No! Really?
But I know it don't come in a shot glass - There I was thinking you preferred it by the bottle.

They tried to make me go to rehab, I said, "No, no, no" 
Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know know know
I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine
He's tried to make me go to rehab, I won't go, go, go

The man said, "Why do you think you here?"
I said, "I got no idea - Har har har.  Good one Amy.  Pull the other, it's got bells on.
I'm gonna, I'm gonna lose my baby
So I always keep a bottle near" - ...to beat him into submission?

He said, "I just think you're depressed" - No shit Sherlock. Give the man a prize!
Kiss me, "Yeah baby, and the rest" 
They tried to make me go to rehab, I said, "No, no, no"
Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know, know, know

I don't ever wanna drink again - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZ7BcumfEXo
I just, ooh, I just need a friend
I'm not gonna spend ten weeks
Have everyone think I'm on the mend

And it's not just my pride - Really? It's not?
It's just 'til these tears have dried - So that's why she looked shrivelled! SHE WAS DEHYDRATED!

They tried to make me go to rehab, I said, "No, no, no"
Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know, know, know
I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine
He's tried to make me go to rehab, I won't go, go, go

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sort of thing that runs through my head when my brain refuses to shut up and enjoy what I'm listening to or watching.  I am a self-confessed commentator - you should have heard me muttering at yesterday's Master It! meeting - and the worst person to sit next to at the cinema [hey, at least I don't go into full-blown critical analysis like this one guy I know].



Until next time folks!

Sincerely,
Macs

Friday, 18 October 2013

Would you risk your life for a contraceptive?

No.  I don't care how badly you don't want to get pregnant, the answer to that question is a definite, absolute, resounding no.

What's got into Macs today?, asks my dear reader.  Let me correct you.  It actually got into me 14 days ago.  Wow, that's specific! How do you know that?, you question.  Oh, well, I'm glad you asked.  I put it there.

Let's rewind to my yearly gynae appointment in the last week of September.  It went well - I was recovering from a bladder infection so I got to miss the smear test [this is the only time I will be grateful for having urethritis!], the doctor was pleasant and helpful as always, and very sympathetic to my plight.  What? Oh, my plight, yes well.  I wanted to change my contraceptive, to something ideally non-hormonal, or else to something with a small dose of hormones, because I'm prone to depression and would like to reduce anything that could affect it.  The non-hormonal options I was interested in were shot down in seconds because I've never had kids, and even though I explained exactly how much I don't want and never have wanted any anklebiters of my own, the doc was adamant.  No to the intra-uterine non-hormonal devices.  I gave in when she used the words 'uterine tearing', because I am extremely squeamish [thinking about it, I'm surprised I'm fine with the sight of blood].

So then we went through all the possibilities remaining to us: hormone injection every 3 months [downside: if I react badly, there's no taking it out], contraceptive patch [downside: fly abroad or give my prescription to someone going to the UK to bring back a supply, because Malta is of course run by idiots who thinks preventing pregnancy is a bad thing, ergo a contraceptive that's only good for contraception is the devil], hormone implants [see downside to hormone injection], or other pill-type contraceptives [downside: I get sick too often for this to be reliable, reason 2 for changing contraception].  That left only one option: a vaginal ring that releases the same hormones the pill does right at the source of all potential trouble.

Here's the sales pitch: no remembering to take it daily, you just put it in, leave it for 3 weeks, remove it, let 7 days pass, then repeat.  Hardly any side-effects, maybe some spotting during the first month of use, but otherwise it's perfect, especially because it doesn't cause mood swings.

-_-

You know what that face means people.  You know it, I know it.  Allow me to fill you in on the hell that has been my life since 5th October 2013.

Day 1: fine and dandy.
Day 2: fine and lazy.
Day 3: worry.
Day 4: worry worry.  Stress.
Day 5: stress.  Anger.  Stress.
Day 6: stress.  Anger.  Anger.  Anger.  Stress.
Day 7: stress.  Anger.  Stress.  Try not to cry.  Misery.
Day 8: misery.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.
Day 9: misery.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.
Day 10: misery.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.
Day 11: misery.  Crying.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.
Day 12: misery.  Stress.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Crying.  Sobbing. Misery.  Stress stress stress.  Anger anger.  Crying.
Day 13: misery.  Stress.  Sobbing.  Stress.  Anxiety.  Stress.  Anxiety.  Sobbing.  Weeping.  Bawling.  Sobbing.  Misery.  Anxiety.  Crying.  Try not to kill myself by driving into something intentionally.  Sobbing bawling sobbing weeping sobbing crying sobbing bawling sobbing groaning.  Fear of leaving the house.
*something awesome and cool happens*
Day 14: Fine.  Fine.  Fine.  Anxiety.  Fine.  Anxiety.  Okay.  Anxiety.  Stress stress stress.  Okay.  Anxiety.  Okay.  Crushing disappointment.  Admit defeat.  Pretend all is well.  Try not to sob.  Calm down enough to explain what's happening.  Okay.  Bitter disappointment.  Frustration.  Frustration.  Super-frustration.  Anger.  Anger.  Crying.  Misery.  Fear of seeing other people.  Fear of communication.  Panic attack.  Anxiety.  Panic attack.  Crying.

