feminism vs domesticity

I read this in the Guardian the other day, and felt the need to write some thoughts.

Baking, sewing, knitting - all of these things are "female", they are done by women, by housewives. Or is that simply a gender role ascribed to women in their idealized role as mother and housewife? I do think these acts can be feminist - but they can also be distinctly unfeminist as well. The key to them being feminist acts is one of choice;

"what makes this modern domesticity very different to the old-fashioned kind is that it is done out of choice"

women do not need to sew, to bake, to make and mend clothes in this day and age. It is much, much easier to go down to the shops and buy your clothes and your cakes and your ready meals. I think because cookery has now been associated with craft, we have the question about the "feminist-friendliness" (for want of a better word) of modern domesticity. When we still have the Daily hateMail spewing its message that women belong in the kitchen and that we are failing if we don't cook all our meals from scratch every day we can see that the housewifely ideal has never gone away.

That said, unlike the image we feminists have of the 1950s housewife - baking and sewing because she is expected to, out of duty, not love - the modern, mildly subversive domesticity of websites The AntiCraft, Craftermath and Cut Out + Keep shows that people (not just women) use their hands and minds to create beauty and usefulness and whimsy out of joy and pleasure - because they enjoy it, because they can, because they have the time to.

Yes, I enjoy my domesticity. I choose my hobbies; I know that nobody requires, nobody expects me to make a fresh cake for tea, to darn socks or make my own curtains. I do it because I want to, and because if I don't feel like it, I can head to the supermarket and buy some cake, or a skirt, or a cardigan. Yes, I enjoy cooking for others; for me it is something I do out of love, the same as when I make Gareth socks, or my grandfather a hat, or my mother a cushion, or myself a jumper. It's something I do out of choice, and that, ultimately, is feminist.

essay fun

I have a sort of intellectual overload, ideas and wordswordswordswords spinning around in my little brain until the only recourse is to go away and not think for a little while.

Excuse me while I go find something intelligent to say about gender as spatial performance. I think my brain is going to melt.

Good Things and Bad Things

I hate not seeing him when he's ill.
I hate it when he cries.
I hate that he won't talk to me when he's stressed.
I hate it when I can't put my arms around him and tell him it's all going to be alright.
I hate not being able to make sure he eats and doesn't live off whiskey.
I hate it when he doesn't talk to me.
I hate being so far away.
I hate it when I wake up reaching for him across the pillow.
I hate that he doesn't look after himself.

I love that he worries about others.
I love the anticipation of knowing that I will wake up next to him in a week, a month, a day.
I love the sound of his voice.
I love that he shows emotion.
I love that he hates upsetting me.
I love that he cares.
I love that he loves.
I love him.

I just wish it was easy and simple and clear and that he was close and well and happy.

But I know that I wouldn't change him for the world.

hooray!

As of yesterday, I am no longer a vet student. I didn't quit, but I'm not going to appeal after I failed my exams again. I tried - if I'm honest, I probably could have tried harder, but at the same time, my heart wasn't in it.

I hated large animal work - I hated animal husbandry, spending hours trying to find somewhere that will house you, feed you, and then working for two weeks without pay on something you have zero interest in (pigs anyone?). It just never gelled with me, and I resented it, resented how stressed it made, how tired I felt, and how completely disillusioned. I just wasn't interested in it, I never, ever even considered working with large animals, and I wasn't raised around animals - and I was always irritated by the amount of knowledge we were assumed to have about farm animals.

That was my biggest problem - the sheer disillusionment. I wanted to be a vet, but being a vet student... not so much. I didn't like the atmosphere, the attitude of many of the students en masse (while on an individual basis, I liked the majority of people) which was so competitive, so "look at me, I'm fantastic", "work hard party harder" and very, very cliquey. It wasn't a good place for someone whose depression is so triggered by stress (both mine and others', which is why I avoided the place a lot of the time).

I'm relieved, though. I really wasn't enjoying myself at all, and what I did enjoy was such a small part of what was going on. I didn't feel supported, or even noticed (for fuck's sake, I was still on the lists for second years, and kept getting angry emails because I wasn't at a second year lecture/workshop/whatever).

So... now I have to decide what to do now. I don't want to do something for the end result, but for the sake of doing it. I'm probably going to go for something with women's studies (probably english lit., international relations, or sociology). Something that interests me, something I'm curious about - but not something that is going to lead to a specific career. I've got my CELTA, I could go into teaching, or journalism, or working for a NGO. I could do anything, I don't have a single line to walk along any more.

projects

I have a monstrous to-do list, as usual.

• Make dresses, plural - I have fabric for three dresses, and patterns for them; two wrap dresses (red knit and a printed jersey), and one vintage 1950s vogue dress that I have to make up in white polycotton to make sure the sizing is right before I start. I then have to find suitable fabric.
• Fix the dress that i've got hanging in my wardrobe, and has been half-finished for a year now. I really need a dress model
• Make dress model. For this, I need an assistant to wrap my torso in masking tape - any volunteers?
• Make a dog coat for a certain hound.
• Make something for F - probably a hoodie or cardigan. For this, I need F, or an item of his clothing, and I currently have neither.
• Do something with my cross-stitches. I now have three squares, and an idea for a fourth, and I really ought to do something with them.
• Find something to do with that pink cord.
  
