Tag Archives: women

Trump Towers

After the last fortnight of complete and utter madness in British politics, I feel the need to jump on the bandwagon and wade into the argument up to my armpits.

The trouble is, I think that I may start writing and never stop. Like a stream of furious consciousness that can’t be stemmed; a blog post that you would give you scrolling-finger-RSI just trying to get to the bottom of it. Nobody wants that.

In fact, I can probably avoid that whole shit storm with the following summary of my political and ethical leanings:

EU – IN

TORIES – OUT

REESE’S PIECES – IN

MUSHROOMS – OUT

FARAGE – SHAKE HIM ALL ABOUT

There are so many things that enrage me at the moment, that I can only pick a minute portion of them to focus on, or I might actually lose my mind, so I have decided that this post must be on the very real problems facing women today.

Farts.

Those close to me, will be surprised that this subject has not been covered before now, but I feel that the time has finally come.

Passing Wind, Trumping , Farting, Blowing Off, Cutting the Cheese – call it what you will, it is a fact of life.

Is it gross? Yes. Is it funny? Never not so.

Is it something that happens to anyone who has an arse? Absolutely.

Do women have arses? Yes. FACT.

I have long been known for my prolific wind. It’s something I have always been proud of, from my laddish teens to my embarrassing-mum thirties and every age in-between.

Sometimes I wish my body was not so ridiculously full of air. It can be awkward and painful when you find yourself in a non-farting situation, for there are many rules with farts.

For instance – never at work, never at a dinner party, never in a lift, etc.

Apparently, noise that smells of poo isn’t a ladylike thing to release into the world. Ladylike? This argument makes my blood boil. As if letting one go in Sainsbury’s is gentlemanly?

Never have I found myself in a situation where I needed to adjust my petticoats and do a deep curtsy, whilst gently fluttering my eyelashes, AND do a giant fart.

It irritates me beyond all belief when someone (usually an older man) tells my daughter that it isn’t very ladylike to sit with her legs apart if people can see her pants. Now, I’m not for one minute saying I want her to be flashing her pants all over the neighbourhood, but she is 8. She’s sitting comfortably because…it’s comfortable, not because she gives a toss if it is ladylike or not.

Ladylike, by the way, is defined in the dictionary as the following:

“appropriate for or typical of a well-bred, decorous woman or girl”

It also comes from a time where everyone wore corsets and ate water and got consumption. Oh, and got married at 12 to whoever their father thought would be the best match financially or politically. It is not a phrase that should be relevant to WOMEN, that’s right, WOMEN.

Interestingly, the definition of gentlemanly is the following:

“chivalrous, courteous, or honourable.”

Gentlemen are described as, “gallant, noble, polite”. The word gentleman has evolved and now means a really lovely bloke who is kind and decent and probably holds doors open for you – whether you are a man or a woman.

Ladies on the other hand are defined as, “polished, proper, dignified”. That conjurs up pictures of chiselled, robot like creatures who know their place and know when to cross their legs in public (only at the ankle dear, NEVER at the knee)

Well I call bullshit on the whole thing. I am a girl, a woman, or any other word you want to use to describe my gender – so long as you aren’t using it as a pejorative.

We have so much that is different from men, and we should celebrate our differences every day, but just a few of the many, many things that we do have in common physically are as follows:

Stomachs, bowels, intestines, bums.

Like it or not, this means that we fart too. And, when you get right down to it, us girls have MORE internal organs to squeeze into that body cavity, what with all the wombs (most powerful muscle in the human body, FYI boys) and everything… Surely that means there is less room for gas to be floating around in there?

*Scientific fact alert*

Women and men produce exactly the same amount of gas (half a litre a day approx.) but women just hold it in more. Why? Because it isn’t ladylike…

I have known women who say they never fart. I just really struggle with believing that, but maybe I am blinkered to my own daily guff experience, so I will let their fantasies go unchallenged. What I do find completely shocking is the number of women who say they don’t fart in front of anyone at all. Not even/especially their husbands or partners.