If you bothered going through that, you'll have noticed the part where I said I tried not to kill myself.  I haven't had seriously suicidal thoughts since I was a young teenager going through the double whammy of puberty and depression.  As you can imagine, these sudden feelings of wanting to die added to my already excessive levels of panic, because if there's one thing I love it's living, and I wouldn't swap my life with someone else for anything because I really really really love my life.

Bring on resorting to the Internet.  I typed in 'nuvaring causes depression anxiety' and a plethora of forum posts show up.  You can imagine how sane I then felt: I wasn't the only woman turned overnight into a psychotic bitch whose crying exceeded her water intake all because of a little ring.  Yay me.  Then I saw the dates on the posts: 2008.  2007.  2006.  2005.  'Ah, so this bastard has been around for ages after all.  Interesting.' thought I.  Then: 2011.  2012.  2013.  'AHA!'  And I'm thinking, how does a gynae worth her salt not know how badly this thing can affect women with a history of depression?

Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to say: if you, or your lady, have had problems with your mental health, stay far away from Nuvaring.  I know I'm getting rid of my supply.

Sincerely,
Macs

Thursday, 3 October 2013

Experiments in cooking

Coming to you live from my bedroom, I have been sitting down for at least half an hour because I'm tipsy.  Been having a go at the bottle, have we? No, no, not at all.  Actually yes, just a little.

Oh hush.  It's not what you're thinking, so wipe that smug smirk off your face you cheeky muppet.

Every now and again, motivated by cravings and boredom, I get the urge to cook.  I usually end up cooking the same recipes over and over, so sooner or later I get exasperated and try to change humble recipes into something tastier.

Today's attempt: vegetable soup.  Special ingredient to change up the recipe: red wine.

Yes, that's right, I'm tipsy on vegetable soup.  Since I'm sure many of you like, if not love, wine, and food, and wine in food, I'm sharing the recipe while it's fresh in my mind.  I call it... *tum tum ta TUM!*

Vino Veggie Soup [Alas, there isn't a synonym for soup starting with v! Join me in disappointment.]

Ingredients!
2 round marrows
2 carrots
1 garlic clove
1 large celery stick
3 small potatoes
1 cup of broad beans [Maltesers, these be our beloved ful]
1 cup of red wine [I used Bardolino, much to my horror upon discovery - far too good to cook with surely!]
1 teaspoon of salt
1 chicken stock cube
2 tablespoons of tarragon
1 teaspoon of turmeric
1 cup of rice
Lots of water [I play this by ear ;)]

1. Chop les vegetables!
2. Grab ye a big pot, turn on ye olde burner on a low flame, pour ye sunflower oil [or any oil suitable for light browning of les vegebables] in ye big pot.
3. Add les vegebables to ye big pot, biggest/hardest ones first, leave 5 minutes and add the rest.  Stir every so often - obviously don't let it burn!
4. Add yer turmeric and 1 tablespoon of tarragon.  Leave the veggies a-cooking till they darken a tad.
5. Add 3 cups of water, yer chicken cube, and yer cuppa vino.  Take a nice big swig of yer bottle of vino [This may have been unwise of me].  Leave yer pot on a low flame, add yer other tablespoon of tarragon, and leave yer pot like so for about 10 minutes.
6. Pretend I'm not saying 'yer'.  I'd stop but I've an Irishman yammering in me 'ed.  Yer lucky yer only getting an overload of 'yer'.
7. Back to yer soup! It should be steaming just a little.  Now's the time to add as much water as ye reckon yer pot will hold without watering down the soup too much.  Add yer cuppa rice.
8. Ye can turn up the heat now if ye like, or ye can leave it slow cooking, use yer judgement.

As for how long you cook it, well, I like my soup veggies to have a bit of a crunch, so I don't leave them more than 20 minutes simmering away.  It's all according to taste, ye ken?