• Learn to crochet.
  
• Tidy my house
  

it's half-empty!

The mothership and I went to ikea today, after dropping off BoyWonder's cricket and hockey bags at one of those storage companies. I love ikea, but hate it too. It's full of the most wonderful, useless stuff - ok, some of it is dreadfully useful, but that's the stuff I don't need. The useless stuff is what I want. I ended up buying another dog bed for Indigo - this wonderful soft donut shape, covered in fun fur with legs and a tail - because I'm trying to persuade him to sleep more on the floor.

But, pleasantly - and surprisingly enough - the store was quiet. There were blissfully few people, few screaming babies (except for a few delightful preschoolers who needed putting on a lead). I know ikea is a family friendly shop - they're proud of it. And I do like kids (well, most of the time... except for the screamy ones, and preferably if I know them) but sometimes it's just so lovely to not have to dodge prams and toddlers.


Other thoughts... I've become addicted to wardrobe_remix on flickr. I love looking at the pictures; they're far more inspiring than the skeletal identikit models in the magazines, and show a gorgeous range of styles and ideas than you see just walking along the street. It's driving me to be more creative about what I wear, but also reminding me why I don't read women's magazines regularly.

Daphne

It's a strange thing to think that she's been gone nearly a year. I know people will say "she was only a bunny, they don't live long", and I tell myself that, but... Daphne way my bunny. My baby, my friend and confidante and comfort. I got so used to waking up to her bouncing on the bed by my head before climbing onto my desk - she knew that was the one place she wasn't allowed, and therefore the one thing guaranteed to get me up. So used to hearing her thump and charge up and down the halls, sniffing everything, playing throw with her ball or my shoes or a book or whatever caught her attention and clearly needed a good chewing.

She was such a foul-tempered thing when I first brought her home. She would chase T out the room, bite anyone foolish enough to put a hand under the sofa, snort and hiss and snarl like the Killer Bunny itself. But part of her was always loving, sudden moments where she's sit happily in my lap, or by my feet on the floor. She had to know where I was; she became my shadow, and I couldn't move without her taking notice.

I cried when she first kissed me. I was lying on the floor, desperately trying to communicate with my cantankerous bundle of fluff and spite, nearly asleep... when she decided that I wasn't so bad, after all. And that my hair was tasty too - so she licked my face, thoroughly. It became a routine; I'd sit, she'd hop up beside me and lick my hand... and I'd stroke her ears. We did it every night.

It's still quiet without her; literally as well as metaphorically. She was a noisy so-and-so, really. Full of bounce and adventure - I can remember her climbing all over my bed, along the back of the sofa - getting everywhere and into everything.

And then, a few days after we moved, she became ill. She lost her appetite, and lost her will to explore. She would sit in my lap, ignoring Pete completely, but lying so still and heavy. She faded over a few days, but she would still try to kiss me, even when she couldn't breathe properly, when I was syringing fluid down her and she would still try to fight back.

I don't know how long it will take for me to really get used to her not being around. Somehow, I don't think I ever will.

drunken butterfly

I miss him
I love him.
These two thoughts are constant in my mind, part reassuring, part worrying, always hovering near the surface.
Sometimes, it scares me.
How strongly I feel about another person.
I've been in love before.
At least, at the time, I thought myself in love.
But perhaps, loving him as I do now, perhaps I wasn't as in love as I thought, but only in love with the idea of being in love.
I know I want him near me, beside me.
Not far away, on the other side of the ocean, but close, in the next room or down the road or in my bed.
In my heart.
I want to share what I have with him.
To be there when he's tired, angry, hungry.
To laugh, fight, love and cry.
The phone helps, he's not so far away when he's on the other end.
But still not close enough to reach out and touch, although if I close my eyes, I can feel his arms around me.

Revision (part eleventy-billion)

I think I've reached that stage in revision. You know, that one. The plateau stage. I've gotten to the point where I sort-of know everything, vaguely. Most of it isn't in any great detail, and I couldn't tell you much unless I was under exam conditions (I do better with the adrenaline rush). But when I open my notes, I know it. When it's in front of me.

Consequently, I'm familiar with what I'm reading. I've already re-written it, made notes on it at least once. I've recorded it on tape. It's old news to me now. Every now and again, I come across something new (today... population genetics), but it's finding the new information in an ever-shrinking pool of available notes that gets harder every time. And consequently, there is a greater temptation to procrastinate.

The Boy Wonder has gone back to school, and the hound misses him. He got all worked up when the brother started getting his stuff together, hoping he was going for a walk (it's raining, and he won't want to go... but every time he gets excited) and now he's lurking in his bed, looking mournful. I enjoyed having BW over this weekend. He's good company, most of the time... when he wants to be.

attack of the blimp...

