That bloody woman...

It's very difficult to talk about Katie Hopkins, primarily known for resigning from The Apprentice and engaging in al fresco sex with married fellas, without resorting to schoolyard jibes about her appearance and kicking all the furniture and pets within reach, while simultaneously frothing at the mouth and spitting obscenities.

Well that's the effect she has on me.

Her latest zinger is claiming that Kelly Brook is "a chubster" and that any working woman "can be a size 8" just like her, and that they should just "eat less and move about more".

So far, so simplistic.

I'm not tall, but even at under 6 stone 13lbs/97lbs at one point in my life, I was never a size 8. What I'd like to know, what would she recommend doing in my case, as I am blessed with a sturdy frame? Is someone going to come out with an all new bone-slimming diet? Should I grate myself on a full length sanding block to get my body down to achieve the necessary proportions? Or can I narrow my shoulders and ribcage purely by force of will?

Yet again, we see this lining up of slimness being passed off as virtue, or "if only they can exhibit the same amount of will power as me, then they will be perfect". Virtue is being kind to people, virtue is not the ability to get into a dress size. If the world is full of tactless TV trolls like Katie, I'm moving to Mars.

In which halfwomanhalfbadger decides the world is madder than a bucket of monkeys on mescaline in a blender

WHAT!!!! WHAT!!!! WHAT!!!!

New blog

One of the things that I tend to bang on about a lot is body image.

So I've decided to do something about mine and take up a challenge for 8-ish weeks and I'll be blogging about it here The 40 Ouch 8 Week Challenge. Weird that, not that the title isn't a giveaway.

At the moment, it seems to be me whining about the parlous state of my core muscles...

Stuff that I learned yesterday....

1. That the world really doesn't care that you've got a bit of knee stubble. This is real life, not Heat magazine and a gigantic red circle is not going to suddenly appear around whatever perceived mistake you've made with your grooming.

2. Fake tan, if applied with a cautious hand, does not necessarily make you look like a clementine in a frock. 

3. Sometimes accidentally buying a dress that's 2 sizes too small is not a disaster.

4. It's possible to bruise your pelvis.

5. That parents, who find that they rein themselves all the time, will, once the cocktails have kicked in, suddenly develop Tourette's (or is that just me?).

6. Eating like a ravening frothing carb beast is the key to preventing hangovers. Small child has been playing the tiny squeaky trumpet and due to general freshness, I don't want to curl into a ball and rock in a corner...

7. Newcastle is awesome x

No words necessary.

Golly, I end up talking about boobs quite often, don't I?

One of those "Mate, you are clearly having a giraffe" moments...

I read this...

Now Angelina Jolie is a bit of a divisive figure for some people, but not for me. She is an incredible advocate for victims of sexual violence in Africa for the UN and truly does use her fame to the benefit of the disenfranchised. She also seems pretty determined to dance to the beat of her own drum.

I like that in a person.

Her openness about her decision to have a double mastectomy is brilliant. My ghast is also truly flabbered that she worked through all this without a word to anybody.

What irks me are comments like this one...

love to Angelina, but if the cure to breast cancer is that woman have to get their breasts removed before they get cancer, we are in trouble

Where do I start?

An individual woman with a "highly-unlikely-to-not-be-life-threatening" gene mutation decides to have a radical procedure that will (unless she's hit by a bus mid op...) improve her life expectancy. The writers' assumption with this statement is that we're all going to start cutting our norks off willy-nilly because we're frightened of getting cancer. An 87% risk of developing breast cancer is a pretty compelling  reason to have a mastectomy.

(See also "Why do women have preventative surgery?" - I'm looking at you, HuffPo).

The wimmins are not a homogenous mass, solely defined by hair colour, "hotness" and breast size. Please get this into your pathetic noggin.

There is nothing whimsical about making the decision to have a double mastectomy.  The BRCA gene test was only made more widely available in the last 7 or 8 years, and this discovery offers a real life line to families whose mothers, sisters, daughters, grandmothers and aunts have died at far too young an age, or lived under the threat of a early painful death. Good treatments for diseases don't exactly fall fully formed from the sky. I once knew someone who had a full mastectomy and reconstruction aged 21, after being diagnosed with breast cancer. I think she'd rather have been on the lash, don't you?

