Wednesday, August 27, 2008

manic panic
Years ago "manic panic" meant violently red hair or, on one memorable morning, waking up with a blue pillow and a blue-faced young man as well as blue hair. Now, sadly, it means full-on, for real, waking-up-with-a-pounding-heart manic panic. Things I am currently manically panicking about include, but are no way limited to, the pupster's failed blood test (requiring a new test to be carried out on Friday the results of which will take a week to come back from DEFRA and he goes to pre-flight kennels that day), my lack of visa, Sprout's lack of Australian passport, money and our lack of, time and our lack of... the list goes on and on.
Why oh why did this seem like a good idea and why oh why did I refuse to start preparing when TA was interviewing for fear it would jinx his chances? I wish someone sensible had told me the correct way to prioritise the to-do list - how was I to know that dog travel was harder to organise than human travel, which is itself much harder to organise than renting out The Sett. I did it all backwards, alas.

Saturday, August 09, 2008

who hasn't?
So, I'm about a million miles behind the bleeding-edge of popular culture; I'm at the suppurating flank, if you will. Anyway, please forgive my tardiness on this topic, but I have to get it off my chest. The oh-so-catchy tune from the pop moppet Katy Perry, “I Kissed a Girl”, it’s doing my head in.
The plot of the song is she got a bit drunk and went for a bit of sexual tourism by snogging a pretty lassie and - shock, horror - liked it. She’s not a lezzie though, hell to the no: her main concern is that her boyfriend doesn’t mind. Where to start? Objectification is still objectification when women do it to each other; girl-on-girl is not for the gratification of the lads (though, yes, I know girls do snog each other to get lads’ attention)... I wonder what the other woman (sorry, girl) thought of being kissed as a bit of experimentation - it’s silly fiction, but the narrative has obviously rubbed a raw spot in my imagination and now it’s itchy and sore and I keep thinking about it, mentally scratching before it has a chance to heal over.
Oh god, it makes me want to come over all radical dyke - shave my head, get some tatts, bulk up and run out of my soccer mom life just to support the sisters. That can’t be a healthy reaction to a pop song I can’t help humming along to. And, really, what am I going to teach my son? What am I going to tell him? The whole “if someone gives you a present you don’t complain about the wrapping paper” line is all well and good, but there would be a certain amount of dishonesty if I didn’t put some context in there, wouldn’t there? And I’m actually not very fond of men - TA is something of a huge exception - I never really thought I’d get here. So having a son - who I adore to the point of unreason - makes me scared...I fear that I will raise a misogynist tyrant, a mummy’s boy, a womaniser. And I very happy with the stability and love and support, I fear there’s something bubbling under the skin though. Not sure what it could be - perhaps regret that I wasn’t more edgy when I was going through the years where edgy was acceptable or at least there was a space for it. Now, I feel that my life choices have defined me in such a way that rebellion is no longer an option. But this glosses over the fact that edginess made me unhappy and insecure.
All this questioning angst from a slice of plastic pop? Oh dear, perhaps it’s time to go back to therapy.