The mysteries of pigeon sex revealed

I came across the article below (Instruction and advice for the Young Bride) the other day, which purports to be marriage advice for the young bride of 1894. I'm pretty sure it is a wind up, and says more about what we think of as what sex was like in the 'bad old days' than how it actually was. Personally I don't think sex was any worse back then than it is now. There are plenty of awful lovers (male and female) now, and there were plenty back then. And I don't buy the idea peddled by sixties feminists, that hardly any females had orgasms before the sixties, and that after thirty years of marriage the husband would not at some point, even by accident, have given the wife an orgasm and thereafter possibly have wanted to please her by doing it again.

My mother has a theory about all this. You can say, oh cavemen were probably bad lovers, but look at any cross section of the animal kingdom, to which we are closely related. Take, for example, pigeons. Observe, if you will, pigeons and their mating rituals. You will see a wide cross section of behavior. First up are the bisexuals/nymphomaniacs who will hop on the back of any bird, be it male or female, be the object of lust covered in pigeon shit or having only one leg. This group is indiscriminate, gets straight to the point and doesn't care if it is rejected hundreds of times a day. Next are the ones who only do females, albeit in a forthright and in your face fashion. Then are the ones who dance about for hours in front of a female, seducing the dear girl and cooing away. These are the sensitive or metrosexual members of the pigeon race, and it is a miracle they have not died out. Last but not least are the ones who are only half hearted in the pigeon seduction technique. They coo about in front of a female for a bit, but are easily distracted by someone throwing a half eaten hot dog on the ground. These are the equivalent of the premature ejaculators and internet porn addicts of today, who can't be bothered with the real thing.

My point being, that throughout time, there have always been all manner of sexual behaviours from selfless to selfish.

And now, read the article and tell me if you think it's genuine:

INSTRUCTION AND ADVICE FOR THE YOUNG BRIDE

The following is a reprint from The Madison Institute Newsletter, Fall Issue, 1894:

On the Conduct and Procedure of the Intimate and Personal Relationships of the Marriage State for the Greater Spiritual Sanctity of this Blessed Sacrament and the Glory of God by Ruth Smythers beloved wife of The Reverend L.D. Smythers Pastor of the Arcadian Methodist Church of the Eastern Regional Conference Published in the year of our Lord 1894 Spiritual Guidance Press New York City

To the sensitive young woman who has had the benefits of proper upbringing, the wedding day is, ironically, both the happiest and most terrifying day of her life. On the positive side, there is the wedding itself, in which the bride is the central attraction in a beautiful and inspiring ceremony, symbolizing her triumph in securing a male to provide for all her needs for the rest of her life. On the negative side, there is the wedding night, during which the bride must pay the piper, so to speak, by facing for the first time the terrible experience of sex.

At this point, dear reader, let me concede one shocking truth. Some young women actually anticipate the wedding night ordeal with curiosity and pleasure! Beware such an attitude! A selfish and sensual husband can easily take advantage of such a bride. One cardinal rule of marriage should never be forgotten: GIVE LITTLE, GIVE SELDOM, AND ABOVE ALL, GIVE GRUDGINGLY. Otherwise what could have been a proper marriage could become an orgy of sexual lust.

On the other hand, the bride's terror need not be extreme. While sex is at best revolting and at worse rather painful, it has to be endured, and has been by women since the beginning of time, and is compensated for by the monogamous home and by the children produced through it.

It is useless, in most cases, for the bride to prevail upon the groom to forego the sexual initiation. While the ideal husband would be one who would approach his bride only at her request and only for the purpose of begetting offspring, such nobility and unselfishness cannot be expected from the average man.

Most men, if not denied, would demand sex almost every day. The wise bride will permit a maximum of two brief sexual experiences weekly during the first months of marriage. As time goes by she should make every effort to reduce this frequency. Feigned illness, sleepiness, and headaches are among the wife's best friends in this matter. Arguments, nagging, scolding, and bickering also prove very effective, if used in the late evening about an hour before the husband would normally commence his seduction.

Clever wives are ever on the alert for new and better methods of denying and discouraging the amorous overtures of the husband. A good wife should expect to have reduced sexual contacts to once a week by the end of the first year of marriage and to once a month by the end of the fifth year of marriage.

By their tenth anniversary many wives have managed to complete their child bearing and have achieved the ultimate goal of terminating all sexual contacts with the husband. By this time she can depend upon his love for the children and social pressures to hold the husband in the home.

Just as she should be ever alert to keep the quantity of sex as low as possible, the wise bride will pay equal attention to limiting the kind and degree of sexual contacts. Most men are by nature rather perverted, and if given half a chance, would engage in quite a variety of the most revolting practices. These practices include among others performing the normal act in abnormal positions; mouthing the female body; and offering their own vile bodies to be mouthed in turn.

Nudity, talking about sex, reading stories about sex, viewing photographs and drawings depicting or suggesting sex are the obnoxious habits the male is likely to acquire if permitted. A wise bride will make it the goal never to allow her husband to see her unclothed body, and never allow him to display his unclothed body to her. Sex, when it cannot be prevented, should be practiced only in total darkness. Many women have found it useful to have thick cotton nightgowns for themselves and pajamas for their husbands. These should be donned in separate rooms. They need not be removed during the sex act. Thus, a minimum of flesh is exposed.

Once the bride has donned her gown and turned off all the lights, she should lie quietly upon the bed and await her groom. When he comes groping into the room she should make no sound to guide him in her direction, lest he take this as a sign of encouragement. She should let him grope in the dark. There is always the hope that he will stumble and incur some slight injury which she can use as an excuse to deny him sexual access.