I think I'm off for a lie-down.  Oh, deary, deary me.

Sincerely, 
Slightly tipsy,
Macs

Sunday, 22 September 2013

That Time I Talked About Feminism

Feminism.  It's an ugly word isn't it? Upon hearing or reading it, a plethora of images come to mind: angry women, men-haters, bra-burning, butch lesbians, machismo-rich men, women-haters, men beating up women, men sneering at women, men 'putting women in their place', 'make me a sandwich' jokes, 'get in the kitchen' jokes, most of the jobs at the top all over the world occupied by men, women at the top being viewed as power-hungry bitches whose careers are their pride and joy [tantamount to sacrificing an infant on an altar to Satan while laughing with glee], women who are anti-family, women who are anti-children, hippies, underarm hair, leg hair, protests, heated discussions in all forms of media, women with pretty nails and pretty hair saying 'oh no, I'm not a feminist' or 'I hate feminism', women with pretty nails and pretty hair saying 'I'm a feminist', men standing up for women, women's rights,

and the list goes on and on and on.  It's endless, and most of the images aren't positive - whether they're in favour of or against feminism.

So many people don't understand why feminism is important, why it is still needed today, why it will always be needed, and why the name should be done away with and the whole concept called something else.

The truth about feminism is this: it's not about women.  It's about men.  It's about everyone.  In fact, if a completely new gender showed up, it'd be about people of that gender too.  It's about straight people, gay people, bisexual people, transgender people, asexual people.  It's about mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, colleagues, enemies.  It's about everyone.

What do you mean it's about everyone Macs?! It's feminism, read the name - F E M I N I S M.  That's got to be about female, feminine, women, girls, and all that jazz, so why are you going on about all that stuff you just rattled off in the paragraph above this? Bitch you CRAZY.

Alright, I'll bite that bit of baiting.  Feminism is usually about sticking up for females, agreed.  But tell me, what will happen if all the females in the world were wiped out? Mass extinction, that's what, because we're half of all populations [I'm not just talking human, people], a hell-ton of grieving from all the males whose beloved females of all relations were gone, economic meltdown because hey women are part of the workforce, and the destruction of life on the planet.  So clearly, sticking up for females is a good thing.

Guess what though: the same thing would happen if all males magically disappeared at one go.  And no, the survival-due-to-pregnant-females clause won't work here, because all male unborn offspring would be gone too.

BALANCE, PEOPLE! That's what I'm talking about here! Without one gender or the other, no species can survive for long.  Why would anyone want either gender to be 'better' than the other? Clearly both are necessary, so why screw the species?  This means that all parts that make up a population need to be looked after, cared for, and appreciated.  [Note: this same argument explains why racism - and racialism, don't think I don't know that loophole - is stupid]

This of course explains why feminism needs to be, at the very least, rebranded.  And this is happening, don't think it isn't.  One of the things a feminist doesn't have to be is female.

What makes you a feminist? That's an easy one.  If you believe that people should be treated with respect, regardless of gender, you're a feminist.  If you believe domestic violence is wrong, you're a feminist - because most victims are female.  If you believe men and boys who wolf whistle, catcall, holler at, cajole, and leer at women and girls walking down a street are disrespectful, you're a feminist.  If you believe women are not just meant to be mothers, you're a feminist.  If you believe women and men have the same capacity for intelligence, you're a feminist.  If you believe that when a woman or girl says no, she means no and you should back off, you're a feminist.  If you believe you would want to beat 10 kinds of hell into anyone who physically hurts your sister/daughter/mother/cousin/aunt/grandmother/friend/colleague or any female, you're a feminist.  If you believe girls and women should have the same education as boys and men, and be given the same opportunities for education, you're a feminist - because, newsflash, this doesn't happen everywhere.  If you believe it's wrong to abort a pregnancy because the gender of the foetus is female, you're a feminist.

