Apr 17

My Man Ken

I was recently asked by a journalist to write 100 words about what would or wouldn’t be attractive about Ken on a date.  I don’t know if she’ll use it so I thought I’d put it up here seeing as I wrote it.  Here’s my best shot.

I think the trait I’d find most appealing about Ken on a date is his seemingly indefatigable optimism. That smile never fades and those eyes never cease to sparkle. There’s a sense that, no matter what (Waiter spill gravy down your white dress? Set fire to the napkin with the romantic candles?), he’ll be there with a steady (actually, rigid) hand and smile to make your knees knock. It’s possible it’s a Prozac haze, but when someone looks that enthralled by every word you say and is, clearly, delighted to be there, it’s better just to assume he thinks you’re super.

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Mar 30

are transsexuals female?

Bitching on the beauty pageant circuit is hardly news, but in attempting to make it a little more political, Jenna Talackova has managed to gain some media coverage as the first transsexual to enter (that anyone knows of) and be disqualified from the Miss Universe Canada competition for failing to meet the main requirement of the pageant – that she be female. The other requirements for entry into the Donald Trump-owned extravaganza are that the women never have been pregnant or married. If he could get away with it, I think Donald would be demanding vestal virgins to worship at the temple of Trump, but he has to make do with the possibility that the entrants might be virgins.

The response has, unerringly, been in support of Jenna – it’s a violation of her rights as a woman, transgender and transsexual men should be able to do anything a woman can etc – and has been dominated by male journalists drooling over her long legs, huge breasts, and enormous hair. You might think, it’s just a beauty pageant, who gives a shit, and, to a point, I’d agree with you. But I happen to think that beauty pageants represent a retrogressive step in the quest for sexual equality, pitting women against one another, from birth in the case of baby pageants, based on little more than their ability to say “world peace”, wave, slink, pout and smile. There are more rewarding abilities which the many millions of pounds could be spent fostering. Beauty pageants are social phenomena that reach into the far corners of this solar system and the next if the Miss Universe title is to be taken literally and are, therefore, culturally significant. Girls (and some boys) dream of entering them, journalists write about them, a fortune is made promoting them, no matter how fleeting their fame, people follow the stories of the winners, and I’m here writing a blog post about them. So, as a starting point for debate on the issue of what makes gender, they’re as relevant a platform for cultural comment as any other.

I don’t think Jenna should have been disqualified – she deserves some reward for all that she’s put her body through and, if the Miss Universe Canada is what she’s after, then give it to her and good on her. I do, however, object to her automatic classification as female.  Jenna isn’t a woman and all the huge hair, bee-stung lips, breast implants and man-made vagina aren’t going to make her one. Just because she no longer has a penis, doesn’t, by default, make her female. The female gender isn’t a depository for anyone who didn’t want to be a boy. (I realise I’m using the female personal pronoun, but attempts to create one that is neither male nor female don’t seem to have got much beyond “herstory” and “womin”, which is a whole other issue.)

A few years ago, the short-lived Observer Woman magazine (there was never a Man magazine – seems the editors thought the sports section was it) ran an issue on “radical women”. Included in it was an interview with Candis Payne, the first transsexual to star in a primetime soap (Billy Baldwin’s love interest in Dirty Sexy Money). I complained to the editor, saying that, were the issue about radical men, I would applaud Candis’s inclusion as a man who had shown tremendous courage in his determination to change genders, but as a woman, she seemed to have done little more than land a role as a transsexual. The acting profession may be brutal, but surely that isn’t so significant an achievement as to be considered radical.

The roid-fest that is Mr Universe is running sometime later this year. I’d be curious to know the reception a female-to-male transsexual would receive if he attempted to enter. That said, the appearance of the contestants in the Miss Figure category already defies gender stereotypes so, maybe, there isn’t the same desire to flout them by hoping to pass as a man. My muscle bulk is concentrated in my gluteus maximus so there’s not much chance of me getting through the first round, but if she’s still in love with her new physique, Jodie Marsh might make it.

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Mar 15

skinnyfans

I want to be all egalitarian about this, I really do, but I can’t help finding it pitiful. Disturbing, too, having malnutrition eroticised by these poses. Or, perhaps, I’ve got it all wrong and the women’s bodies are as sexy as any other and the freedom to be emaciated as much as any other right to decide what we do with our bodies.   http://skinnyfans.com/

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Mar 01

Squirting

I’m a cosmo sexpert!