When he finds her, the wife should lie as still as possible. Bodily motion on her part could be interpreted as sexual excitement by the optimistic husband.

If he attempts to kiss her on the lips she should turn her head slightly so that the kiss falls harmlessly on her cheek instead. If he attempts to kiss her hand, she should make a fist. If he lifts her gown and attempts to kiss her anyplace else she should quickly pull the gown back in place, spring from the bed, and announce that nature calls her to the toilet. This will generally dampen his desire to kiss in the forbidden territory.

If the husband attempts to seduce her with lascivious talk, the wise wife will suddenly remember some trivial non-sexual question to ask him. Once he answers she should keep the conversation going, no matter how frivolous it may seem at the time. Eventually, the husband will learn that if he insists on having sexual contact, he must get on with it without amorous embellishment.

The wise wife will allow him to pull the gown up no farther than the waist, and only permit him to open the front of his pajamas to thus make connection. She will be absolutely silent or babble about her housework while he's huffing and puffing away. Above all, she will lie perfectly still and never under any circumstances grunt or groan while the act is in progress.

As soon as the husband has completed the act, the wise wife will start nagging him about various minor tasks she wishes him to perform on the morrow. Many men obtain a major portion of their sexual satisfaction from the peaceful exhaustion immediately after the act is over. Thus the wife must insure that there is no peace in this period for him to enjoy. Otherwise, he might be encouraged to soon try for more.

One heartening factor for which the wife can be grateful is the fact that the husband's home, school, church, and social environment have been working together all through his life to instill in him a deep sense of guilt in regards to his sexual feelings, so that he comes to the marriage couch apologetically and filled with shame, already half cowed and subdued. The wise wife seizes upon this advantage and relentlessly pursues her goal first to limit, later to annihilate completely her husband's desire for sexual expression."

Mothers Like Us

It's not a dirty little secret, and yet does anyone ever talk about it? I'm referring to relationships, like mine, where the man is way more maternal than the woman. I met a woman yesterday at a kid's party, I'll call her Tamara, and let's say we connected on a very deep level on this topic.

She was standing there, among the yelling three year olds and the squished Dora cake, quaffing wine as if her life depended on it. She was clad in low rise jeans, with a terrifying flat stomach for one who had borne two boys, and who, I was soon to learn, was over forty.

Rather than thinking, "You bitch, how can you have such a toned stomach?" I went up to her and, in an attempt to break the ice, said, "I see you have two boys under three, what are their names?" It was basically an opening for her to start spouting about her delightful kids.

But instead of warm gushing words of maternal pride, she said, "Oh God, yeah, it's something of a miracle that I have kids at all. The doctors told me my husband was infertile, and I was wearing an IUD just to be on the safe side, but I still got pregnant. One, I could just about cope with, but then the same thing happened again! When I found out I was pregnant the second time, I walked around for three weeks in a deep depression. I didn't really want to have the kid, but my husband was so keen, I went ahead with it."

Well. I was rather impressed by her forthright manner. Over a bottle of Chardonnay, she told me everything.

The parallels between our lives were frightening.

How she'd got married in New York at thirty-nine to her husband. Together they brought to the marriage nearly $100,000 worth of credit card debt. Spending $200 a night on sushi was, apparently, an every day occurence for this spend-happy pair.

Actually there's no direct parallel there. I didn't bring any debt into the marriage, but I did used to spend money like there was no tomorrow.

She was living in Manhattan, living a wild bohemian life as an artist, until her IUD let her down. She had the first kid and moved to Baltimore with her husband.

Parallel: I gave up a boho existance in London to move to Baltimore once I fell preggers.

First she and her husband bought a house in Hampden (a downtown neighborhood) and could walk, actually walk to shops (while I lived in a rented cockroach filled apartment). That's what she wanted (I didn't exactly want the cockroach filled apartment, but it was central). Then they moved to a suburb with a big house and a white picket fence, because the husband wanted a nice yard for the kids, while she would have been happy to stay in the narrow Hampden house and be crammed in like sardines (I moved to suburbia too, because my husband said it was a sound idea). On the upside, they sold the first house, and made such a profit that they were able to pay off their credit card debts.

"And now I'm bored out of my skull in suburbia," she said. "I do have one friend down the street who's a kindred spirit. At five thirty I'm usually on the phone to her saying, what are you doing darling, do you fancy coming over for a drink?"

"Oh brother, I know exactly how you feel," I said, pouring her another glass of wine.

"Imagine how happy my husband is now," said Tamara. "Being told all his life he was infertile, all the time dreaming of having kids. And now his dream has come true. It's me who can't cope with it, being with the kids day in day out. Kids were never part of my future."

"You're meant to say, but now the kids are here, I wouldn’t have it any other way."

She snorted. "Well, it's made my husband very happy."

It's the same with me. The kids have made my husband very happy, but they haven't made me very happy. I don't get the kick out of nurturing kids that many women seem to. Maybe I shouldn't have been a stay at home mom, but since I have no right to work, I didn't have much choice. Does that mean I don't love them? No. Does that make me a bad mother? Yes, in most people's eyes.

Tamara said, "I liked them when they were babies, but now they are growing up, I don't like being a parent, having to be consistent, having to implement boundaries."

"I know what you mean."

"Is it wrong to want to close the door on the kids, play classical music and make art while they bang on the door? Maybe, but I need to do it for my sanity."

"I'm exactly the same."

I had thought I was a bad mommy, but Tamara was way badder. She told me, "On weekends I tell my husband I'm off duty. I have a lie in and my husband looks after the kids the entire weekend. And often I drive up to Manhattan and party for the whole damn time."

