Following advice from bloggers who know more about this phenomenon than I do, I have moved my musings to here
debbiejohnston.wordpress.com
Please visit, I don't want to lose the three of you who I know for certain actually read this nonsense x
Saturday, 13 October 2007
Tuesday, 9 October 2007
Man Booker 07- Sex on the Beach
Two virgins, married and alone. Each bringing private stories, griefs and expectations to the hallowed moment of consummation. No, not another blog of self-confession but a taster of Ian McEwan’s controversial novel ‘On Chesil Beach,’ which is currently shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize 2007.
McEwan has created a devastating tale of a young couple who on their wedding night, implode. Set in 1962, sexual mores are restrained and their inability to communicate intimately, wracks the reader. I have been told I am ‘addicted to melancholy’ and this is one novella that tortured my soul with all the intensity of a Greek tragedy. The traditional corpses strewing the stage are replaced by two young lovers who destroy each other through misunderstandings and paranoia, leaving space for a lifetime of regrets and bitterness.
It astonishes me that a novel of this nature is igniting such critical attention. Some have dared criticise McEwan for poor characterization and plot development, they cite as improbable that any couple, even in the 60’s, approached their honeymoon without having had a full un-dress rehearsal. I found this novel enormously intriguing; today sexual coyness is the social taboo. The Pussy Cat Dolls, Dermot O’Leary and the stunningly gorgeous Rupert Penry Jones in Spooks are a daily reminder of how babies are made.
McEwan defends the right to be sexually conservative, whilst warning against a society where puritanical fear and prudery extinguish the flames before they start blazing.
I remember fondly the days I worked in The Faith Mission Bookshop in Belfast. A favourite coffee break activity of the young men and maidens who worked there, was to read ‘Intended for Pleasure, Sex Technique and Sexual Fulfillment in Christian Marriage.’ We knew where our predecessors had stashed a few well read copies in the vast store. We would sneak them down and squeal with horror at various chapter headings. I still can't bring myself to say the word 'lubricant.' It was a best seller. In a pre-amazon era, who can believe people actually had the nerve to pay in cash, risking the titters of the teenager at the till.
If I am ever privileged to run a church book stall, ‘On Chesil Beach’ will play a starring role in the family, marriage section. No “sixty minute” manual I have ever read has stayed with me as this book has. McEwan has created a ‘how not to“ book, a powerful indictment of expectations that we place on each other.
Most of you are probably following the rugby this month, rugby shmugby, 16th October is the date for me, ‘Chesil Beach’ for Booker 07.
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
Run For Your Life
The Scissor Sisters' Ana Matronic is a woman I love to watch. In the same way I believe blond girls watch other blond girls , discreetly assessing roots, eyebrows and skin tone, deciding who among them is really the genuine article. I watch Ana, impressed by her ability to ooze confidence, beauty and artistic magnetism while maintaining her curvaceous silhouette. I struggle to imagine she returns home after a sell out stadium gig and cries herself to sleep because she doesn't have the body of Gwen Stefani. Had I been asked to name a beauty icon or role model for the 21st century girl, she would have been in my top 3....herein lies my personal moral dilemma.
Recent photographs taken of me at a birthday party bear a striking resemblance to my icon Ana and they make me cry. Unfortunately that day I wasn't wearing full stage make up, nor did I have a stylist to do something wonderful with my hair, but I did manage to produce the 'curvaceous silhouette' all by myself. I had one of those moments that you read about in Weight Watchers, an epiphany, looking at the photograph I was genuinely shocked by what I saw. I'm wise enough to know I'm not morbidly obese, but I'm no longer a svelte 19 year old. Aside from my issues with the scales, fine lines and dark circles are daily clues that my fourth decade is fast approaching.
My dilemma actually lies in how I deal with newly found personal awareness.
One half of my brain is shouting:
"Who cares? You're happy, healthy and loved. Just accept you need to buy bigger clothes. Dump those Diesel jeans from the late 90's and move on. Fake tan, a good haircut and sexy eye makeup works wonders. Stop being so vain, you're a mother, no-one is looking at you. Stop being so self-obsessed, the world is a mess, write a novel of moral worth and stop thinking about how you look. You're a child of God, made in His image, His divine plan doesn't need you to be a size 8 , have another piece of Bournville sister!"