Why didn't I say anything specifically about men up there? Because the sad truth is that still, in this day and age, women are still holding the short straw, when there shouldn't be a short straw, and worst of all when we are all fooled into thinking that gender discrimination is a thing of the past.  Women can vote, women can own property, women can go to school and university, women can work, woman can work while having a family, woman can provide for themselves... women can, same as men.  What women can't, involves a bunch of things that unfortunately aren't as obviously wrong.  Women can't wear short skirts without being taken for sluts; women can't wear tight clothing without being taken for sluts; women can't wear low-cut tops and dresses without being taken for sluts; women can't wear nailpolish without being taken for bimbos [yes, I'm using that old word] or sluts; women can't wear make-up without being taken for bimbos or sluts; women can't go around without make-up and be taken for real women [and I cannot stress enough how MORONIC this is]; women can't have very short hair without being taken for lesbians or anti-men [again, MORONIC]; women can't have long hair without being taken for airheads [-_-]; women can't have a family and work without half the people around them thinking they're selfish; women can't talk to men in social situations without giving the wrong idea to many of them; women can't tell even their loved ones, let alone police, that they've been raped because they'll be accused of lying or of instigating it [as if that absolves the rapist]; women can't reject someone's advances and have that person subsequently not try harder;

and again, a hell-ton of other things that women can't do without being thought of as inferior, not taken seriously, brushed off, taken advantage of, given a hard time, and so on.

----

So now I'll go on to some experiences of my own as a woman living in an anti-women world.

- I gained weight about 6 months ago, and haven't felt comfortable enough to wear strappy tops and short skirts.  Since I stopped wearing clothes that show more skin than arms, shoulders and legs, I no longer get reactions from men when I'm walking.  When I show less skin, I am not viewed and treated as a piece of steak they want to sink their teeth into.  I have thus found a way to become effectively invisible to men, both when walking and when out in clubs.  And let me be clear: I have a pretty face, very big boobs, a big ass, hips, I wiggle when I walk, and a friendly smile.  Tally that up, and even with the big thighs, occasional spots, and curly hair that seems to be a turn-off in my country, I'm attractive [remember this blog is about sincerity; if I were boasting I'd have said something like 'gorgeous'].  Even so, I'm ignored because I'm not showing skin.  While I enjoy the invisibility this gives me [sitting on my own in my favourite bar sipping a drink and enjoying the music without being annoyed is brilliant], I deplore the implications for the society I live in.

- Whenever I have worn anything showing even the slightest bit of cleavage, or short skirts, I have endured men's eyes following my until I was out of sight, calls of 'aw SABIHA' [equivalent to 'hey gorgeous'; female brain decipher: 'hey meat-I'd-like-to-ram-with-my-dick'; other male brain decipher: 'hey sexy, wow you're hot'], 'aw SEX', 'PSST', 'ejja ha nkellmek' ['come here let me talk to you'; female brain deciphering: 'come here let me stare, cop a feel, and proposition you for sex'; other male brain decipher: 'come here let me try to chat you up while I admire how attractive you are].

- In a group of men and women, all aged in their 20s, all supposed to be friends, one so-called friend still interpreted my talking to him as being interested in him - and I wasn't flirting in even the remotest way.

- Young women often deplore their singledom and say that 'at this rate, I'm going to end up a crazy cat lady'.  You will never hear a young man saying anything negative about ending his days single.  From this I conclude: a single woman is to be pitied for having a wasted life, a single man is to be toasted for having enjoyed life.  Many of the single women I know are happy, vivacious, busy, have several hobbies, travel, and are easily the people I know who most enjoy their lives.  The crazy cat ladies I know are not single, were crazy before they got the cats, and have cats not because of a lack of human loved ones but because humans aren't fuzzy, can't purr, and talk back when you don't want them to.

- About half the girls I went to school with are already married at 26, quite a few with children.  Half, folks, half.  Many of them were girls who wanted to be doctors, lawyers, successful psychologists, business women; yet very few of them are both married/married with kids/mothers and on the path to their dream career.

- 3 women I count among my closest friends were raped, and not by strangers; 1 woman was almost raped; 2 women I know had boyfriends who hit them, and 1 of these women has a scar on her leg where one boyfriend cut her with a knife while he threatened to kill her; almost all my straight female friends and acquaintances have had psychologically and/or verbally abusive boyfriends at some point in time; I had a psychologically abusive boyfriend; and the pathetic fact is that the number of women on this list will only grow as I get older.  Even more pathetic? This is the status quo.

- There are very few women in local politics, and most [if not all] of them are past 40, while younger and younger men are getting involved in local politics.

- In local media, when a rape case not involving relatives is reported, the comments section is full of victim-blaming. 'She must have done something', 'She was teasing them, what did she expect', 'She's lying', 'She didn't report it right away so it must have been consensual', 'What was she wearing?'.  I am ashamed to say my country is part of the European Union, and that my fellow Maltese think they are up-to-date, civilised, and come from a first world country.

- In local media, when a rape case is reported, the word 'raped' is replaced by the word 'defiled'.