Hmm, I thought. Unconventional. Some would say the husband was exploited, but the way he looked at those kids, he was madly in love, so no, I don't think he was.

Yeah, yeah, you can call her a bitch, but I think she's great. I think I'm going to be seeing her again….

I'm high as a kite

Scarlett jumped out of bed on Thanksgiving and hopped around the house, saying, "I am thankful for my nose so I can smell, the snow so I can build a snowman," (there was no snow outside), I am thankful for my baby sister and going to school and my teacher, Mrs Edwards." And thus it went on and on and on, until she was grateful for the fact that mice have feet so they can walk and mummy has ears so she can hear, and yes I was irritated by her bouncing around and saying all this, and then I thought. Wait. Don't you realize how much you have to be grateful for?

These past months I was stuck in this depression that dragged me down, that made everything feel like it was covered in a thick layer of dust, that made me feel I could not move forward, however hard I tried. If you have ever been depressed, you know how it is. You take all the problems you have and think and think about them, twist them about in your head, this way and that, until the depression gets worse and worse. This is compounded by the fact that I usually try to bottle it all up and hope it goes away. Why do I do that? Well, this time I didn't, and actually talked about it. Surprise surprise, a lot of people are going through similar things, and surprise surprise, sometimes you can't get through this on your own.

And then, like every time, the depression lifts, and you can't remember what it felt like. The depression was a kind of longing for something, some other life. The feeling that somewhere along the line one took a wrong turn and if one had taken the other path, life would have been more satisfying, interesting, exciting and invigorating. That somewhere there was a life where I skipped between countries, like a female James Bond, getting embroiled in adventures and leaving lovers strewn all over the place like discarded Kleenex.

Depression is just so strange, and interesting. I walked around in this bubble, totally detached from other people, the children, from any task I had to complete. I walked about with an ache in my chest, lost inside the dusty corridors of my brain, getting more and more lost, turn after turn. And yet, now, I can see that the depression was totally necessary. My husband always says, it is you, you want to miserable. But why would I? Okay, I do have the tendency to see light grey as black and small problems as insurmountable, but I don't actively want to be sad.

And on Thanksgiving, I went to a couple of parties and I could see that I was totally cured of this depression. I felt like an Alka Seltzer sparkling in a glass of water. I was the life and soul of the party. I was totally on top form and making people laugh, a lot. And it is simply so strange, that suddenly I can be in a place where I am fizzing about, so that people are actually drawn to me at parties, and actually come up and talk to me. There was this woman I know, who was fawning all over me, and she even asked me to join this interior design firm she was opening.

"I think you'd be perfect. You have a certain style."

"I do? Well, thank you. Um, well, I might be okay at the actual design, but I would be hopeless with the customers. I just wouldn't be able to accept that someone had chosen a color scheme of leopard skin and lime green, with a yellow sofa. I'd have to bite my lip for months and months to prevent myself from pointing out the client's appalling lack of taste."

"Ha ha, maybe you couldn't work in interior design."

"Or maybe I could learn to keep my mouth shut? It pays well, does it?"

"Yeah, but it's hard work. At the firm I was working at before, we sometimes worked seventy hours a week, seven days a week."

Gulp.

"In my new firm, it will still be long hours of course, but it'll be more creatively challenging."

Seventy hours. Hmm.

"Let me think about it."

And that's when I realized I live too much outside reality. Yes, there are fabulous careers out there. But they mean you have to be dedicated to them 24/7. Is that me? Frankly, no. Yes, I am fed up that all I have at the moment are the kids (okay, so they are the most beautiful kids in the world, but they still make a hell of a lot of mess/noise), and the house, which is going to need months of renovation to look like I want it to. Maybe I am totally fed up with trying to be a writer, because somehow I feel like I don't have anything to write about anymore. I need some experiences to get me creatively inspired again. I will probably take a few trips soon. I think that would shake me out of my complacency a bit.

And then, in the end, you realize that you can't keep scrabbling around like a hamster on a wheel. You actually have to start something. You actually have to start with something really mundane, like tiling the bathroom. And then when you have finished that, you can take up the carpets and plaster the ceiling, and then, and then. But when you are depressed everything requires too much effort. But now I am no longer depressed, I will just start. Here's a deep thought: Why sit around like an idiot waiting for husband to finish the bathroom, when I am perfectly capable of doing it myself?

At last! I am reaping the fruits of having children!

People keep telling you shit about having kids. Like, those first few years are so precious and they fly by so fast. Treasure them.

Huh? Treasure years of Sausage and Scarlett squabbling in the back seat. Sample conversation:

"You're a smelly poo poo."

"That's my My Little Pony because it has orange hair."

"No it's not. It's mine. Give it to me. You're a baaaabbbbbyyyyy!"

"Mummy why aren't there just two traffic lights, green and red. What's the yellow one for?"

"The yellow one is for wait for the green or red."

"But people shouldn't have to wait, that's silly."

"I didn't invent them."

"Mummy, Scarlett took my pony."

"Mummy, Sausage just farted. Yuck!"

"Mummy do you want to play I Spy With My Little Eye?"

"No I pissing well don't."

The other myths are, it get's easier as it goes along. The only part that was easy was the first year when they more or sat there looking cute and you could just coo at them and feed them. That part was pretty much a walk in the park. But as for the rest, stressful only touches the tip of the iceberg. Still, I think the experience has changed me. I just do not care anymore if I go into the bathroom and Sausage has painted her face in my eyeliner or drenched herself in $30 worth of Lancome foundation. I thought the kids had just worn me down and I simply didn't care about anything anymore.