I just saw this. While I think that lots of teenagers are indulging in a little under-age binge drinking (and who among us hasn't, just once?) I don't think banning parents from allowing their fourteen-year-olds a half a glass of wine at a dinner party, or a can of beer at a bbq is going to solve the problem. In fact, under their parent's eyes is probably the best place for the little buggers to discover what alcohol does to them. It takes the edge off it, takes a great deal of the illicit thrill of that first swig of vodka before the school disco away, and above all, ensures that the kid isn't going to poison her/himself and pass out.

The rest of it, ok. I mean, let's ban alcohol adverts - although I'd like to see that carling advert banned just because it's fucking annoying - and make it tougher to buy drink when you're a pimply fifteen-year-old. Let's decrease the legal drink-driving limit. Kids are going to drink. Banning them from doing it in the safest of places is just going to make it more dangerous. Raising the drinking age to 21 is going to mean more alcohol is sold illegally. And it's going to put a bit of a damper on the convivial evening meal with the mothership.

Objections

Object, damn it
I want an objection
You are allowed
I won't bite your head off
I wouldn't have said anything if I didn't want an objection
I wouldn't have bothered to say anything if I didn't care whether you objected or not
In fact, I think I want you to object
Loudly
Strenuously
With intention
Please object?

I think I shall go mad

And I'll Fight Like Hell, To Hide That I'm Giving Up

Yawning
I must stay awake
I scribble words, scrawl nonsense, inscribe the dregs of my mind that should be concentrating on futile cycles.
The is futile.
Resistance is futile.
The futility of waking, sleeping, concentrating.
The antisense approach, reaching understanding backwards through a mire of confusion.


No, I have no idea where that was going. I think I fell asleep while writing it. The power of a boring lecturer.

I'm tired of being fucked around. I know he doesn't do it on purpose, he doesn't intend to upset me - apparently trying to be pleasant about it means I'm not upset; I'm not allowed to be upset after the event, and furthermore we're not going to argue about it because he doesn't want to piss me off. Well, I'm already pissed off, and I'm not in the mood to get pissed off enough so that I end up apologising for being pissed off because I get so goddamned angry.

So instead, I'm going to give up.

Rambings

I've just gotten back from taking Indigo for his late-night walk. Or rather, he's taken me - we march down to the grass, have a cursory sniff of the first few trees, and that's that, thank you very much, quick-time back to the house. The final training attempt of the night is undertaken; "Sit."
Just give me the biscuit.
"Sit."
fine, I'll go stand on my bed. Stuff biscuits.
"Sit."
What do you want? Why are you pushing at me like that, give me the freaking biscuit already.
"Sit."
No.
"Oh, alright, have the sodding biscuit."

I'm in a peculiar sort of limbo, not sure whether I'm starting next week or not, whether I'm supposed to be attending meetings or getting myself a job. I walk the dog, make earrings, talk to the bunny, walk the dog... all to the background of radio four and the rumble of the tube. I shop, returning to find Indigo lying where I left him standing nearly an hour before. I feel cruel for leaving him but I know he's not the sort of dog who will lie quietly outside sainsburys. I buy food for him, forgetting my own groceries in an attempt to tempt a palate that I suspect is only fussy because he's seeing how far I'll go to see that he eats. Oxo is rejected in favour of bisto, biscuits over weetabix despite the assurances of the rescue that most greyhounds like cereal for breakfast. Babybel are taken and delicately dropped on the floor, biscuits are taken and then crunched in his bed, leaving a trail of crumbs over the floor of my bedroom. The hoover is eyed with suspicion. Mozarella is consumed with gusto, cheddar is preferred, and carrots are really only acceptable after a few hours soaking in lukewarm gravy.

I wonder what I'll do this time next week - how early will I have to get up to ensure he gets a good walk before I leave for lectures? I have to buy a bike pump so I can cycle to camden instead of squeezing myself onto an already over-full and under-ventilated bendy bus for a tedious journey spent clasping a clammy yellow pole and trying not to hit anyone with my bag while desperately avoiding everyone else's eyes in the peculiar manner of the english on public transport. I will cycle through the park instead, even though I haven't cycled in years, don't own a bag suitable for carrying on a bike - I will have to get a rucksack or something - and I'm not even sure of the way.

I can't believe it's this close. Part of me doesn't want to go back, wants to live a life of not doing very much at all, but part of me is bored, needing something to stimulate the dusty spaces of my brain with the tedium of pH balance and protein synthesis. Even though I know what's coming, have the notes and fool myself into thinking I actually already know most of it. I'm not longer sure I do, though. I'm not sure I ever did.

Part of me wants to pick up and leave - take my dog and my bunny and pack my clothes into a suitcase and just go. Except I don't know where. I don't even know why; I've spent the last year longing for somewhere permanent-feeling, four walls I can call my own and yet the moment I'm withing them I want something more. Perhaps it isn't the need to leave, more the longing for an unidentifiable something - someone - that might complete this space. Until someone enters my four walls, and I am reminded how much I value this sancuary from the world.