- A local woman spoke at a domestic violence conference about one of her experiences with the police in Malta.  She had separated from her husband, who used to beat her horribly, and one night she was woken to shouts from said husband outside.  He was holding a shotgun, trying to break the door down, and shouted repeatedly that if he got inside he would kill her.  When she called the police, they told her she had to go down to the station to file a report, and then hung up.  And no, one of the mobile squads did not show up at any point during the night to at least check on the situation.

- I have given up on talking to my male friends about feminism, women's rights, and domestic violence.  The reaction is always a variation of 'Oh come off it, you have the right to vote don't you? You're making a fuss and hating on men'.  This leaves me speechless, flabbergasted, and disillusioned.


----

And there you have it.  The post that I've been wanting to write all summer, but avoiding at the same time.  That's just the tip of the iceberg.

Sincerely,
Macs

Monday, 9 September 2013

Alternative Ambition: Dancing

I never wanted to be anything lucrative, like a doctor, or a lawyer, or an accountant.  In fact I never even wanted to have a desk job, office job, or anything remotely requiring me to sit still for long periods of time.  My friends always amaze me because most of them have an aim in mind, a career that they chase with all their being, even going so far as to move to countries that don't speak any of their languages.  I don't think I'll ever be able to say how much I admire these people for these things.

I myself never had that kind of ambition.  The truth is that the only things I've ever had a passion strong enough to follow are the sort of things that aren't viable in the long run.  I wanted to be a ballerina, a singer, an actress, a dancer, a writer, a performer known as an all-rounder because of being great in several different things.  These are all things that take a ridiculous amount of time and effort to do anything with, and that put me off for a long time.  That and the fact that, in all honesty, I was never particularly good at any of the above, except at writing.  

I was a terrible ballerina as a child, my body kept growing and growing and growing which made controlling it rather difficult.  When I hit 12 and had my grade 5 ballet exam, I had finally stopped growing and developed my technique so well that everyone expected me to get a Distinction [ie. an A].  Instead I fell flat on my ass during an adage exercise.  No, really, I'm not using an expression there - I lost my balance and fell smack on my bottom.  I was so mortified and my nerves were so badly shaken that I couldn't do anything right afterwards throughout the exam, and ended up failing.  Everyone was shocked.  My confidence while dancing ballet never recovered, and I always felt like shit in my ballet lessons afterwards.  Add to that the fact that I hit puberty and became boobed and wide-hipped quickly, which is a humongous no-no in a ballerina [or was back then], and you have the death of my ballet dreams.

I turned to jazz dance instead, and enjoyed it tremendously.  Unlike ballet, it was actually fun.   I could so see myself pulling out all the stops in amazing routines on world-famous stages in the future! Unfortunately, once again my size and shape came under fire.  This wasn't blatantly apparent until after 2 years at the same school, when the head and my then-teacher looked at me and congratulated me in front of the whole class on my weight loss.  The only reason I lost any weight that summer was that I had been sick with glandular fever/mononucleosis/Epstein-Barr virus for 2 months, 2 weeks of which I spent being unable to eat more than a fistful of food three times a day.  It also had to be liquidised.  The weight I lost wasn't even fat, because I was by no means chubby; I lost muscle mass, because fever day and night for a month turns you into a decrepit thing with jelly-legs and jelly-arms, unable to walk more than 5 metres without collapsing into a chair.  Fun times.

I stopped dancing that same year because I couldn't afford it, which was a terrible shame because I had finally become one of the best in class.  But it was a blessing: I escaped the pressure to lose weight, be skinny, be the best, and all the other crap that comes with the most serious of dance training.

Fast forward 4 or 5 years to when my friend Hannah became obsessed with bellydance and convinced me to try it out, and you have the beginning of my ongoing love affair.  I began American Tribal Style belly dance, and loved the movements but wished there was more room for creativity, along with moves carried out with the left side of the body [strange as it may sound, ATS, Tribal Improv, and Tribal Fusion almost always work with the right side of the body, and I have no idea why].  Then I started Tribal Improv, which had more combinations to sink my teeth into.  TI is great fun and a fantastic challenge to coordination and reflexes, because it's a follow-the-leader style of dance: one person leads, deciding on what moves to use on the spot and indicating by pre-arranged signals [yips, hands flicks, head turns, and more] what comes next so that the rest of the dance troupe knows what moves to perform.  The faster the music, the quicker you have to react so that the audience doesn't realise you're not actually doing a full choreography.  And nobody notices that we do this, which adds to the fun - we're totally winging it, and it's our secret! We learned and grew together, became perfectly synchronised, put on a couple of shows and took part in the first regular burlesque show on the island.  Dancing was good to us, and life became better.