And then something happened today. At last I am reaping the fruits of six years of mindblowingly boring conversations and 65,000 hours logged at the playground pushing a swing. Yes, suddenly I am proud of being a parent. Usually I bitch and moan about the fact that having kids restricts your freedom to nothing. But not today.

I had a parent-teacher conference about five year old Scarlett and at last, there were the feelings. The feelings of wow, I am so proud of this kid, I am going to die of happiness when I walk out of here.

Teacher: Well, Scarlett is a delight to have in the class. She always takes turns and shares and takes the initiative in reading, math and she's simply brilliant at art. She is quite honestly, amazing.

Me: (thinks) Well, of course she's amazing, she's got half my genes hasn't she?

Teacher: At the beginning of the year Scarlett could not understand phonics at all, and now she is acing it, she is at the head of the class.

Me: (being pretentious and trying to patronize teacher) Well, I think it may have taken her a while to grasp that, because of course she is learning German, where the pronunciation is more well, phonetic, than in the English language.

Teacher: Oh, I know, I have a degree in German.

Me: Oh fuck I didn't realize that. (No of course I didn't say that).

Anyway, I'm not much of a one to be postitive, but I literally died and went to heaven after that conference.

At last I am experiencing that sense of satisfaction that everyone has been talking about!

Porn is like Ramen Noodles

All right, read on if you want to find out why porn is like Ramen Noodles. But first, I have decided to bare all, and reveal to you, my top ten favorite films. Actually, they are just the first ten that occur to me off the top of my head. There are probably a lot of arty movies I could put in...but my brain isn't too active right now. So these will have to do. Most of the characters in these films are degenerates who actually lead degenerate lives. Whereas I am more a closet degenerate, who cannot cope with the sex, drugs, alcohol and general lack of inhibition you have to have to be a true degenerate (I had a whirl at it in my youth and came up lacking). Ah, maybe one day my ambition of becoming a degenerate will come true, but I doubt it!!

Do you agree with any of my choices?



1. Withnail and I. I've seen this so many times, I've lost count. It's your basic tale of two resting actors in sixties London who have been off their skulls on acid for a week and decide to take a refreshing break in the country at Withnail's totally bonkers uncle's country cottage. They drive up there drunk, in a Jag with its lights smashed out, and don't get pulled over (ah, those were the days), and then proceed to have a really awful stay in the country.

Pissed off and starving, they are woken at night by Withnail's fat uncle, who wants to seduce the shivering and uninterested 'I' character. Basically, it's just the sweetest story of a male friendship I ever saw. Of course, Withnail is in love with 'I' and 'I' doesn't feel the same way, but that just makes it bittersweet.

Maybe this description doesn't do it justice, but this is Genius with a capital G. I can relate to it as a city person. Whenever I used to leave London to go to the country, I'd feel light headed because of the lack of pollution.

2. Sea of Love. I mention this thriller partly because it is a good film, but also because it contains one of the hottest sex scenes I ever saw. I don't really understand how people get turned on by porn. No, let me rephrase that, I can get turned on by porn, but the experience is very much lacking, a bit like eating Ramen Noodles. You can pretend Ramen Noodles is a meal, but really it only satisfies one tiny part of you, it is just sustenance. The orgasm you get from having sex/masturbating after watching porn is kind of like eating Ramen Noodles for me (although maybe for some it is like eating a three course a la carte meal, I have no idea).

But anyway, as in porn, most sex scenes in movies are pretty unrealistic and corny, with people moaning and groaning and doing acrobatic sex etc. But this scene in Sea of Love is so hot it goes off the Richter Scale. There's nothing to it really, other than Ellen Barkin kind of grinds Al Pacino against a wall and kind of rapes him, well not really rapes him, he loves it, but oh my God, that scene is so hot. Does anyone know what I am talking about? Watching that scene is like being in the scene and consequently more satisfying than any amount of porn/Ramen Noodles...well maybe not totally satisfying. You keep wishing you were Ellen Barkin grinding Al Pacino up against that wall. Still, it's pretty satisfying.

3. Chasing Amy. I don't know why I like this indie film so much. It has poor production values, for one thing. But the story about a lesbian (Joey Lauren Adams) who suddenly falls for a guy (Ben Affleck) is extremely well done, has some brilliant lines, is very moving and really gets you in the heart. I am embarrassed to say that Ben Affleck is very sexy in this, although I don't really fancy him since he has gone Hollywood.



4. Kingpin. It is embarrassing to admit, but I crack up every time I see this bowling movie. The Bill Murray character with the massive comb-over is one of the great comic characters of all time.



5. Les Valseuses. They simply don't make films like this any more. This 1974 French film, starring Gerard Depardieu, his best friend, and a beautiful frigid blonde (Miou-Miou) is really funny, as well as being a buddy movie with a heart. The film follows two ageing delinquents on a crazed spree across France. From the opening shot, where Jean-Claude (Gerard Depardieu) is being wheeled along in a shopping trolley by his companion, it is clear this is a slightly demented picture. They chase a frightened middle-aged lady, molest her and steal her handbag. This sets the tone of the film.

From this point on we witness a morass of petty crime, verbal abuse, sexual antics, and violence that the two friends indulge in. Jean-Claude even sexually abuses his friend along the way. And there are also some really funny scenes where both of them try and give the frigid blonde an orgasm. They are both in the bedroom at the same time talking about her like she was a car. "You have a go, I'm getting nothing out of her." "Oh all right then, I'll give it a shot." (She lies there like a sack of potatoes but at some point in the film does have an orgasm).

While it is a disturbing film, it also has a very sensitive portrayal of the central characters. The film doesn't judge their criminality, rather, we gradually develop an understanding of how hard it is for them to cope with their lives. The film then ends as it begins, with no particular start or finish.



6. Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. Russ Meyer is sheer genius, but this film takes the cake. I haven't seen this for a while, but I seem to remember it is about a pure and innocent girl pop group who get sucked into a really degenerate world of transvestite orgies, drugs and rock 'n roll in LA. It is just so over the top and theatrical and features all sorts of people who are so desperate to be famous they would sell their own soul. It's just so kitschy and so gloriously camp I could just watch it over and over. I reckon I should have lived in the sixties, although I don't think women, or dolly birds as some men called them, had it so great back then.



7. Blow-Up. This is one of those films that's so brilliant you can't describe it, but I will try. There's this photographer in sixties London who is a very realistic character. At first you envy him. He is so sophisticated and stylish and goes to so many great parties and sleeps with so many women, and sits on top of beautiful models while he's photographing them etc. etc, yet gradually it is revealed that this photographer is totally cut off from life, and does not feel any pleasure in anything. Then one day, he is photographing in a park and when he gets home he blows up the images and finds that there was a dead body under one of the trees. The previously blasé photographer gets incredibly excited about this, and interested in art again, and although this sounds macabre, it is actually a brilliant insight into the mind of an artist. How inspiration can be totally gone, and suddenly an odd juxtaposition of some new object or person can get the creative juices flowing again.

8. Cabaret. What is it about this incredibly odd movie that I adore? It features Liza Minelli in a ménage-a-trois with an English academic and a sexy German count and, apart from the odd bit of Nazi ultraviolence in the street, makes it look like living in thirties Berlin was a picnic in the park. I really hate musicals, except for this.



9. Starsky and Hutch. Okay, this is a funny movie. But I basically like it because Owen Wilson is so sexy in it. Why did men stop wearing black turtlenecks and leather jackets and wearing their hair long? Why? It's a question that should be addressed.

10. Zoolander. Okay, this is a very funny movie about a male model with shit for brains. But I basically also like it because although Owen Wilson plays Hansel, a dimwitted model, and wears some very odd clothes, he also manages to look sexy. Lest anyone think I am obsessed with Owen Wilson, I'm not. I don't fancy him when he is all clean cut in The Wedding Crashers, which is an appalling film.

Luxury isn't all it's cracked up to be

This year, Buy Nothing Day covers the 24 busiest hours in the American shopping calender, on 24 and 25 November. I will be participating, only because I buy nothing on at least 300 out of every 365 days of the year. If everything about the nauseating excesses of Christmas consumerism makes you want to hurl, I urge you to join me.

I hardly ever use a credit or debit card. I usually don't even carry cash. I get most of my clothes on sale or at thrift stores, because I would not pay the inflated prices of new clothes even if I had money to burn, which I don't. 'Twas not always thus. Six years ago, before I had kids, I did not look at the price tag on shoes or clothes. I was seduced by the cut of a designer suit, the sheer prettiness of silk underwear, the scent of really expensive perfume. I enveloped myself in a gorgeous sensual world. I spent whatever money I earned, not only on myself, but on others. I like to think I was generous.

Sure, sometimes I do still get a thrill from a brush with luxury. Like last year, when I stayed in the Millenium Hilton in Manhattan with my French friend Brigitte. Staying there for the weekend with her did make me happy, for the first few hours, at least. For one thing, Brigitte shelled out for the hotel. For another, we were sharing a room on the 40th floor and one wall of the room was just glass, and the view of Manhattan at night was just so thrilling, it sent cold chills up my spine.

But then, after a few hours, Brigitte started to annoy me. We went out with some friends, and it was obvious she was going to go home with this guy, who, she claimed, looked like Joaquin Phoenix (I couldn't see it myself). But because she didn't feel bold enough to ask him if she could just go back to his place, I had to hang around to see if he was going to ask, which he eventually did, at 3am, when I was ready to collapse from Martini overload. So once she'd gone off with him, I excitedly went back to the hotel room, thrilled that I'd be sleeping in the king size bed on my own, rather than sharing it with her. My joy was short lived however, because she came back at eight am, and proceeded to make lots of noise showering (Why? Shouldn't she have been revelling in Joaquin's scent?). She then got into bed with me and started telling me what a fant-ast-ique lov-eeer this guy was and all about his body. And I'm like, I'm at a luxury hotel without the kids. I want to sleep. I don't particularly find it fascinating that although he is a dermatologist he has flaky skin on his back! Okay?

And then, later that day, I felt a bit like a prostitute. I felt like I had to do whatever Brigitte wanted, just because she was picking up the tab. We ended up haring all over Manhattan to find a certain design of Ralph Lauren shirt for her on-off boyfriend in London, which was very tedious. Then the second night, Brigitte slept at Joaquin's pad, so I had the bed to myself, which was sweet, but didn't compensate for the hours I'd spent in the Ralph Lauren Mansion (which I don't recommend by the way, it's peopled by extremely patronizing shop assistants with gelled back hair, who look down their noses at you). In short, the luxury of the weekend did not outweigh the human hassles of dealing with a Ralph Lauren shirt obsessed French nymphomaniac.

I should be pleased I am no longer the victim of marketing, but it is funny to think that nothing material makes me happy any more. It's good to be so free, but at the same time, so lost. Still looking for that thing that will give me contentment. At the moment only booze, sleep, writing fiction and funnily enough, exercising, make me feel upbeat. Which leads me to the question, what non-material things gives you the greatest happiness?

Preaching Abstinence to People having Sex ...WTF??