OK, if you’re trying to impress someone on a first date, I can see that the rules of farts might stretch to cover not letting off a stink bomb in Pizza Express. But really – do you want to spend hours a day with someone you can’t trump in front of?!

Whilst my husband is regularly unimpressed by my overactive bottom and I am sure he would rather not have to deal with the resulting pong, he NEVER feels the need to not do them in front of me. Why should he have all the fun? And why would I want to be uncomfortable in my own living room, holding it in to create the illusion that I don’t have a digestive system?

The stench of a morning-after-a-curry fart might not be the thing that sets the mood for a night of passion, but then again, not being able to have sex for fear of farting in the middle of it must surely be worse? And for me, a sense of humour in the bedroom is a bigger must than a sense of decorum.

Someone very wise once said, “If it doesn’t pay rent, it must leave” – a rule I plan to enforce with my children as well as my wind.

To date, the only person I have met who can match me in the noise, length, variety and stench of my gas is my delightful daughter. She is a tiny slip of a thing with the ability to fart better than any BBQ scoffing, beer swilling bloke I have ever met.

She is kind, clever and friendly, has a wicked sense of humour, knows not to do it at the dinner table, loves make up, shoes and notebooks. Any body who wants to be with her when she grows up will be extremely lucky to have her as their girlfriend and will treat her with the respect that she deserves.

They will also have to be fully prepared to pull her finger and if they get past the first few dates, quite possibly mine too.

I have spent a very fruitful (sorry) 20 minutes, googling celebrity fart videos to really highlight the fact that we are all human, no matter how hot, cool, blokey or girly we are. Aside from the fact that it made me laugh until my sides hurt (never not funny…) there are some people in particular who highly recommend farting.

Eva Mendes. Hot? Er, yes. I would…

Whoopi Goldberg – my hero

Brad Pitt – extols the virtues of farting and eating ice cream in bed. Helloooooooo!

Charlize Theron

Cheryl Cole (seriously, look it up)

Jennifer Lawrence…the list goes on.

None of these people would be kicked out of bed for, well, farting.

There is even a video of Hillary Clinton letting one rip, which I have to say looks like it might be a fake – but even if it wasn’t, I know which Trump I would want running America.

Hint: farts aren’t racist, ignorant bigots.

So, in conclusion, women and farting are part of everyday life. If you can’t get your head around that and would rather that women were seen and not heard (or smelt), then perhaps you would prefer to remember that until a week ago, we had a male prime minister who had put his penis into a pigs head. Mind you, at least he wears a tie…

Fucked up priorities might just be why we are where we are at the moment.

 

Putting my foot in it…

All talk in recent weeks has been about high heels and the outrage we (quite rightly) felt on behalf of Nicola Thorp when she was sacked for refusing to go out and buy heels to replace her smart, but flat, shoes.

Maybe I’m naïve, or maybe just optimistic, but I found it almost impossible to believe that we had reached 2016 without already dealing with this, quickly and quietly, or that it was something that needed someone to organise a petition over.

Anyone who has ever happened across a vintage book in a Charity Shop, or more likely, a reprinted, repackaged version of the same book, sold as a hilarious joke wedding present, will surely have expected such a ridiculous “rule” to appear within its pages. Perhaps alongside this little gem from an article in Housekeeping Monthly, May 1955, advising women on the best way to greet their husbands when they returned from work:

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Maybe that is where the rules on heels came from in the first place. Maybe all of those poor husbands were tired of seeing work-weary people and needed their offices jazzing up with a secretary in a heel or two. Not over 4 inches mind you – you don’t want the women looking down on the shorter chaps in the office.  That would be degrading and terribly upsetting for them.

I have no doubt that sanity will shortly return a semblance of order to the workplace chaos – either by making it illegal for women to be forced to wear heels in the office, or by making it a legal requirement for Bob from Accounting to do something about that terrible nose hair.

My problem with shoes is far shallower than the current political furore, but just as important and irritating to me.