 

 

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Feb 29

Anne Sexton reading For My Lover Returning To His Wife

Magnificent and tragic all at once.

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Feb 28

Unlikely Icons. Number One: The Brussel Sprout

Few things so neatly divide a people as the Brussels Sprout.  The love camp tends to base its preference on taste and a positive association with festive occasions.  The loathe camp, on the other hand, is peopled by victims of childhood neglect, abuse, and the British education system who were forced to eat every last one of their sprouts.  Why the perpetrators of their abuse chose Brussels sprouts I don't know, but the little things have been used to torment children since the days of Ancient Rome.  Perhaps, in anticipation of the emotional baggage to which they were to contribute, they were made a member of the cruciferous ("cross-bearing") vegetable family.  Tantalizingly close to a combination of "crucify" and "lucifer", it wasn't a foreboding of inedible school dinners to come - it refers, only, to the cross-like formation of the leaves.

There you go - utterly useless information about something pretty insignificant that, none the less, has the power to divide a dinnertable.

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Feb 12

Get your rocks off on a Sunday morning

Dislocated my shoulder this morning which is always super fun.  I’ve done it before and have been to hospital so many times, even at the end of a 48-hour shift, the doctors recognise me.  Most of them are the baby doctors, delighted with their stethoscopes and still green enough to think that primum non nocere actually has a practical application.  I try to be helpful and tell the sweet nurse a joke in the hope it’ll make him stop looking quite so nervous as he flits about and dashes off, reappearing with my old friend, the canister of entenox.  He tells me I’m doing wonderfully and I’m very lucky because there’s a registrar on duty who’ll be in to mend my shoulder in just a moment.  She appears, looking about fifteen like they all do and starts moving my arm about.  I close my eyes and try to think of being in bed with this man I don’t know very well but who I’ve taken a liking to and looks like he’d be fun, but I just can’t get the image to appear.  Years ago I had some hypnotherapy and, though I never found it much use, something must have worked because whenever I’m on entenox, all I see are green grass and fluffy clouds.  I try saying sex sex sex sex sex to myself (silently, I think) in the hope it’ll make the the grass and sky bugger off, but it won’t so daisy-flecked meadows and no man it is.  The nurse says something about what sounds like “the kent technique” but turns into “cunt technique” in my head.  Off my face on entenox, I think this is absolutely hilarious, of course, and start thinking about how it could work.  Having a man’s head between my thighs would be a good distraction.  It wouldn’t make the pain go away, but it would give me something to think about or something to make me think less, anyway.  Think I might have to have private health insurance to get that sort of care, though, so I decide to solve complex philosophical conundrums instead.  I once went to a philosophy lecture at which some people were debating the difference between brain and mind and wondering round and round if there was one.  The lecturer said the debate was 20 centuries old so you’d think they’d have come to some sort of conclusion by now, but apparently not.  I thought it was pretty bloody obvious there was a difference, but I didn’t know any of the key phrases so just let them ramble on and did my best to look fascinated.  Anyway, I’ve solved the debate for them.  My theory is that, if the mind and brain weren’t separate entities, my brain couldn’t send messages to my nerve endings alerting them to the pain I couldn’t consciously feel and my mind couldn’t have me tripping along through a meadow solving 2000-year-old problems and working out the precise logistics of cunnilingus-based pain relief.  So stick that in your pipe, Plato, and pass it along to Descartes.  I realise it might not be water-tight, but there’s a certain clarity that comes with befuddling drugs.  My shoulder’s fine now.  Next time it’s out, I think I might give the God debate a shot.  That seems quite popular and it’s gone on long enough.

 

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Jan 21

Birthing Aliens: The Movie

A take on life pre- during and post-hysterectomy.  A funny take.  I think it’s funny, anyway – doing it kept me entertained when I wasn’t allowed to do anything beyond lazing about in enormous knickers and, occasionally, a lovely dress.  (Turn your speakers on for the funky tune.)

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Dec 01

Interesting Finds

If you’re stuck for things to look up, here are some things I’ve found I think are worth taking a look at.

Vintage Adverts.  I think the sanitized tapeworms are my favourite.  No doubt someone will be looking at our adverts someday and marvelling at how backward we must have been.