The reason I try not to read the papers is that it's all just so sad. What planet are you on Mr Bush? It's bad enough that you preach abstinence to teens, causing huge rates of STDs and pregnancies. But now you are wasting taxpayers' money preaching the same whacked out message to adults. I just read this in USA TODAY:

The federal government's "no sex without marriage" message isn't just for kids anymore.

Now the government is targeting unmarried adults up to age 29 as part of its abstinence-only programs, which include millions of dollars in federal money that will be available to the states under revised federal grant guidelines for 2007.

The government says the change is a clarification. But critics say it's a clear signal of a more directed policy targeting the sexual behavior of adults.

"They've stepped over the line of common sense," said James Wagoner, president of Advocates for Youth, a Washington, D.C.-based non-profit that supports sex education. "To be preaching abstinence when 90% of people are having sex is in essence to lose touch with reality. It's an ideological campaign. It has nothing to do with public health."

Abstinence education programs, which have focused on preteens and teens, teach that abstaining from sex is the only effective or acceptable method to prevent pregnancy or disease. They give no instruction on birth control or safe sex.

The National Center for Health Statistics says well over 90% of adults ages 20-29 have had sexual intercourse.

But Wade Horn, assistant secretary for children and families at the Department of Health and Human Services, said the revision is aimed at 19- to 29-year-olds because more unmarried women in that age group are having children.

Government data released last month show that 998,262 births in 2004 were to unmarried women 19-29, the ages with the most births to unmarried women.

"The message is 'It's better to wait until you're married to bear or father children,' " Horn said. "The only 100% effective way of getting there is abstinence."

The revised guidelines specify that states seeking grants are "to identify groups ... most likely to bear children out-of-wedlock, targeting adolescents and/or adults within the 12- through 29-year-old age range." Previous guidelines didn't mention targeting of an age group.

"We wanted to remind states they could use these funds not only to target adolescents," Horn said. "It's a reminder."

Last year, 46 states applied for the federal abstinence-education money, to fund programs in schools, neighborhood clubs and faith-based organizations.

Sarah Brown, director of the National Campaign to Prevent Teen Pregnancy, says abstinence programs are among many messages that have helped reduce teen pregnancy rates. But "the notion that the federal government is supporting millions of dollars worth of messages to people who are grown adults about how to conduct their sex life is a very divisive policy," she says.

"We would oppose any program that stigmatizes unmarried people," adds Nicky Grist, executive director of the Alternatives to Marriage Project, a non-profit organization based in Brooklyn, N.Y., that advocates for the rights of unmarried people.

For last year's state grants, Congress appropriated $50 million. A similar amount is expected for 2007, but the money has not yet been allocated, according to the Administration for Children and Families.

"I think the program should talk about the problem with out-of- wedlock childbearing — not about your sex life," Brown says. "If you use contraception effectively and consistently, you will not be in the pool of out-of-wedlock births."

Some people are so touchy

Unbelievably, some people simply do not want to be international superstars of the silver screen. The villagers of Glod in Romania, the location Sacha Baron Cohen used to portray Borat's hometown in Kazakhztan, are suing him because he portrayed them in the film as a backward group of rapists, abortionists and prostitutes who casually indulge in incest.

Hey, what are they complaining about, some people would kill for this kind of publicity.

Communication Breakdown

It is raining today and I'm kind of depressed. I've been depressed for a while, and it's taken its toll, in that I've retreated into my shell and have not been communicating very well with my husband. It all came to a head yesterday, when I realized I need to stop going off on a vacation inside my head and actually listen to people.

My husband, three year old Sausage and I went to the mall in the morning. Apparently, before I ran off to go clothes shopping, I said to him, "I will meet you outside the Apple shop at 1 o'clock." I don't remember saying that. I remember him saying, "Don't worry, I will find you later on." I suppose I should have thought that it would be hard to find me in a three storey mall, but I had other things on my mind.

Like finding transitional clothes. Let me explain. In a novel by Louise Wener, I once read about a thirty five year old man, who had spent months looking for a pair of transitional shoes. Like, up until thirty five, you can wear trainers or runners or whatever you call them here, but if you keep wearing them over thirty five, you start to look like a sad old git, or Peter Stringfellow. Once you hit sixty you can start wearing trainers again, because you basically wear one outfit all day (a tracksuit) and trainers. But betweeen 35-60 this guy needed some transitional shoes that screamed, I am sophisticated, I know I am not young, but I am hip.

And this was the rather thorny dilemna I was facing at the mall. I have no interest in dressing like a mom, in sweatpants, or wierd sweatshirts with hearts on them. I am in a transitional phase. I was pleased that I could fit into all those tight t-shirts in H&M with funny logos on them, but not so pleased that they made me look like a 35 year old trying to look 18. Nor am I ready to go the route of Ann Taylor pastel separates. Maybe there simply isn't a chain store in the US for transitional clothes. Maybe there is an entrepeneur out there who could start such a chain. You want the elements of fashion without looking like you are trying and failing to look young.

So I was basically shopping away until about two o'clock, when I'd had enough, and decided to try and find my husband. I had forgotten that I said I'd meet him outside the Apple store, (if I indeed ever said that). But after an hour walking about, I began to feel nauseous from all the foul cookie smells and decided to walk home (we came in his car). So I go to his car in the car park and put a note on his windscreen saying I have gone home. Then I walk home for half an hour. It is now freezing cold. When I get home I realize I do not have my house key. Fuck.

So I sit there for a bit thinking, isn't he going to realize I am NOT at the mall and bloody well drive home? But no, he does not realize that, because apparently (I find out later), he noticed that my keys were stuck on the inside of the front door and consequently did not think I would be stupid enough to walk home with no keys.