I mean, what can be more selfish that not wanting your family (and children if you have them) to see you dying slowly and far too soon? And not living in fear that one day you're going to find a lump when you're idly showering? Having to tell your kid that, you're very sick, or that you are going to die?

Personally, I'd take the op. The ladies aren't having the boobies cut off to upset you, capiche?

*Previous breasty ruminations can found here...

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes (Special K "How I've changed" challenge)

Mmmm...cereal....

This is a new one for me, but those nice people at BritMums pointed me at the chance of free cereal, and I thought "Cool! Food!. People who say that I am motivated by my stomach are talking *nonsense...

*the truth

The new 3 grain Special K is actually really nice, not that I expected it to taste like wood shavings sprinkled with wee, but by comparison to the old variety, I definitely prefer the new one. The flavour is nuttier and rounder. I also think it was a bit more satisfying. I know I wasn't lasciviously ogling the digestives before 11am. To put that into context, because I have a 16 month old who gets up at the dawn of crack I eat early most of the time, then wonder why I'm ready to season my own left arm by 9.30am. I think that qualifies as two thumbs approval from me. And not just because it was a freebie.

Initially I thought "Yeah, writing about "#SpecialK30 How I've changed" will be a doodle". After all, I was 11-going-on-12 30 years ago, I'm going to have changed a bit obviously. What became apparent the more I thought about it was that, yes, there have been changes - like puberty (which is a biggy) but it's not like I've changed beyond all recognition. It's evolution, not the radical change that I'd imagined.

Believe it or not, the only photo I could find of myself from 1983 I was wearing a mask (and in fairness, I didn't have time to harass my relatives to find another) but here's one age 10 that will give you an idea of the material we're dealing with.

Not unattractive, but not in the least girly, and a bit haphazard...note the *jaunty* collars and the pink "Nashers" - NHS Specs....nuff said.  Duran Duran,  Ultravox, The Police, horses, trampolining and reading rocked my world. I was hopeless at the "being feminine" stuff and in fairness, I probably still am. I now know which bits work for me, and how to accommodate for the things I would rather keep hidden.

Age 40+ and...

...the smile is the same, the light in my eyes in the same.

 It's just that I've got better specs, have discovered straighteners and boobs (having developed some), but you'll notice there's still a strange cowlick carry one trying to assert itself. The bands have moved on, and horses and trampolining have been replaced by other stuff but fundamentally things aren't as different as I imagined they'd be at the time. I wasn't going to do kids or marriage for starters. Uh oh. That said, best of all, I'm less self conscious which works a bit like someone taking a heavy weight from my chest.

I think the question is more "what have I learned?" rather than "how have I changed?".

So what have I learned?

1. Despite the fact I'm probably twice the weight I was at that age (I was 2nd shortest in my class and very active), I now *know* what I look like, and with not-epic amounts of TLC I can make myself look quite respectable. I thought my edges were significantly different to what they actually were.
2. I now trust my body. After all, I've done some awesome things with it.
3. That if a bloke likes the same bands as you, it just means that they like the same bands as you. They are not your soul mate, unless of course they actually are...see next point but one.
4. If you are having misgivings about marrying someone, best to acknowledge that to yourself *before* you get married....#justsaying
5. However sometimes Mr "Old Flame"was the right one all along, step forward Mr D x
6. Depression is something you can fight.
7. Do the study you were meant to do, rather than ballsing it up and having to do it later, it's much easier.
8. Be nice to yourself.

Getting older, choosing to be happy, doing some stuff that scares you like becoming a parent or throwing yourself down a mountain...it's what changing is all about.

Plus I must be growing up, I've completed a deadline 90 minutes before it was due to be handed in...see point 7..... :D

It was detestable in the 80's, it was detestable at the time.

The cropped top.

Why is this abomination back in fashion when only the very slim and very young can wear them, and most of them don't because some ass hat is likely to judge them and their body shape? Or that it's inappropriate because they're 13? Or it's cold?

Inevitably everything goes through the Northumbrian "Will I freeze me bits off later on?" filter...have you noticed?

Snowy madness

And thus I am in France, tired of limb and slightly afraid of cheese.

(I posted this one sentence BACK IN MARCH BTW while on a skiing holiday, on the worlds' shittest wifi, in an apartment above a night club and below a lot of youthful ski bums with a propensity for playing football in a room the size of a matchbox and only spotted it now in amongst my drafts).