The other half is shouting, keeping me awake at night, eating me alive:
"Sort it out Debs, enough! Thirty is nigh, you're letting yourself go, expect more from yourself, people you used to fancy will see you in streets and laugh. You'll end up wearing tracksuit bottoms everyday, you'll get diabetes and die a premature death. Eat more blueberries, superfoods, wholegrain, YOUR CHILDREN NEED YOU!"
So, my betrayal of Ana M has begun, something in me has stirred. What has happened to my noble ideals of beauty? I suspect I have been corrupted by the culture around me that dictates I look a certain way. Perhaps it is deep rooted vanity, I prefer to think of it as self preservation. This is my public pledge- to strive for fitness over weight loss. I've taken up running, I can now run for three miles without stopping-a big achievement for me! I've been buying Runner's World magazine, dreaming of running marathons in Paris and Norway. I'm addicted to fads, running is my latest flutter, by Christmas this post will haunt me. I'll be sitting with my mince pie and port, humming 'I don't feel like dancing.' But for now I'll run, desperate to hang on to youthful vigour and strength, desperate to still be able to shop in Topshop, oh....desperate to be 'Gorgeous' (sing it Ana)........oh so desperately desperate.....
Sunday, 19 August 2007
In reply to the quest for the Zsa Zsa Zsu....
So.... my best buddy Carrie O’Hara has joined the blogging world. She claimed Facebook wasn’t her thing, she justifiably has no need to stalk the lives of people she once fancied or hated at school. (Regent House has a lot to answer for) Instead she has put her energies into asking questions about life, love and the universe.
She has posed this question: Should a “fabulous, witty, intelligent man” who undoubtedly fancies her be given a fighting chance if she feels there is no “Zsa zsa zsu?” Not being a ‘Sex in the City’ viewer this term was wasted on me, but I now understand it as “Va Va Voom”. I hope that clarifies any confusion.
She has met a man with whom she spends HOURS on the phone, can talk to about anything and still feel affection for. However she stumbles over not having the gut wrenching, palm soiling, mouth drying thunderbolt she wants.
As a child bride, well out of the dating mosh pit, I feel inadequate to answer. However inadequacy has never stopped me in the past having and expressing an opinion, so here goes....
‘Zsa Zsa Zsu’ exists.
It’s the very essence of ‘Romeo and Juliet’; meet at a party, (forget the fish tank, that bit's made up), fall in love, get married, die for that man, all in the space of week.
It’s ‘Bridges of Madison County’, meet a beautiful photographer, have a week of reckless passion, have a sweaty bath, cheat on your husband.
It’s Eric Clapton’s ‘You look wonderful tonight,’ Chris de Burgh’s ‘Lady in Red’, Craig Mclachan’s ‘Hey Mona.
Zsa Zsa Zsu is the beguiling promise that everything will be alright because that man is by your side, adoring you whilst looking devilishly handsome, turning you on in an instant. It sells movies, makes playwrights immortal and musicians adored. I however dare to suggest, it is also criminally responsible for the death of many beautiful relationships before they even begin. It is hailed as the crucial ingredient to make your bread rise, but should we be making life decisions based on a exaggerated fabrication of reality that Hollywood sells us? If this man makes you laugh, feel adorable and vibrant, he doesn’t repulse you, then why apply an extra-terrestial standard of judgement?
I also think ZZZ has to stand trial for the break up of so many marriages. People meet, fall in love, wake up one day, feel the zzz with someone else and walk away leaving a trail of devastation. It has frightening powers, it manipulates and tempts the most devoted. The insatiable desire to be with that person, or the next person, or the next, doesn’t last forever.
However...having said all that, some level of physical endearment is necessary. In that he sounds a perfect match in every other sense, is there some part of his physical being you could focus on and find beautiful. What about his wrists maybe? Or the little bit at the top of his upper arms just before his armpit? Does he have a beautiful strong back?
All relationships, no matter how sensational or mundane in their beginnings call on greater energies than ZZZ to sustain them. I think you should have another good look, stop looking for the fireworks and fan the little flickers of affection that are there. Give it a bash, no regrets....