So I am stuck in a blizzard outside my front door without a cell phone (I've never had one, for some reason). Eventually I go and take refuge with my neighbor, who looks at me like I am nuts when I tell her the story, but lets me use her phone to call my friend Daisy who eventually picks me up...etc etc.

Meanwhile, my husband is still walking around the mall with a bawling Sausage because he thinks I am still somewhere in the mall. We do eventually meet up later, and neither of us can remember what the other said about meeting up. Which tells me that I am going to have to start living more in reality. Or get a cell phone.

Or, maybe it is just that we need to communicate more effectively. Tell me it is not just me. Surely you've had a fiasco like this with your spouse?

Other than that, maybe someone can cheer me up a bit. If all else fails, I guess I will just have to take a leaf out of this cartoon's book:

Am I the only woman in the world who's never faked it?

Maybe I have blogged about this before, I can't really remember. The subject up for today is, faking orgasms. What's that all about? I just read this article by a woman whose name isn't listed, called Faking it? The tyranny of the female orgasm, who is a bit negative about men and er, the idea that any man could ever actuallly give her an orgasm, but still, it's quite amusing.

Like I say, I've never done it. I think I'd crack up anyway. And secondly, what the fuck's the point? So, you hurt his feelings once in a while. He probably hurts your feelings when he cooks some inedible casserole which you eat and pretend is lovely. It's swings and roundabouts, in any relationship.

Anyway, the lady who wrote this article says:

Most of us do fake orgasm, often. In every porn video the whores are whimpering, snorting and panting from the git-go, at the merest touch in vaguely the right area from a even the rubberiest of male organs. Faking it is de rigueur. Most women do it because given their workload they need to get the sex over with in the nicest way and get some sleep. It’s called “keeping everyone (but yourself) happy”. That principle is a chief mechanism in women’s oppression and I am saddened but not surprised to hear Fay Weldon (who says you should fake orgasms for the male's ego) upholding it.

If you’re Paris Hilton — hugely rich, entirely self-willed and don’t give a damn whether the people around you are happy or not — you can skip the whole performance. In a porn video made by some hustler when Hilton was only 18, he crouches head-down between her thighs, snuffling like a trufflehound, while she lies back, staring expressionlessly at the ceiling.

The sequence lasts about 20 minutes. I almost expected her to ask the famous question from Deep Throat: “Do you mind if I smoke while you eat?” But she remains mute and motionless throughout. She could be asleep. Attagirl.

The rest of us wouldn’t dare to be so disobliging. We moan and groan to make our man feel good, much as a man will tell his date that she’s the prettiest girl in the room. It’s just good manners.

Most of us are too insecure to be upfront about our failure to respond. Weldon is wrong: men are not expected to supply women’s orgasms. These days women are expected to produce orgasms on demand. Regardless of age or fitness or the tedium of the relationship, we’re all supposed to be hot, up for it, in all circumstances, at all times. The insertion of the penis is tantamount to lighting the blue touchpaper. If we don’t go off like a fire-cracker, it’s not the man’s fault but ours. The most potent cause of so much faking it is fear of appearing frigid, of being a “dud bash”.

Okay, at that point she goes off the rails and is obviously talking about some bastard she married who made her life hell and who she is now involved in a long bitter divorce battle with.

But the bit about Paris Hilton is funny. I've been in that situation. If you're bored to tears you can always make a shopping list in your head. Why moan and groan if it's doing nothing for you? I am however worried that I might actually be like Paris: entirely self-willed and don’t give a damn whether the people around you are happy or not. If only I had the 25 million fortune to go with it.

So, what about you. Have you faked it?

Hanging out with the Hos in the Hood

BALTIMORE - SHOCK HORROR! SCANDAL! HOLD THE FRONT PAGE!

Johns Hopkins University suspended a fraternity Monday afternoon following a racially themed Halloween party Saturday night at an off-campus house.

What were these frat boys doing? Wearing Klu Klux Klan hats? Hurling racial insults at black people? Er no, but they were dressed as pimps and prostitutes. I know, absolutely shocking, isn't it?

Members of the Black Student Union and supporters rallied on North Charles Street in front of the campus, speaking out against the local Sigma Chi chapter and perceived racial hostility on campus. Hopkins is investigating the party and said the national Sigma Chi fraternity has imposed a 45-day suspension of the chapter’s activities and will conduct its own investigation.

The uproar began shortly after the “Halloween in the ’Hood” party was advertised on the Web site Facebook.com.

The invitation encouraged racial-stereotyping costumes, and prefaced descriptions of Baltimore as “a ghetto,” “the hood” and “the HIV pit” with a four-letter epithet.

The invitation was attributed to Justin H. Park, who is listed as a Sigma Chi Class of 2008 member on the fraternity’s Web site.

Johns Hopkins said in a written statement that the Greek life coordinator had told the chapter president last week that he found the advertisement racist and offensive, and directed the fraternity to withdraw the advertising immediately, but it reappeared without the coordinator’s knowledge, in an altered but still offensive form.

Two members of the Black Student Union, Louis Young, 21, and Phil Roberts, 20, said they were disappointed by the administration and some classmates’ response to the protest as well.

“People have been walking by saying we are a disgrace to the university,” said Roberts, 20, a junior international relations major.

A small group of black students went to the party and said white students were dressed as pimps and prostitutes. SHOCK HORROR. Outside the front door of the house in the 200 block of East 33rd Street was a plastic skeleton dressed as a pirate, hanging from a rope noose.

“And then as you walked up to the house, you heard fake gunshots — as if there is a gun fight in this neighborhood every night,” said freshman Blake Edwards, 18. "Several of the girls I went with left in tears."

