Today I review a book: 'How to be a Woman', by Caitlin Moran

)

I've just finished reading Caitlin Moran's brilliant new rant 'How to be a woman', which claims to be 'The Female Eunuch', written from a bar stool.  It is absolutely hilarious, and addresses all the issues that modern women have to contend with, from periods, high-heels, abortion, childbirth, Brazilian waxes and what to call your vagina --  to the bigger questions of modern feminism (or lack thereof) and why it's fallen off the radar of late.

In an age where more little girls want to grow up to be the glamour model Jordan  -- whom Moran describes as 'Vichy France, with tits' --  than a schoolteacher or doctor, we have to ask ourselves what happened to feminism; where did it all go wrong?

In a brilliantly simple excercise to ascertain whether you are indeed a feminist or not, she advises -

"Put your hands in your pants.
a) do you have a vagina? and
b) do you want to be in charge of it?

If you said 'Yes' to both, then congratulations, you're a feminist!"

She's been criticised in some quarters for being overly simplistic on the question of feminism --  of dumbing down the argument -- but that's precisely what's so good about this book.  Unlike Dworkin, Greer or Paglia, each of whom's radical, academic works would be beyond the reach or indeed interest of your average woman going about her every day life, Moran's treatise is accessible to those of us who may well be questioning what it is to be a women these days: who question the need to sport a vagina which resembles a nine-year-old's, who want to wear comfy pants instead of knickers which are so tiny they actually disappear after a couple of hours of wearing them. Woman who are -- without realising it -- as Moran says -- 'coming over all feminist'.

This book is to feminism what Dawkins' 'The God Delusion' is to atheism, in other words, she's stating what is only staring at us in the face, but we've stopped asking questions.

I especially like her chapter on weddings, about which she writes: 'weddings are our own fault, ladies. Every aspect of their pantechnicon of awfulness happened on our watch.  And you know what? Not only have we let humanity down, but we've let ourselves down, too'.

I couldn't agree more, nothing does the cause more damage than the spoiled bride-to-be, howling 'but it's my special day' while insisting everyone wears something they wouldn't normally be seen dead in. And don't get me started on the costs involved these days.

As an aside from the book for a second, if the ultimate bridezilla is a foot-stamping, tantrum-throwing, selfish-brat, then I was unintentionally and unwillingly the ultimate anti-bridezilla (DH, please take note):

-I wanted a low-key affair, no more than say 50 people. DH, being from Achill, knows about 8 million people personally and was obliged to invite all of them.  And their friends. And their cousins. And their second and third cousins (and don't get me started on the fact that he was obliged to drive most of them home at 6am since they were so drunk they refused to take a taxi..)

-I wanted the reception to take place in an old-world, shabby-chic hotel in the wilds of Connemarra. DH's people couldn't be expected to travel that far so I was forced to compromise on a local hotel which was so accustomed to the traditional serving of the wedding 'dinner' they steadfastly refused to grasp the finer details of the wedding buffet, resulting in a lot of people simply queuing for their dinner, rather than having it served to the table...

Saved from potential fashion disaster?

-I wanted a Christmas wedding, with mulled wine, holly and carols, with me, centre stage, a vision in red velvet and white fur, a la 'White Christmas' (I now accept that this line of thinking was entirely flawed).  However, my sisters -- both of whom had young children at the time -- couldn't spare the term time, so after much to-ing and fro-ing with the calendar, it emerged that the only day that suited everyone was Easter Monday.  Or to put it another way, April 1st. Yeah that's right, I got married on APRIL FOOL'S DAY! (I'm over it, honestly)




Anyway, this isn't about me....back to the book...

The book isn't all laughs; as someone permanently scarred by memories of giving birth, Moran's chapter on childbirth really struck a chord with me, and I found myself chewing on my knuckles as I relived the horrors of labour, about which she concludes:

'For the next year, every Monday at 7.48am, I would look up at the clock and remember the birth, and tremble and give thanks it was all over, and marvel that we both survived. Lizzie was born at 8.32am -- but 7.48am was when they gave me the anaesthetic, and the pain, finally, stopped.'

In the chapter where she writes about the abortion she had after she'd had her two children, she argues that there is no voice for those women who are absolutely certain that having an abortion is the right thing to do.  Those who don't go on to feel --  as they're told they will -- that it was the biggest mistake of their lives, but a blessed relief. It is a brave stance to take, in a world where - 'mothers must pretend that they are loving and protective of all life, however nascent or putative it might be.  They should -- we still quietly believe, deep down inside -- be prepared to give and give and give, until they simply wear out.'

My only criticism of the book, if it can be construed as such, is the part of the book where the author catapults from being an awkward, overweight, home-schooled teenager, to being a sixteen-year-old journalist at Melody Maker in London -- in just one chapter -- with no explanation as to how she got there.  If the book is supposed to be an inspiration to those teenagers who are struggling with the questions that Caitlin struggled with  -- who they are and how they're going to get to where they want to be -- then they may well be asking 'well how on earth did she manage to swing that then?'; it's not quite your average first job stacking shelves in Tesco, is it?* That for me is the only alienating part of a book to which otherwise I can relate 100%. 