She has posed this question: Should a “fabulous, witty, intelligent man” who undoubtedly fancies her be given a fighting chance if she feels there is no “Zsa zsa zsu?” Not being a ‘Sex in the City’ viewer this term was wasted on me, but I now understand it as “Va Va Voom”. I hope that clarifies any confusion.
She has met a man with whom she spends HOURS on the phone, can talk to about anything and still feel affection for. However she stumbles over not having the gut wrenching, palm soiling, mouth drying thunderbolt she wants.
As a child bride, well out of the dating mosh pit, I feel inadequate to answer. However inadequacy has never stopped me in the past having and expressing an opinion, so here goes....
‘Zsa Zsa Zsu’ exists.
It’s the very essence of ‘Romeo and Juliet’; meet at a party, (forget the fish tank, that bit's made up), fall in love, get married, die for that man, all in the space of week.
It’s ‘Bridges of Madison County’, meet a beautiful photographer, have a week of reckless passion, have a sweaty bath, cheat on your husband.
It’s Eric Clapton’s ‘You look wonderful tonight,’ Chris de Burgh’s ‘Lady in Red’, Craig Mclachan’s ‘Hey Mona.
Zsa Zsa Zsu is the beguiling promise that everything will be alright because that man is by your side, adoring you whilst looking devilishly handsome, turning you on in an instant. It sells movies, makes playwrights immortal and musicians adored. I however dare to suggest, it is also criminally responsible for the death of many beautiful relationships before they even begin. It is hailed as the crucial ingredient to make your bread rise, but should we be making life decisions based on a exaggerated fabrication of reality that Hollywood sells us? If this man makes you laugh, feel adorable and vibrant, he doesn’t repulse you, then why apply an extra-terrestial standard of judgement?
I also think ZZZ has to stand trial for the break up of so many marriages. People meet, fall in love, wake up one day, feel the zzz with someone else and walk away leaving a trail of devastation. It has frightening powers, it manipulates and tempts the most devoted. The insatiable desire to be with that person, or the next person, or the next, doesn’t last forever.
However...having said all that, some level of physical endearment is necessary. In that he sounds a perfect match in every other sense, is there some part of his physical being you could focus on and find beautiful. What about his wrists maybe? Or the little bit at the top of his upper arms just before his armpit? Does he have a beautiful strong back?
All relationships, no matter how sensational or mundane in their beginnings call on greater energies than ZZZ to sustain them. I think you should have another good look, stop looking for the fireworks and fan the little flickers of affection that are there. Give it a bash, no regrets....
Monday, 13 August 2007
Anyone like a drink?
You may or may not know that throughout the past decade, I have stashed my booze in the laundry basket. When I say booze, I refer to a little wine, Vox’s beers and some vintage Baileys for those infrequent late night soul sessions. I love my parents a lot but the nature of our relationship has always necessitated that my quiet tipple remain a closeted secret, a confession I had only ever imagined making on my death-bed. Looking back through my genealogy I can empathize with their fear. Perhaps I could end up a wizened old bird who steals from the offering plate to buy her daily bottle of Jack Daniels. There are definitely a few horror stories in the not so distant past.
Last week however, three year old Daisy publicly named and shamed. She announced in the shop to my mother ‘Granny, there’s Daddy’s wine juice. I don’t like the taste of it.’
Now, I have known since the day she was born, a whole new dynamic would emerge in my relationship with my parents. On one hand, I’m still the youngest daughter who so desperately wants to please. I make my diabetic, 17 stone dad, fudge because I know that is the most effective way to get his positive attention and endorsement. Until this week, I’ve kept my politics, my ambitions and past times literally behind closed doors.
The immediate showdown was ugly. The expected tears, lectures and accusations lasted the guts of 10 days. I’ll spare you the details, many of them too extreme to be believable in this context. I was truly livid. I worried my relationship with my parents would never recover. They rewrote history in their minds, they questioned where had they gone wrong in raising me?A family conversation, you can only begin to imagine within a very small right-wing-fundamentalist pocket of Ulster.
I seethed and stropped as well as any teenager who so desperately wants to be treated like an adult. They ranted, still petrified their worst fears for their daughter could come true. Ironically, I’m not arrogant enough to think I beyond worrying about. I don’t think I have everything sorted to such an extent that I’ll never make stupid decisions. Therefore in some respects I consider their suffocating judgements, their highest expression of love.