Because a flat tyre is as much an inconvenience as rape.

If My Name Was.  Beautiful, bespoke dresses by Edinburgh-based designer, Laura Davidson.  Be someone else for the night.

I wonder what sort of life they’ll find on Mars.

Slut Walk.  I wouldn’t have thought that “no means no” was so difficult to remember, but apparently, every generation needs to be reminded.  I don’t know that using the word “slut” aids its credibility, though.  It’s not a word that’s ever had connotations of empowerment.  Quite the opposite – it’s only ever been used against women and the attitude behind its use is an integral part of the ‘blame the victim’ treatment of those who have been raped.  I don’t think it’s a word there’s any point trying to reinvent when there are so many positive ones we could use to describe ourselves.

Yarnbombing.  Knit one purl one: an innovation in peaceful protest and urban art.

Vivienne Westwood’s Get A Life and her thoughts on the environment, politics, and culture.

Stirrups and Stories Powerful, candid, funny, splendid, and much needed.

Narrative Nipple. Looking for poems, stories, pictures, rants about people’s experience of breast cancer.

The Zimmers. Fabulous old folks with a collective age of almost 3700 and still singing and dancing their troubles away.

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Nov 29

Stalked by a psychic

I’m being stalked by an online psychic.  She started off quite nice when I clicked on the ad and said yes I’d like a free online psychic reading.  Her site said she had to spend the night tuning into me then would send me the reading the next morning.  When it arrived, it rambled on and on promising romance just around the corner, irresistible offers, a period of great creativity, exciting possibilities, an unexpected and wonderful gift, recognition for great professional achievement – everything short of a lottery win, basically, and all the things a girl wants to hear.  I got a bit bored about half way through because she hadn’t exactly gone out of her way to come up with anything super exciting or useful and she’d spelt my name wrong so she can’t have been that tuned in.  I didn’t take her up on the offer of another psychic reading at 25% off or 30% if I shared the offer with my friends.  She wrote again a few times over the next couple of weeks with increasingly urgent subject lines about just how fabulous my life could be if I followed her guidance, signing each one “Your devoted friend, Tara”.  “Great good fortune is at your doorstep,” she said, then “An urgent and personal message”, “Read this quickly, there is no time to waist” [sic], and “here at last is the solution to all your problems”.  Then she seemed to think a different tack was needed if I was to stop my foolish, misguided ways and look, instead, to her for guidance.  She told me “Something is happening”, “72 hours from now it will be too late” and “I have to help you make the right choice”.  She felt “an urgent need to prepare your astral chart” after “a strange premonitory vision” and discovered that someone was out to harm me.  She said she could tell me everything – how to “neutralize the harmful actions of someone close to you who wants to ruin your hopes and dreams, and turn your entire financial situation around and attain the balance and harmony of a happy life”.  Yesterday’s instalment was “Do you want to face these terrible moments alone?” followed by a plea in block caps underlined four times to sign up for my “sensorial vision study and you ritual of ultimate protection, which we’ll have to perform as soon as possible”.  All quite tantalizing stuff. I was going to block her, but I’m quite intrigued to know which armageddon is likely to befall me next.

She hasn’t been to my house, that I know of, but she does seem to think she’s seen into my soul which probably means more to her.  I hope so – she’d be the most annoying person to have around.  Sort of block caps with a falsetto delivery.

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Nov 02

Seeing a man about a dog.

Sigh.   Some of my friends love seeing a man with a baby, but really, it’s baggage in a buggy.  Baggage that throws up on you and tends to come with a mum attached who’s unlikely to be thrilled you’re trying to steal her man and her baby.  How attractive.  A man being nice to a dog, on the other hand, is verging on divine.  Out of pure self-indulgence (as if writing a blog is anything other than that, come to think of it) so I can see it whenever I want, here’s Josh Lucas being nice to the dog in Red Dog.  He’s on the set so he’s not even being paid to be nice.  Sigh again.

