Better ask your husband before you do that, love

I am not afraid to call myself feminist – and to be honest I’ll probably think a little bit less of you (especially if you’re a man) if you cringe at the word yourself.  About a year ago I decided a good way to judge male character would be to imagine to what degree they would or would not be comfortable wearing this t-shirt in public:

Now don’t freak out – its not about making anyone feel guilty.  I actually don’t think I would wear this t-shirt as I don’t like wearing any clothing with writing on it.  Its about the fact that around the world the statistics don’t lie and how you relate yourself to them.  Women earn less than men for doing the same work.  They do most of the world’s labour for substantially smaller share of the wealth.  They bear children – and that shit hurts man!  They are more likely to be victim of violence or sexual abuse than men.

Feminism is complicated – especially modern feminism in the developed world.  Its been long enough now we’ve forgotten the major victories (flawed as they are): financial self-determination, career emancipation, independence.  Its not ‘cool’ to be a feminist anymore – and the areas where the movement borders on the mainstream colours everything else.  Yes I am a feminist who also shaves her legs and wears makeup and lets boys pay on the first date sometimes and that doesn’t somehow make me a hypocrite thankyouverymuch.

But I will ask myself: would they wear the t-shirt?

I struggle with where we’re at now.  While I love the backlash against slut-shaming and movement for sex-positivity in women, we’re still struggling for basic access to contraception and we have embraced gender roles for children and the sexualisation of young girls in a way that makes me uncomfortable.

But today this website made me smile and remember we’re still working hard and its important to enjoy the victories we’ve had.  www.athousandreasons.com came organically out of international woman’s day when Linda Grant tweeted about why feminism still matters to her – thousands of examples were suddenly being tweeted everywhere.

The case for feminism is easy.  My favourite is the economic case: without empowered women a country is limiting its own economic potential by keeping half its workforce at home.  When women earn money they are more likely to spend it on items for their children or that improve the home – ensuring children are well fed and educated.  I could go on and on and on.

Feminism matters because less than 50 years ago women couldn’t get a credit card, loan or mortgage with the signature of a man, because women were told what to wear and what jobs to have, because in this day and age women are still seen too often as secretaries and not professionals. Women who could be working can’t afford childcare.  Women cant access contraception to ensure they plan, want and love all their children.

So would you wear the t-shirt?

 

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Its Fine, Most of the Time

A new song – this one about that tiny bit of melancholy that you didn’t even know you had.

I wrote this song without intending to.  I had been (and am still in the process) of writing a silly song about online dating entitled “I want to date your online profile (but its obvious thats not you)” about the highs and lows of searching for love through a keyboard. (current favourite lyric from that effort: “you interrupt me, try to one-up me – and thats something your online profile would never do.”  But I digress.)

But somehow, while writing that silly song another feeling came – that frustration at searching for what is just out of reach, pining for the unavailable…all simmering away in a way you didn’t even know bothered you until you write a poignant song about it all.  In that sense its lovely as I learned a bit more about myself, on the other hand I can’t help but feel its a bit overdramatic or at least seperate from me and how I’m actually feeling.   And then I think the mediocre men who collectively inspired it probably are unworthy of the lovely final product.

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Full of Hot Air.

I would describe myself as an intermediate London cyclist.  I have a decent bicycle (thank you cycle to work scheme), a solid habit of riding it to work, a bit shy to take it to areas of London I don’t know well and I never cycle drunk (Students Against Drinking and Driving was a Nazi-like organisation in my high school and its never worn off).

I have learned a lot about bicycle maintenance over the years.  How to assemble my new bike, how to align it to my body, how to reset the chain and gears, how to grease it up, when to take it for maintenance. Replacing brake pads.  cool, no big deal.

Something I’ve done more than anything, however – is refill my tires.  Who hasn’t?  We all know the signs – you feel you’re working really hard and going very slow – put some damn air in your tires.  The bike I have now is relatively new, about 5 months old, so I’ve only filled the tires twice.  Both times at work, where we have a wonderful fancy powerful pump. 

Today I noticed on the way home that my tires were low.  Really low.  So low I could feel the bicycle listing a little bit in the back as I went over grooves in the road.  So I got out my hand pump when I got home and set about futiely trying to align the nozzle with the type of outlet thingy my new tires have.  I heard a satisfying hiss, meaning I’d been able to pentrate the seal, madly began pumping and then noticed something terrible – my entire tire had gone completely flat.  Not a spec of air.

Now this is where I will admit I did something stupid.  I assumed I knew what had caused this mistake and tried the back tire – only to let all the air out of that tire as well.

I now have no options but to humbly wheel my bike to the nearest bike shop and beg for help.  It doesn’t help my nearest bike shop is super posh and snobby and sells no bikes at less than 1500 quid.  Oh how they will think I am stupid.

And I’m now going nowhere fast.

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Let’s put on a show!

So last night I went to see a musical with my previous flatmate and dance journalist extraordinaire Lyndsey Winship.  The plot of said musical involved a derelict theatre in Nevada staving off foreclosure by putting on a show.  After some false starts and hard knocks the show was a hit and the theatre was saved.  Hooray!

Not only is this the plot of my favourite teen fantasy film Empire Records but its also an amazing solution to real-life problems that is never, ever applicable in real life.  When leaving the venue Lyndsey and I discussed various aspects of the future downfall of print journalism before she suggested: Brie, I know how to save the magazine!!! LETS PUT ON A SHOW!

We spent the next 20 minutes while waiting for the bus devising the plot line, impromptu tap dancing and singing random lines.  The random strangers were spotlight people who fell in love with us before saying our names, and one of us would be disguised as the other at some point.

If only, if only we could fix everything in life by just putting on a show!!

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Leon Has a Stalker

My friend Leon came to see me in December for an A.Skillz show (a fateful night that had me sitting outside my flat at 2am with a locksmith drilling the door while Leon finished jamming to A.Skillz but I digress…)

Anyways, as we recounted each other’s romantic misadventures he told me of a girl at his uni who had taken a very, uh, keen interest in him.  So keen that he saw her everywhere.  At his work, classes, the library – she was just around.

Anyways, the culmination of this mild stalking happened when he came home from dinner one night and found her sitting in his dorm room.  She’d found it open, you see.  And she just wanted to see him.

“Don’t you realise,” I said to Leon, “that it means it wasn’t a coincidence she found your door open the one time you left it unlocked… it means she’s been walking by and trying the door all the time.”

And then I thought – hm, I should write a song about that feeling.  That feeling of sitting in someone’s room waiting for them to come back when you’re not supposed to be there.  That feeling of being a complete slave to your impulses, and living in fucking la-la land.  So I did.

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What – your childhood was different?

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Winking: the 2nd base of talking

My friend Jean came over tonight and we at pho.  She blogged about it here.

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