I do have to make my own judgement calls in life. I have lived in fear for the past ten years of my dad finding my Sauvignon. I’ve done everything in my power to protect my status as Daddy’s perfect little girl. I’ve baked buns, lied, worn a skirt, executed a perfect PR campaign. Astonishingly I now feel liberated. Vox keeps using the unseemly metaphor that ‘the zit has been popped.’ The pretense has gone and I can now start to reconstruct an honest depiction of who I am in their eyes. I think I’ll begin by letting mum borrow my modest erotica collection and I'll introduce Dad to Vox Omalley.
Last week however, three year old Daisy publicly named and shamed. She announced in the shop to my mother ‘Granny, there’s Daddy’s wine juice. I don’t like the taste of it.’
Now, I have known since the day she was born, a whole new dynamic would emerge in my relationship with my parents. On one hand, I’m still the youngest daughter who so desperately wants to please. I make my diabetic, 17 stone dad, fudge because I know that is the most effective way to get his positive attention and endorsement. Until this week, I’ve kept my politics, my ambitions and past times literally behind closed doors.
The immediate showdown was ugly. The expected tears, lectures and accusations lasted the guts of 10 days. I’ll spare you the details, many of them too extreme to be believable in this context. I was truly livid. I worried my relationship with my parents would never recover. They rewrote history in their minds, they questioned where had they gone wrong in raising me?A family conversation, you can only begin to imagine within a very small right-wing-fundamentalist pocket of Ulster.
I seethed and stropped as well as any teenager who so desperately wants to be treated like an adult. They ranted, still petrified their worst fears for their daughter could come true. Ironically, I’m not arrogant enough to think I beyond worrying about. I don’t think I have everything sorted to such an extent that I’ll never make stupid decisions. Therefore in some respects I consider their suffocating judgements, their highest expression of love.
I do have to make my own judgement calls in life. I have lived in fear for the past ten years of my dad finding my Sauvignon. I’ve done everything in my power to protect my status as Daddy’s perfect little girl. I’ve baked buns, lied, worn a skirt, executed a perfect PR campaign. Astonishingly I now feel liberated. Vox keeps using the unseemly metaphor that ‘the zit has been popped.’ The pretense has gone and I can now start to reconstruct an honest depiction of who I am in their eyes. I think I’ll begin by letting mum borrow my modest erotica collection and I'll introduce Dad to Vox Omalley.
Tuesday, 17 July 2007
21st century girl
oooh, the books I should have read and written, the cities I should have kissed in, the long late night conversations I should have had....
The regrets of a mother/teacher who only now marvels at the length of school holidays. Family Holiday 2007 is officially over. Rick returned to work today and so begins six weeks of nonstop infant banter with the kiddies. No playgroups, no teaching, no daycare, no escape.
I’m deeply in love with my two-day-week job. I’m already pining for those few hours when I venture out and eat my lunch with adults; people who rarely drool and only occasionally throw their food at each other. I’m going to miss laughing so hard at pupils in my English lit class that I have to go into the store and remind myself who the teacher is. I enjoy drying my hair with a hairdryer, wearing nice shoes and lipstick, skills I haven’t managed to master when I’m at home playing mummy.
In times of need like this, I remember my Granny Todd. She had thirteen children, died aged 58 when my mum was 12. She lived during the war, was forced to evacuate her children to the countryside. She must have felt tiredness to an extent I could never imagine. The palpable toll of thirteen pregnancies on her body, on her relationship with Granda Bobby must have been immense. I can only imagine her anxiety every time he touched her. Another mouth to feed, another birth would perhaps be more than she could bear.
I obviously never knew this woman, the real Lilytodd was the youngest child and her memories are scant. She remembers her singing at parties, making dumpling and borrowing money. She remembers her lying ill on the sofa following chemo and asking Lily to cut her toenails.
I just can’t fathom how hard life must have been, moments of sheer relaxation and utter self indulgence must not have existed. I’ve just returned from France, my only real stresses now are how quickly can I lose half a stone? Will I go the paddling pool tomorrow or visit a friend? Will I make Annie sleep before or after lunch? I’ll have a few rows with Daisy over whether or not its ok to suck blu tac, she’ll make me play eye spy more than I’d like and I’ll be awake from 7am.