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Oct 29

Birthing Aliens

The fibroid in my uterus is so large, the doctor says, it feels like I’m pregnant.  I tell him I’ll be seriously pissed off if I am and the only way it could have happened is through some sort of alien abduction where they sedated and impregnated me.  If something green and vaguely humanoid (or not) bursts out of me like it did to Sigourney Weaver in Alien, spawning a frenzy of feminist critiquing, I’ll go with the abduction theory.  Another possibility that the doctor doesn’t suggest but that I’ve heard of, is that there are bits of a twin I sort of ate in the womb.  A friend of mine had the cells that make up teeth and hair attached to one of her ovaries.  Barring either possibilities, fibroids it is.  The doctor says I’ll need a scan to find out how far the fibroids have spread so we can decide on the best way to treat them.  He says there are treatments to shrink and remove them without affecting my fertility or damaging my uterus, but a hysterectomy is the most common procedure.  Taking out my womb.  Right.  I tell my mum about it who, unhelpfully, says that “the alternative lot” would say that, because I spent time thinking about having my tubes tied a few months ago, my body has responded by making the decision for me by filling my uterus with benign growths.  What a load of fucking shite, is all I can think to say and I take out my irritation at the idea that people get the conditions they deserve on the clips I hammer into the wall to hold my telephone extension cable in place.

Georgia, Minnie and Olivia come to see what I’m up to and give the cable a nibble in case it’s one of the delicacies they’re convinced they’re going to find on the floor one day.  Olivia’s booked in to get spayed the week after next and, as she boings about, over-enthusiastically nibbling bits of me, I wonder if she’ll know something’s changed.  Will she feel suddenly incomplete – somehow less of a doe because she has a gap where her womb used to be?  Does the inability to have baby rats make her less female or won’t she care because it’s just a process and, though an instinct to care for her young would kick in when they were born, there’s no emotion attached to any of it – it doesn’t come with the baggage humans attribute to it?

Being female is something I know quite a lot about.  I am one, for a start.  I’ve spent a great deal of time talking, thinking and writing about being a woman – who we are, why we behave the way we do, what we want, what we don’t want, what we’re told we should want no matter how damaging it may be, how we are versus how we’re supposed to be.  I’ve been calling myself a feminist since my teens.  I sign petitions against the stoning of rape victims accused of adultery.  I lobby MPs for women’s right to have equal representation in the workplace and education; access to free, clean and legal family planning, abortion and aftercare; to be free to dress and behave however they want without fear of assault and, should they be attacked, to be able to report it and seek prosecution without being subjected to attempts to discredit them at every turn and to the sort of interrogation usually reserved for criminals.  I campaign against the sexualisation of girls from an increasingly early age which has led to the loss of childhood to porn; the sexism and mysogyny gone viral in our media; and the societal attitudes that allow pictures of women breastfeeding to be banned but groups who make jokes about rape defended as examples of free speech.  I’ve read the books and written one of my own, looking at the ways indecent exposure affects and reflects our views of male and female sexuality.  I’ve got a “This Is What A Feminist Looks Like” t-shirt, dammit.

I know all this stuff – I’ve got a head full of it.  What I didn’t know was what my uterus had to do with any of it.  I campaign for women’s right to choose what they do with theirs, but until I found a fuck-off fibroid in it, I’d never really thought about my own.  I’ve known I don’t want kids for the past few years – I don’t like most of them and the unrelenting labour of caring for them makes me want to have a nap just thinking about it.  I used to think, if I got pregnant, I’d have an abortion, but then my nephew was born and the smile he gave his mum when she said “and it was you in my tummy!” made me realise I couldn’t go through with it.  Thinking that, if I wouldn’t get an abortion, it was better not to get pregnant in the first place, I went to the doctor to ask about getting my tubes tied. I smiled while he drew a diagram of my reproductory system and explained which bit was which and where the clips would go.  He told me it was irreversible (it isn’t, though reversal success rates aren’t brilliant) and there was a great difference between not wanting to have kids and not being able to.  Therefore, I needed to consider it carefully.

