So recently I've had a lot of people coming up to me very interested in my 'feminist' beliefs. I'm not sure whether I've missed something monumental on the news concerning this topic or if a surge of boredom has plagued everyone I know, bad enough to start a conversation with me about feminism (bad idea, seriously), but I may aswell just try and wrap it all up here.
Obviously this issue will never be completely resolved, and I won't even come close to covering everything concerning it here, but I will try and give you a clearer idea as to why I believe what I believe.
First things first, I don't hate the male gender. How can I with superior beings such as Johnny Depp and Ian Somerhalder roaming the Earth?
Seriously, no.
Feminism has become, in society's eyes, a veil for which man-hating, non-armpit-shaving, conflict-attracting women can hide behind while secretly plotting the demise of all things penis-shaped.
I just said penis on my blog. That will never, ever happen again, promise.
While it is true that women who choose to keep their body hair can be feminists (there are no rules for/against), someone who is fundamentally against the half of the human population that doesn't have two X-chromosomes cannot.
I'm sure you've heard this a million times before (why don't you listen for a change?) but the definition of feminism is......wait for it....
The advocacy of women's rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes.
Can I get an Amen?
For some stupid reason, no matter how many times they hear "Feminism is equality." some people just don't get it. I for one am bored of being asked why feminists hate men. It's like asking someone why pacifists shoot people.
They don't. A woman who doesn't believe in equality is not a feminist but a feminist who believes in equality is still a woman. Wait, I just confused myself.
Basically, a feminist is an advocate of gender equality and in the meantime, empowerment of women. I say 'empowerment' with great care. Yes, building self-esteem and confidence in women is important, hell, it's important for humans, but that isn't to say that women are always in need of empowering. It seems that, in most magazines, our lives revolve around making ourselves look nice with makeup and posh clothes but then taking great care to know that we don't need any of that because we're beautiful anyway, and here's a cream to help with that.
So, for future reference, why don't we just concentrate on the foundations of feminism? Instead of worrying about a label and what it isn't and what it is, let's just focus on making sure both genders have equal rights, equal opportunities and an equal amount of hair products.
Monday 21 July 2014
Wednesday 16 July 2014
Mary's Homemade Houmous
Once again, I had 'writers block' this week. But seeing as I could never consider myself a writer, and block suggests impermanence and not a constant state of writing ability, maybe that term doesn't apply.
This time (you may be surprised to know that I actually have a life) it wasn't because I had nothing to write about but because I simply felt that I didn't want to impose my lack-luster attempts at humour and mildly alarming ramblings on you poor people.
Once again, I am suggesting there are people who read this. Relatives and friends reading it out of pity don't count.
I don't think anyone (minus bloggers) understands how hard it is to write these posts without:
a) Sending people to sleep.
b) Causing offence in some way.
c) Going completely off topic.
But because you don't want your blog to just be another tried-and-failed hobby, and because most days you get asked by insensitive people when you're writing the next post (I love you guys really), and because despite your complete incompetence you actually enjoy writing, you force yourself to sit in front of a computer and write something. But this something must not:
a) Send people to sleep.
b) Cause offence in any way.
c) Go completely off topic.
...whilst still being mildly amusing and readable.
It's a lot of pressure.
Here's how I cope. Repeat stuff. Thesaurus.com. List stuff. Repeat stuff. Exaggerate stuff. Italicize random words. Repeat stuff.
Just reading over that, it seems like a slightly simplified model of how I conduct my life. Maybe I should start a support group.
I should probably mention my birthday seeing as, well, it was my birthday. That sounds like I don't want to talk about it (I do, I really do. I could probably spend a few hours describing everything in detail.) but I hate those blogs where it's just some person documenting the mundane happenings of their slightly boring life. I know there are different types of blogs. There are humour blogs, campaign blogs, self-help blogs (I think mine definitely falls in this category), religious blogs, celebrity-shrine-like blogs, cooking blogs, gardening blogs etc. And some people somewhere like to read about how Mary makes her own houmous and Jason trims his own hedges (innuendo not implied) but I am not one of those people. Nor do I care to become the author of one of those blogs. Rant over.
So anywayyy, my birthday was good. I got so many wonderful presents (minus the willy straws) and loved spending two consecutive days with my best friends. My party was eventful but memorable (as The Mothership put it) and being 16 feels amazing. So amazing that there's no difference.
I hope you all got more sleep than I did last week and good luck with the Repeating Stuff.
This time (you may be surprised to know that I actually have a life) it wasn't because I had nothing to write about but because I simply felt that I didn't want to impose my lack-luster attempts at humour and mildly alarming ramblings on you poor people.
Once again, I am suggesting there are people who read this. Relatives and friends reading it out of pity don't count.
I don't think anyone (minus bloggers) understands how hard it is to write these posts without:
a) Sending people to sleep.
b) Causing offence in some way.
c) Going completely off topic.
But because you don't want your blog to just be another tried-and-failed hobby, and because most days you get asked by insensitive people when you're writing the next post (I love you guys really), and because despite your complete incompetence you actually enjoy writing, you force yourself to sit in front of a computer and write something. But this something must not:
a) Send people to sleep.
b) Cause offence in any way.
c) Go completely off topic.
...whilst still being mildly amusing and readable.
It's a lot of pressure.
Here's how I cope. Repeat stuff. Thesaurus.com. List stuff. Repeat stuff. Exaggerate stuff. Italicize random words. Repeat stuff.
Just reading over that, it seems like a slightly simplified model of how I conduct my life. Maybe I should start a support group.