There is a 'but'.  The problem with TI is that you need a troupe, and unfortunately life got in the way of ours: our director moved country [the lovely Hannah again!], the girl who took over fell in love and got pregnant [we all joked that she'd have twins if she ever got pregnant; 9 months later she fulfilled our prophecy], another girl moved country, and when I finally took over the classes I had to give it up or risk failing the second year of my BA.  So we went our separate dancing ways, which was awful: in any form of bellydance, the people dancing together become like family - that's how it started out after all, with women dancing together while doing chores, and men dancing together while doing their thing, and everybody dancing at weddings [albeit with a lot of self-censoring].  I cannot stress enough how different this is to ballet and jazz, which are dominated by one-upping and competition, creating a tense atmosphere that stops you enjoying yourself to the full when you're dancing, because somewhere inside you're thinking 'I have to be better than the others!'.  In bellydance we don't do that.  We each revel in what we can do well, applaud each other on the things done well [you should see and hear the reactions in our classes when a bellydancer does a perfect belly roll!], and we all encourage each other when facing a baffling move.  I am proud to say that I found the sisters I never had, and to this day even though we no longer dance together and in some cases haven't seen each other in years, we support each other in all we do.

This means that when bellydancing, I associate it with all my bellydancing friends and feel love, which makes me dance with love, which in turn adds an element to the dancing that I have yet to see in other types of dance.  This love isn't just about the bond between dancers though.  It's also about loving your body and yourself.  There is no pressure to be fatless, toned, muscular, as small as possible, and all that crap, in bellydance.  Whatever way, shape, or form you have, it's great, because it's your body, your instrument, and you are dancing.  Whether you're an apple, an hourglass, a pear, a banana, your shape is perfect.  Whether you're huge, or large, or medium, or small, or tiny, your size is perfect.  A piano is no better than a flute for being bigger, a violin is no better than a harp for being smaller; they are different instruments and together create complex and beautiful music.  Nowadays in fact, I can see that I dance well, because I'm no longer busy worrying about being the thinnest I can't possibly be, or being better than the rest. [There had to be a moral to the story, didn't there.]

And now I'm finally doing one of my favourite styles of bellydance, called Tribal Fusion, a style based on flamenco and bellydance, seasoned with hip-hop and a bunch of other dance forms.  This style doesn't use improvisation, so there's a lot more room for creativity than the others I've learned, and that sets me gleefully a-glow.

So I may not be performing at the West End, and I may even have stopped performing locally at all, but I'm dancing and I'm loving every second of it.  I've always felt the most alive while dancing, putting my heart and soul into even the tiniest of movements, letting the music take over and becoming part of it, using my head to make my body do beautiful things, and I couldn't ever give it up again.  That would be like cutting off a limb.

Sincerely,
Macs

PS. Here are some links for you to see the different bellydance styles I mentioned.



Tribal Fusion:

Thursday, 5 September 2013

Things I Hate Thursday

Any of you who have blogs or online journals will 99.9% have heard of the custom 'Things I Love Thursday', a list of things that happen on the relevant Thursday of the week that the person writing the list loves.  Today's list, as I think you've guessed, is about things I hate on the Thursday I'm having today.

1. I was late for work.
2. While driving to work I saw a dog lying on a pavement looking dead, exhausted, injured, or asleep with her eyes open.  I wanted to stop and check on her but no, I was late for work.
3. Day 3 of period cramps making me uncomfortable throughout the morning whether sitting, standing, or moving in any way.
4. The eyelashes on my lower right eyelid have grown so long they're sticking together, pulling at my eyelid, and generally making me want to rip my eyelashes out.
5. Making a mistake at work and discovering it while on the phone to the business's HSBC representative.
6. Finding out emails I thought were meant to be insulting were actually from people who were being genuinely nice, so I've mistakenly felt insulted, and thought these 2 well-wishers were being snarky and mean, for 2 days.
7. Invoicing idiocy.
8. Feeling the urge for a hot cup of tea thanks to the beautiful storm we had today, and knowing that it would just make me sick because I've suddenly become intolerant to black tea.
9. Being pissed off and frustrated for no reason, and feeling angry at everything and everyone, thus affecting everything I do, despite being a reasonable, rational, logical, intelligent person.  

Anyone trying to sympathise with my bad mood will face evisceration in my imagination.

Did I mention I hate today?

Sincerely,
Macs