Now, unless a less invasive procedure works, I’ll be having my womb taken out.  No fibroids, no periods, no babies.  It’ll be super!  I think, but I’m not always sure.  I know we’re not just our reproductive systems.  I know it’s just anatomy.  I know my womb isn’t some dumping ground where fibroma flourish to punish me for all my no-children-thank-you thoughts.  I know a womb maketh not a woman.  I know there’s a helluva lot more goes into being a woman than the ability to reproduce, but there’s this thing like a tiny stick figure in my head that says, minus a uterus, I’ll somehow be less of a woman.  It’s a pointless and nonsensical thought, but it’s there.  Like there’s no pleasing me – I might not want to have kids but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be able to have them even though I don’t want them.  I want to tell the stick figure to shut up.  It’s my womb and I’ll have it taken out if I want to!  My friends make me laugh, telling me it won’t make the slightest difference, I’ll always be “all woman”, and asking if I’ll still be able to orgasm – “First things first honey!”  Yes, lots of orgasms and no babies or periods, I say.  Of course, this might all be academic.  I’ve read about the other treatments so often I’ve started dreaming of a powerpoint presentation on them given by my doctor (in stilettos for some reason) so it’s not like I don’t know there are other ways to go.  Maybe the £21.99 investment in a mooncup won’t be a waste of money (it’s not like I can give it to the charity shop), maybe I’ll still get periods, maybe that stick figure will go away till it finds something else to make me wonder about, maybe I’ll have all those orgasms and no kids or periods.  So many maybes.  There’s one thing of which I’m certain, though – if there are any aliens, teeth or hair in there, I don’t want to know.

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Oct 19

What women’s hearts desire

Whether we know it or not, this is what women’s hearts desire.  Drawn by D.W. Kellogg, sometime around 1833-42, he attributed it to “A Lady” and warned of the dangers to those who travelled in the land of a woman’s heart.  I think “Tenting Ground of Uncertainty”, “City of Moi-Meme”, “River of Drain the Purse” and the mole traps in the “Province of Deception” are my favourites.

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Oct 17

Writing to Jack

at 15, plagiarising poems in the park

Sorting through a pile of childhood stuff my mum brought round the other day I found a fan letter I’d written to Jack Nicholson when I must have been about 14.  It was very earnest with a Shakespeare quote because I’d read in an interview that Meryl Streep had sent him one and he’d loved it.  She also had an actual friendship with him rather than an imaginary nothing, but that didn’t seem to matter to me.  I don’t know what hers said, but mine went “I would be that I am had all the maidens in the firmament twinkled on my bastardising”.  I explained the quote carefully because I didn’t want him to think that “bastardising” was a reference to him never having met his dad – I just meant that he did his own thing regardless of what “all the maidens” might want him to.  Something along those lines anyway.  I never posted it, though, so I’ll never know what he might have thought of the letter I wrote and re-wrote endlessly in my head.  I don’t remember telling anyone about my Jack worship.  I just scoured the Radio Times, Smash Hits and Empire Magazine for pictures and taped an interview from Radio One I listened to so many times the tape recorder overheated and melted it.  Apparently quite liberal with my affections, I cheated on him with other crushes – a bedroom wall-to-wall with Mel Gibson, a sideways glance at a couple of my brother’s friends, an hilarious history teacher, and a feeling that somewhere out there was something brilliant that would come along and we’d have this life together that I could almost imagine but not quite.  (I’m still waiting.  The imagined life has gone through many incarnations, but if I could remember what I wanted then, I’d probably find I’ve never strayed much from the teenage longings I couldn’t quite articulate.)  I had a friend who wanted to have her English teacher’s babies and another so obsessed with Keanu Reeves she actually thought he’d marry her and cried whenever she saw pictures of him with a girlfriend.  The teacher was dull as dishwater and Keanu, having peaked with Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, was already pretty past it.

There were a couple of girl crushes, too.  I was still hazy about what being a lesbian actually meant so I don’t think it occurred to me that there might be anything sexual about the girls – they just had a certain something.  I remember being terrified when one came into the restaurant where I was waitressing and I had to take her order.  She turned her lovely face towards me and this horrid tight-lipped nasal squawk came out.  It ruined the whole thing and I’m not sure I could pick her out of a line-up now.

Jack, on the other hand, still has whatever that certain something is and I read recently that he’d like to have one great love before he dies.  I don’t pore over pictures of him like I used to and there’s the occasional bit of reality in my love life (its nonexistence or a man driving me so bloody crazy I wonder if anything in the whole world is worth it), but I wouldn’t turn him down.  I’m still touched whenever journalists refer to his vulnerability in interviews.  Sad, I know, but I don’t care.  I’ve heard it said that we never get over our first love (mine was a beautiful cat who I wouldn’t get neutered so he went off to gallivant about with the lady cats and never came back), but I think crushes last longer.  It’s probably something to do with the total absence of reality.  Whatever it is, they’re marvellous.