I don't usually do book reviews on this blog, but this one stirred me up with it's mix of downright common sense, refreshing honesty and absolute laugh out loud hilarity (and since I have three other articles pending, this is an act of supreme procrastination on my part) and is a must-read for all women, and indeed men, and I advise you all go out and buy it for yourself or your sisters and friends for Christmas.

* This mystery is solved in her follow up book, 'Moranthology' (also highly recommend). Clearly she is an avid reader of this blog and was keen to address the omission and put me out of my misery. 

Alone again, naturally going mad....

Since DH and myself are once again separated  by oceans, continents and time-zones (we will join him after Christmas), and without the all encompassing sorrow of hovel-house, nightmare neighbours or fears over DH's liberty, I find myself now free to focus 100% on being a demoralised single-parent.

They don't!

As I write, I am sitting in the cafe in Eason's bookstore, nursing a cappuccino, facing the self-help section, which given my current state of mind, seems appropriate. From where I sit, Louise L. Hay assures me that I can heal my life; Paul McKenna promises that he will make me sleep (not without wine he won't) and Sherry Argov explains why men marry bitches (apart from Brad Pitt, generally they don't: Men are uncomplicated creatures and prefer women of a similar persuasion --insofar as is possible, what with them being women and all -- and want to marry a woman who will make his dinner, give him a cuddle and occasionally go down on him.  And if she is better looking than his mates wives, well that's a definite bonus.)

When I say 'having a cappuccino' I omit to mention the 13-month-old-boy-child who is busily tipping his smoothie all  over his head and mashing a wet biscuit into his face and clothing. Every so often he will struggle forward in his highchair and violently grab anything within reach from the table, flinging it forcefully onto the floor. His high-chair is surrounded by debris and by the time we leave the cafe we've left what appears to be a mini food-fight behind us.  And despite the rather dolorous-looking waitress, I leave a couple of euro's on the table out of guilt.

Babies of this age, whilst for the most part adorable, have a cold, hard quality at times.  Leaning close to request a kiss 'kiss mama, baby, kiss mama?' he will grab my hair violently and tug it until my eyes water.  Proffering a warm, lovingly-made bottle -- with a little dash of honey -- he will lean forward, snatch the bottle, and fling it as far away from himself as he can -- his gaze not once leaving mine -- with all the warmth of a serial killer.  All my babies did this, and it never ceased to amuse and disturb me.  And just as you start to think you're hot-housing a mini Charles Manson, they will suddenly snuggle up close, place a soft, pudgy hand on your face, and land a hot wet smacker on your cheek 'wahhh....mama...'!


These moments make the lone-parent experience more bearable.


Without the bolstering solace of a partner returning in the evening to help chase the kids up to bed, respond to the inevitable text -- 'milk bread nappies WINE!!!' -- on his way home from work, or to just sit and sneer at the egomaniacs on 'Come dine with me' over a glass of wine; being a single parent is a silent and lonely existence where contact with your partner is hindered by phone rates and typing ability (DH's) not to mention a drastic time difference. I drift from task to task, room to room, alone with my thoughts, wondering what my new life will hold for me, what will it look like, what will it FEEL like? Do I want to go? Do I have a choice? No.

This rather cerebral way of living eventually induces a state of semi-madness. My life seems to have  become a series of lost items 'where are the keys/my bag/the hairdryer/the brush?' as my daughter drags a fork through her hair before school.

I'm standing in Tesco pondering the dishwasher tabs.  I make a selection and start to move on before a large American man beside me advises-

- 'these are better value,  you get twice the amount'.

-'Oh, do you?' (WHO CARES? I am truly not very interested in spending any longer than twenty seconds on dishwasher tabs).

-'Yeah, these are like, eight dollars' he continues, staring hard at the box'.

-'Well, one must shop around I suppose' I offer, slowly edging away from what just might be the dullest conversation ever.

The man steps back to reveal his wife -- to whom he had been speaking the whole time -- who is also engaged in examining the many boxes on display.

'I'm going mad' I ponder as I quietly move on, face burning: 'what must they think of me, a mad woman talking to strangers in the supermarket'.  To salvage some dignity I talk to the baby, as if it were he that I was talking to all along. About dishwasher tabs.

And finally...

Forgetting something?

The X factor seems to now have descended into farce; even by it's own standards.  Frankie -- who 'sings' rather like a pre-pubescent version of Marlon Brando in the Godfather -- seems immune to the fact that it is supposedly a 'singing' competition, and Kitty, who's make-up artist is clearly used to working on drag-queens, seems to keep forgetting her skirt.

Apart from Janet, the rest are pretty unremarkable, yes Mischa can sing -- in that aggressive, slightly scary Tina Turner sort of way -- but she still bores me senseless, as does the fat one, and the one who's dream it is to actually go into Marks and Spencer rather than just walking past (hey, you gotta dream, right?).  And the girl-band? Really, who cares? No, it's still Gary that keeps me tuning in each week....