I had my hopes and made my choices. The books, poetry and late night bullshitting can all wait, the staffroom with its buttery scones and professional calm can wait, the only thing that won’t is my kids growing up.
Posted by lilytodd at 14:36
The regrets of a mother/teacher who only now marvels at the length of school holidays. Family Holiday 2007 is officially over. Rick returned to work today and so begins six weeks of nonstop infant banter with the kiddies. No playgroups, no teaching, no daycare, no escape.
I’m deeply in love with my two-day-week job. I’m already pining for those few hours when I venture out and eat my lunch with adults; people who rarely drool and only occasionally throw their food at each other. I’m going to miss laughing so hard at pupils in my English lit class that I have to go into the store and remind myself who the teacher is. I enjoy drying my hair with a hairdryer, wearing nice shoes and lipstick, skills I haven’t managed to master when I’m at home playing mummy.
In times of need like this, I remember my Granny Todd. She had thirteen children, died aged 58 when my mum was 12. She lived during the war, was forced to evacuate her children to the countryside. She must have felt tiredness to an extent I could never imagine. The palpable toll of thirteen pregnancies on her body, on her relationship with Granda Bobby must have been immense. I can only imagine her anxiety every time he touched her. Another mouth to feed, another birth would perhaps be more than she could bear.
I obviously never knew this woman, the real Lilytodd was the youngest child and her memories are scant. She remembers her singing at parties, making dumpling and borrowing money. She remembers her lying ill on the sofa following chemo and asking Lily to cut her toenails.
I just can’t fathom how hard life must have been, moments of sheer relaxation and utter self indulgence must not have existed. I’ve just returned from France, my only real stresses now are how quickly can I lose half a stone? Will I go the paddling pool tomorrow or visit a friend? Will I make Annie sleep before or after lunch? I’ll have a few rows with Daisy over whether or not its ok to suck blu tac, she’ll make me play eye spy more than I’d like and I’ll be awake from 7am.
I had my hopes and made my choices. The books, poetry and late night bullshitting can all wait, the staffroom with its buttery scones and professional calm can wait, the only thing that won’t is my kids growing up.
Posted by lilytodd at 14:36
Friday, 29 June 2007
Faking it!
“If you haven't got it. Fake it! Too short? Wear big high heels, but do practice walking!” Victoria Beckham
A full body spray tan has been administered! Having twice been in a postpartum state, I pity the lovely lithe lady whose job it was last night to join me in the cubicle and spray the chocolate orange food coloring.
She accepted her calling with grace and dignity, a true professional. It was quite different from being at the hairdresser's. Conversations about pending holidays and kids didn’t seem quite so appropriate when only one of us was wearing clothes.
A friend confided her husband would pay for her to have a spray tan every week. Apparently lights can be left on for that all important dash from the bathroom to the duvet. A new woman emerges from the same, tired body; inhibitions gone, what price is too high?
My desire for such drastic action was not that I needed to save my marriage but that Vox and I are heading to France tomorrow morning. I want to enjoy swimming with my kids, not be debilitated by a constant need to make sure my bikini bottoms are covering enough of my white Irish behind. As my mum said when I modeled my polka dot bikini last week, a tan fixes everything! Really...as if..? I love you too mum x
A full body spray tan has been administered! Having twice been in a postpartum state, I pity the lovely lithe lady whose job it was last night to join me in the cubicle and spray the chocolate orange food coloring.
She accepted her calling with grace and dignity, a true professional. It was quite different from being at the hairdresser's. Conversations about pending holidays and kids didn’t seem quite so appropriate when only one of us was wearing clothes.
A friend confided her husband would pay for her to have a spray tan every week. Apparently lights can be left on for that all important dash from the bathroom to the duvet. A new woman emerges from the same, tired body; inhibitions gone, what price is too high?
My desire for such drastic action was not that I needed to save my marriage but that Vox and I are heading to France tomorrow morning. I want to enjoy swimming with my kids, not be debilitated by a constant need to make sure my bikini bottoms are covering enough of my white Irish behind. As my mum said when I modeled my polka dot bikini last week, a tan fixes everything! Really...as if..? I love you too mum x
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