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Oct 05

Wear your hair just for him and other ridiculous relationship rules.

“Men don’t pursue women who are pursuing them.”  These words of wisdom are from Christian Carter, dating guru, and author of How To Catch Him and Keep Him (a title that contradicts all his advice, but that he presumably thinks is what women want to hear).  He was so tickled with his edgy take on the “don’t call him he’ll call you” rule of relationships he had to say it twice to a roomful of eager women sat with notebooks and pens poised to take down every one of his “dating secrets from a male mind”, most of which appear based on the assumption that it’s all your fault if you haven’t found The One. You’re just not doing it right with the result that any man you approach is traumatised on a daily basis by such things as asking him how his day went, talking about anything even remotely related to emotions, or failing to read his mind.  When you first see him you’re not allowed to engage him in conversation unless it’s with a coquettish “is this seat taken” followed by an unneeded trip to the loo designed to intrigue though god knows how, or a fake question that makes you sound like an idiot and him feel superior.  If you do actually get to talk to him, in between loo-breaks and questions you already know or don’t need the answers to, conversation has to be kept frothy and frivalous and you must never ever suggest you want to see him again.  Such behaviour constitues pursuit and that “violates some secret natural law in the world – a psychological, social imperative for us humans and it’s completely unconscious”, says Christian.  Indeed.  It’s so unconscious, givers of relationship advice have to keep reminding us just how important it is.

“If you have sex with him on the first date, he won’t respect you.”  This piece of advice harks back to a more chivalrous (and, possibly, completely made-up) time when the concept of women initiating sex was as revolutionary an idea as the earth being round.  It’s based on the assumption that men want to have sex all the time and women will only have it if they’re cajoled, forced, drunk or loose enough to give in to a man’s demand for it.  It’s part of the virgin-whore cliche that I’ve never entirely understood, but I think means we’re either regarded as a prude or a slut.  Why anyone would give a shit about being called either, I don’t know.  What does concern me slightly is the assumption that neither women nor men have any autonomy over their sex lives – when there are innumberable, and more serious, ways in which to gain or lose someone’s respect, having sex before picking out wedding china seems pretty insignificant.

“Show him that you care just for him/Do the things he likes to do/Wear your hair just for him.”  This, from Dusty Springfield, possibly the most accommodating, forgiving woman the world has ever heard, is how to get your man: total reinvention of yourself as his ideal woman.  I’m not sure what sort of humanoid creature you’d end up being if you replaced your personality with everything he wanted in a woman.  I imagine it would be a pretty boring and how far would you take it?  You’ve already ditched your friends, taken up an interest in paint balling, and got a new ‘do.  What more does he want?

 

 

“Let him take the lead.”  So says The Rules, a book I think should be banned and every copy burnt.  Apparently, men like to feel in charge and that they’re the ones running the show.  If you follow The Rules’ way of doing things (please don’t), you’ll spend your time making him think he’s in charge while quietly undermining his authority in ways he might not notice at the time but will provide him with ample grounds when you end up in a divorce court because the woman he married turned out to be a person and not the android she pretended to be till she’d got him up the aisle.  The Rules claims to have many success stories from women who’ve followed it and got that man.  They don’t have any little-while-down-the-road followups, though, so the world will never know quite how things turned out when she stopped pretending to be too busy to talk for more than three and a half minutes on the phone and he stopped pretending to find her amateur theatrics irresistible.

“Play the damsel in distress to get what you want.”  I don’t know where this bit of advice comes from, but it won’t go away.  Whining, pouting, baby talk, fake crying and generally acting like a nitwit to get a man to do what you want never seem to go out of fashion.  I don’t really know who benefits from such antics.  In the time spent warbling “pwetty pwease with sugar on top”, she could have learnt how to change the lightbulb, fix the wheel bearings, unblocked the shower drain and, quite possibly, run for Parliament.  Men, surely, don’t feel so insecure they need to be reassured constantly of their ability to carry out the most basic diy by a woman with the vocabulary of a preverbal infant who then oohs, aahs and claps her hands in delight at her man’s competency with a picture hook, nail and hammer.  Or maybe they do.

 

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