I should probably mention my birthday seeing as, well, it was my birthday. That sounds like I don't want to talk about it (I do, I really do. I could probably spend a few hours describing everything in detail.) but I hate those blogs where it's just some person documenting the mundane happenings of their slightly boring life. I know there are different types of blogs. There are humour blogs, campaign blogs, self-help blogs (I think mine definitely falls in this category), religious blogs, celebrity-shrine-like blogs, cooking blogs, gardening blogs etc. And some people somewhere like to read about how Mary makes her own houmous and Jason trims his own hedges (innuendo not implied) but I am not one of those people. Nor do I care to become the author of one of those blogs. Rant over.
So anywayyy, my birthday was good. I got so many wonderful presents (minus the willy straws) and loved spending two consecutive days with my best friends. My party was eventful but memorable (as The Mothership put it) and being 16 feels amazing. So amazing that there's no difference.
I hope you all got more sleep than I did last week and good luck with the Repeating Stuff.
Monday 7 July 2014
Milk + One Sugar
I'm back! Miss me? 'Course you did.
Saying that, I can guarantee 98.3% of you didn't notice I went anywhere; way to make a girl feel loved. In case you aren't completely clued up about my life and tea preferences, I went to Sicily for two weeks and I'm a milk + one sugar kinda gal.
Now I'm satisfied that you are suitably confused, a mind-set that must be maintained when reading my blog, I'll get back to making you jealous over my barely-there-tan and new Italian linguistic prowess.
Before I went on holiday, I studied the art of tanning. That may sound odd and slightly obsessive but really it was just me flicking through various articles such as 'Putting Hours Into Getting An Effortless Tan' and making mental notes. I realise I still sound odd and slightly obsessive but for a white, british female, tanning is hard. Like next-to-impossible-hard. I know this isn't true for every girl in this skin-type category but I like to not feel alone in this dilemma.
These articles basically suggest that lying on an uncomfortable plastic sunbed for hours on end is only 25% of the whole debacle. There's also shaving, exfoliating, moisturising, wearing the right colours and avoiding sunburn. Like I said, it's hard.
The Mothership is a member of that superhuman cult who can literally sprint through a ray of sunshine and instantly have an all-over, no streaks, Victoria Beckham-esque, bronze glow. I religiously sunbathed for about six days in a row in Sicily and all I ended up with was faintly browner knees and a higher risk of skin cancer.
I'm not joking. How is it that TM can look like she bathed in fake-tan after an hour of sun exposure and I get tanned knees after six days? I know there's some scientific explanation, something to do with melanin in your skin cells, but it's just not fair.
(sorry about this annoying link, just ignore it)
So now onto my slight grasp of the Italian language. By 'grasp', I mean I can say Ciao, Grazie and Spaghetti. Impressive, I know. At least I wasn't like TM, who resorted to speaking in English with an embarrassing Italian accent. Thankfully, most Italians speak at least basic English so, like typical English tourists, we got by without having to speak much Italian.
I hope that one day I will go on a holiday and actually have a firmer resolve to speak the locals' language but will that ever happen? Probably not. Even if I haven't inherited the Perfect Tan Gene, I definitely have the same reluctance to attempt to speak a foreign language with a person of that nationality. I worry I will just offend them with my painful accent and lack of tongue-rolling skills.
Ah well, perhaps one day I will find myself speaking fluent Italian with the locals, marveling over my perfect tan, and maybe even drinking tea without the sugar.
A girl can dream.
Saying that, I can guarantee 98.3% of you didn't notice I went anywhere; way to make a girl feel loved. In case you aren't completely clued up about my life and tea preferences, I went to Sicily for two weeks and I'm a milk + one sugar kinda gal.
Now I'm satisfied that you are suitably confused, a mind-set that must be maintained when reading my blog, I'll get back to making you jealous over my barely-there-tan and new Italian linguistic prowess.
Before I went on holiday, I studied the art of tanning. That may sound odd and slightly obsessive but really it was just me flicking through various articles such as 'Putting Hours Into Getting An Effortless Tan' and making mental notes. I realise I still sound odd and slightly obsessive but for a white, british female, tanning is hard. Like next-to-impossible-hard. I know this isn't true for every girl in this skin-type category but I like to not feel alone in this dilemma.
These articles basically suggest that lying on an uncomfortable plastic sunbed for hours on end is only 25% of the whole debacle. There's also shaving, exfoliating, moisturising, wearing the right colours and avoiding sunburn. Like I said, it's hard.
The Mothership is a member of that superhuman cult who can literally sprint through a ray of sunshine and instantly have an all-over, no streaks, Victoria Beckham-esque, bronze glow. I religiously sunbathed for about six days in a row in Sicily and all I ended up with was faintly browner knees and a higher risk of skin cancer.
I'm not joking. How is it that TM can look like she bathed in fake-tan after an hour of sun exposure and I get tanned knees after six days? I know there's some scientific explanation, something to do with melanin in your skin cells, but it's just not fair.
(sorry about this annoying link, just ignore it)
So now onto my slight grasp of the Italian language. By 'grasp', I mean I can say Ciao, Grazie and Spaghetti. Impressive, I know. At least I wasn't like TM, who resorted to speaking in English with an embarrassing Italian accent. Thankfully, most Italians speak at least basic English so, like typical English tourists, we got by without having to speak much Italian.
I hope that one day I will go on a holiday and actually have a firmer resolve to speak the locals' language but will that ever happen? Probably not. Even if I haven't inherited the Perfect Tan Gene, I definitely have the same reluctance to attempt to speak a foreign language with a person of that nationality. I worry I will just offend them with my painful accent and lack of tongue-rolling skills.
Ah well, perhaps one day I will find myself speaking fluent Italian with the locals, marveling over my perfect tan, and maybe even drinking tea without the sugar.
A girl can dream.
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