In many ways I'm quite proud of myself about that trip, because I did a decent amount of skiing and I only cried about four times in abject terror. For those of you who actually know me IRL, and thus have probably seen some photos, I'm a nervy intermediate skier so "ye olde snow plough" is out quicker than a Howard Webb yellow card as soon as I get the fear. I didn't fall over all that much but that's because I'm paranoid about crashing.

So firstly, I love going to France, if I could foxtrot oscar anyway, that would be my first point of call.

Secondly, tired of limb...

It's been a real confidence boost that I've made this squidgy, scarred, injured thing I call my body do some really quite tough things, and keep doing them for a couple of hours. Over a number of days. And not be immobile afterwards. It also makes me very happy that muscle memory exists because I had a couple of really good days (and a couple of short ones - but always best to respect the limbs, though it pains me to admit it) where it flowed and I genuinely felt like I was flying. I can't help thinking though that I'm incredibly lucky considering how long it's taken to recover from having Mini D (c-section, SPD that didn't bugger off immediately post-birth)  injuries sufficiently nasty enough to involve extended periods of immobility and activity curtailment, weight, age and all that other shizzle. I can do it, though sometimes it hurts, and I want to be better at it, and I want to show my kid that just because of all of the above it doesn't mean you've got to give up.

Thirdly, slightly afraid of cheese.

Raclette,
Reblochon
Gruyere
Comt
The bright green pesto stuff they sell in the market in Val Tho.

Alpine food - Studio 54 for the cheese addict, I kid you not. *swoon*.

Thank FSM for plant sterols.

And I travelled to altitude with a small child and lived, but more of that later.

Bodies - duffed and otherwise (Caution - Sweary)

I need to stop reading anything sleb-gossip related on the grounds that I go all goggle-eyed and dyspeptic with fury.

Here's why....

Celebrity Pregnancy

When a woman in the public eye is pregnant, I quite like to hear about it because I'm nosy and always up for displacement activity. (Explains certain "delays" in my education and career, does that...*cough*) Anyhow....what does make me want to shut myself in a cupboard away from all of the sharp objects for an hour or so, are the following phrases - "hiding her baby bump" or "showing off/flaunting her baby bump". I've blogged about the misuse of flaunt as terminology before http://partwomanpartbadger.blogspot.co.uk/2011/04/things-that-irritate-me-about-daily.html but they never seem to learn.

Let's explore the actual interpretations based on actual circumstances, shall we? And not on the tenuous projection that all women with a public profile are constantly squirming with either a) shame about "their condition" or b) are in a froth of sexual excitement and showing off for the mens.

Hiding her baby bump (ACTUAL MEANINGS)

A. "Is wearing a coat because it's fucking cold"
B. "Boobs are two moons in a hammock thus distracting attention"
C. "Due to point B, clothing hangs from norks acting like a bump curtain"
D. "Comfort (due to being effing pregnant and as a consequence, always hot - not a la Paris Hilton before you ask)"
E. "It might give someone pause before they try to shove a long lensed camera up ones jacksie"
F. "Might keep the touchy-touchy brigade at bay"

Showing off her baby bump (ACTUAL MEANINGS)

A. "Might just be really happy about being pregnant"
B. "Is in a hot tropical country and is wearing a bikini - because it's fucking hot"
C. "Later stages of pregnancy mean that you (proportionally) have a much shorter reach than you have before so fastening stuff is an ask"
D. "Can't be arsed to keep hiding it"
E. "Please see "hiding - option D"
F. "Due to being the shape of a hot air balloon with apendages, the only way you could hide it was if you wore a barrel"

Oh FFs, it's not fucking magic.

Duffed - Boobs

Things about boobs that had never occurred to me before I embarked on this little adventure...