They don’t fit.

Everyone has one foot slightly bigger than the other – boobs as well, but that is a very different issue.

Not only are my feet at least a half size different to each other, they are larger than most other ladies apparently, leaving my affordable, comfortable and appropriate footwear choices mainly in the flip flop and low heeled boot racks.

Trainers are OK, after a lot of padding and fiddling with laces and insoles.

Heels in a Mary Jane style with a strap to keep the smaller foot securely in place work too.

Flip flops and sandals in similar open-heeled territory seem to be OK, as long as I scour the length and breadth of every Accessorize in the land to find the LARGE size in the style that I want.

Because, as with bras (I seem to want to talk about boobs here too, don’t I!) I am most definitely “in between” with footwear.  My closest actual shoe size is a 7½, but that is a rarer gem of a shoe to find than a Nick Clegg supporter .

Yes, I want fashionable shoes – is that a crime?! Having a pair of mismatched, large feet most definitely is it seems.

Every wedge, every kitten heel, every biker boot I pick up is a size 5. Literally. Every. One. Occasionally M&S comes to my rescue but inevitably the shoe itself, whilst a decent fit, lacks a certain je ne sais quoi in the desirability category.

So, I head over to the retailers dealing with the larger footed ladies. This means you are either 6ft tall and have feet starting at a size 9 (nope to both of those) or you are in the plus size category and therefore have very wide feet (nope to that too). Just in-between!

And so to the bra comparison. As with having size 8 feet, the retail universe has decreed that if you need a bra that is 38 inches round, you must therefore have massive knockers of at least a D cup, but more likely a double J. (Nope – only for about 3 days when I was pregnant)

Oh! Sorry…then you must require old lady underwear with no underwire, lace or sex appeal. (Again, nope.) Please check the adverts in the back of your puzzle magazine for details – why don’t you order a stairlift while you’re there?

Seriously clothing makers. Either get more stock of the size 8’s and the 38C’s or stop taunting me with those charts on the back of the labels telling me you do make them in the sizes I need!!!

Anyway, back to the shoes.

I am constantly left having to try on every type of shoe in every store in a 7 and an 8 – if such mythical sizes were to exist – in the vain hope that one style in one of those dimensions might be suitable. It very rarely is.

The one bastion for modern women in the shoe department has to be the Ballet Pump. A simple, often cheap, yet flexible option for adding the perfect detail to an outfit. Not a heel in sight, an acceptable bedfellow for a trouser, jean, skirt or dress – this must surely be my Hero Shoe?

I’ve avoided them for many years, what with the size disparity between my feet, but this summer was going to be different, I thought. After the merry dance around the high street, I finally found a smallish size 8! They felt OK in the store – looked good with my skinny jeans – and so I fell for it. Off to the till went I, proud ballet pump owner and wearer!

Fast forward a day of “wearing them in” around the house. What I actually did was mostly sit on the sofa in them, occasionally trotting off to the kitchen to make a coffee, which is very much NOT the same thing. Nevertheless, it gave me the bravado to don them for a weekend BBQ, 7 doors up the road. How very stylish I looked.

An hour later…

Awful, hateful things. Scrunched up toes, desperately trying to cling on to the sweaty inside of one shoe, whilst with every step, the heel on my other foot was wincingly friction burned before I’ve even made it to the kitchen to refill my Pimms.

If alcohol doesn’t help with uncomfortable shoes you haven’t even had to walk to the train station in, then you know you’re not going to win this battle.

Fortunately, I was only 7 doors away…so I went home to change into my LARGE flip flops from Accessorize. Bliss.

When I am rich and famous, I am going to have my shoes handmade in the right size for each of my feet, but until that day I am going to have to be satisfied with an annual proportion of 10 months in boots, 2 months of flip flops with a couple of evening heels thrown in for good measure.

Almost forgot my guilty pleasure…wearing Crocs to put the bins out.

Onesies for grown-ups have happened. One day my pretties we will be acceptable in public, one day…