• No matter how big your boobs are under normal circumstances, pregnancy will make them much bigger. You will be able to cut the cups out and wear them on your head in cold weather with no difficulty whatsoever. In fact, stitch on a nicely colour co-ordinated pom-pom and it'll look like someone brought it back as a gift for you from a nice ski-ing jaunt in Val d'Isere. You'll also find that the sizing variations mean that, from the beginning to end of your pregnancy, you'll be able to kit out the entire family, including the one person everyone secretly calls "Football heed". Or at least you would do if everything didn't come in white, greige and black. I know that most of the time, all one cares about is that the damn things are tamed, but pretty and not the cost of a Bentley would be good.
• If you felt mildly discomfited by the people who would stare at your breasts before this takes place, now you are permanently sober and at times, a touch "feisty", wearing the cardboard box that your fridge came in or, if you feeling a little more bohemian, a yurt, has never been more appealing. As does wearing a t-shirt that says "Oi! I've got a ****ing face! Look at that! Tw*t!"
• They cease to be "Fun" bags and become slightly itchy "Ouch" bags. In fact, should you ever have been curious about how you get warm fleshy cannon balls into an extremely utilitarian and aesthetically unappealing elasticated hammock, now's your chance. What previously was an inconvenience is now a trial. Lying on your front? Ha! Suddenly crossing one arm across your body without thinking? Bad idea. very, very, bad idea. Sleeping free range? Not a cat in hell's chance. You will now own bras for sleeping, waking, nursing and sport. And several other sets of circumstances that currently elude me.
• You are permanently pointy as though you've been standing the chiller isle of Tesco's for a bit too long.
• Likelihood of being defeated by gravity and falling flat on your face due to sheer weight of the darn things increases by the power of ten. Coupled with general normal levels of clumsiness and yes, it's fair to say, I'm going to spend the following months rocking on my front like a tortoise that's been rolled or in a heap after executing a perfect commando roll to prevent injuring bump.
• The sheer bewildering range of things, products and advice relating to sucking out and manual or electrical extraction of, mopping up of excess, general containment and control of all things breasty and milky.

Things that irritate me about the Daily Mail - Part 1 - Use of the word "Flaunt"

As everything about the Daily Mail irritates me, I potentially have an endless supply of inspiration...


flaunt  (flônt)

v. flaunt·ed, flaunt·ing, flaunts

v.tr.

1. To exhibit ostentatiously or shamelessly: flaunts his knowledge. See Synonyms at show.

2. Usage Problem To show contempt for; scorn.

v.intr.

1. To parade oneself ostentatiously; show oneself off.

2. To wave grandly: pennants flaunting in the wind.

According to the narrative of the Daily Fail, an assortment of famous women are perpetually "flaunting" themselves - or their curves - or if they've been papped on a beach holiday, "flaunting their beach body". This is bloody bad English displaying a blatant disregard for the actual meaning of the word, undercut with the Victorian assertion that famous and beautiful women all have the morals of a necrophiliac dockyard rat. All  because you've been seen in possession of hips, boobs and waist.

By this rationale, possessing the secondary sexual characteristics of ones gender, and wearing nice clothes at a public event is enough to make you a slapper. However, a woman with a prominent career, standing on a beach wearing a bikini with her family during a private holiday where someone surreptitiously takes a photo of her and sells it to a magazine, is realistically only guilty of one thing - having the courage to get her skin out in a public place.

Yes, there are copious amounts of ardent self publicists out there who seek out opportunities to wiggle and jiggle in an assortment of locations, but if one of the major expectations of your job is that you turn up in a posh frock and smile, it's just plain rude to somehow imply that that person is trying actually demand attention of a sexual nature by having the audacity to be a pretty woman with a public profile.

By the nature of the beast, fame means that you are instrinsically more visible than the average person, but looking good in a attractive frock or in a bikini is certainly not the same as "flaunting" oneself. 

Arguably a burlesque artist flaunts herself, but that is in primarily in the context of her act, and while she'll be beautifully groomed and dressed, I don't think Dita von Teese visits her local supermarket in tassells and a g-string operating with an overwhelming need to seduce all who cross her path. Strangely, predatory impulses accompanied by fabulously nork-enhancing top notch Vivienne Westwood and buying bog roll and cheese strings rarely go hand in hand (but I'm willing to accept that I could be mistaken).

She's not working so your right to use the word "flaunt" in the true sense has gone.  As worst it's an appalling example of the sexual double standard, implying that a successful woman and her unruly curvy body are by implication trying to grap attention. At best, it's a bitchy reflection of a restricted mindset that is profoundly unhappy with itself and seeks to make everyone feel lousy about themselves, no matter who you are.

It makes my wee boil....