Maybe they should get a life?

“The entire city of Baltimore should be offended by this.”

My take on this. Okay, why should the entire city of Baltimore be offended by a Hood themed fancy dress party? If anything, the city of Baltimore should be offended by the fact that it is full of crack houses, drug addicts, pimps and prostitutes, and has a situation where the McDonalds downtown have bullet proof glass on their windows so people don't get killed from a drive by shooting while they're eating a burger. The party was just reflecting quite a large part of Baltimore reality.

So it's offensive to dress up as prostitutes and pimps, is it? And would it also be offensive if a black person went to a party where the theme was White Trash? No, of course it wouldn't.

Just another example of political correctness gone mad. What do you make of it?

And anyway, since when was Hood a dirty word?

Oh, the agony

Like Bono, I do a lot of charity work, but I don't like to talk about it. Actually, I don't do any charity work, but unlike Bono, I did not, once Ireland declared that artists had to pay a bit of tax on their income, move all my assets offshore, while at the same time preaching a crock of crap about helping the poor and curing AIDS by handing out free U2 CDs. The fecker.

But I digress...I did actually do a bit of good in the world the other day. I met this bloke, Cosmic Shambles, at the Blogger Happy Hour last week. He was having a few problems. On his blog he was worrying himself to shreds about the fact that he was dating some woman he liked too much to have sex with. He kept batting away her sexual advances, because she said having sex with him would be no big deal, while he wanted it to be deep and meaningful.

With my typical directness I got straight to the heart of the problem:

"Why do you even care," I wrote on his blog, "if the first time is a mindless fuck? After that it might become meaningful, it might not. You have to just dive in and take whatever crap comes flying your way. You can intellectualize it to death but it won't help. You know it."

And you know what, he actually thought my advice was good! I actually helped him out! All of which makes me think that maybe I've got a God given gift for solving problems. Not my own, obviously, but other people's.

So if you have a problem, please send it in and I'll set your world to rights. If you have problems that deal with sexual dysfunction, however, it might be best to keep your name anonymous, or I might be tempted to rip the piss out of you. Address all correspondence to Auntie Emma.

How to keep a marriage throbbing with excitement

If someone could write a book about this topic that actually had any practical tips, it would make them a billionaire. My dear old cyber-pal Crankmama had a go at discussing this a while ago, and now I’m going to weigh in.

Esther Perel’s new book Mating in Captivity: Reconciling the Erotic and the Domestic, was meant to be the zenith of sex/relationship manuals. And while relationship counselor Perel’s style is accessible and engaging, the fact remains that I have (unwittingly) followed all her tips, and fail to feel an electric crackle in the air when my husband walks through the door.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that my sex life is bad. Far from it. It’s just that I don’t want to tear off his clothes and go at it on the kitchen table, that’s all. In fact, it’s in the rest of the marriage that I feel the yawn of boredom, not in bed.

Perel states that she regularly counsels couples who say that their relationship is intimate and loving yet sexually dull. While I am only speaking for myself, I would say the opposite is true about my own. My relationship is not particularly intimate, but it is not sexually unsatisfying. I mean, come on, what could be better than having slept with the same guy for six years? They can get you off in their sleep. They’ve had hours of on the job training. There’s none of that incredible awkwardness with a new lover where you don’t dare to say, “Actually, the way you’re doing that is actually very painful.” Plus, I don’t feel the slightest bit self-conscious with my husband about stretch marks, or whether my performance is good enough.

So what I would suggest is, why doesn’t someone write a book about how to make a long term relationship exciting outside the bedroom? Because that book cannot be written, that’s why.

TELL ME THESE TIPS AREN’T BLEEDING DAFT:

According to Perel, these pointers are meant to put the heat back into a relationship:

TIP 1. Download to a Friend – “You don’t have to tell your partner everything,” says Perel. “You should have many people to speak to, not one person you turn to for the trivial and sublime.” Save chitchat for pals and share the sublime with him.

I have lots of friends I talk to about all sorts of different things. But I don’t talk to my husband about the sublime. How in God’s name would that conversation go, anyway?

Me: “I saw a sunrise this morning that made me feel in touch with the whole of creation, like I was a tiny insignificant ant walking about on the great football of life.”

Him: “Er, right, do we need to buy toilet rolls? I’m making a list."

TIP 2. Do what you want – “Each of you go to the movie you’d like to see, not always the one you’d both like to see,” Perel says. “Meet up with him later. It will remind you of who you were Before Relationship, heightening your sense of Otherness.”

Huh?

When we were dating, I would drag him to see obscure foreign Russian films and he’d go along with it, I suppose, so he could fondle my breasts in the back row. But After Relationship he always goes to see his films full of goblins, hobbits, massacres, politicians being beheaded and ultraviolence with his mates and I go and see strange foreign crap with my mates. Doesn’t everyone?

The result: We are not fascinated and intrigued by each other’s Otherness.

TIP 3. Sleep on his side of the bed – When he’s away, spread out and enjoy your freedom. “Don’t feel guilty if you are given a chunk of time to yourself that you are delighting in,” Perel says. “It doesn’t mean you love him any less.”

Again. What the fuck? Obviously, I’m as happy as a pig in shit to have him away and be able to sleep on both sides of the bed and leave croissant crumbs all over it and watch E! Entertainment on TV instead of House, Law and Order and CSI. Who wouldn’t be? And why would anyone feel guilty about it?
TIP 4. Spy on Him. Show up at a speech he’s giving or a ball game he’s playing in. “For many people, when they see their partner at work or doing their thing – something they have nothing to do with – it’s a real turn-on,” Perel says.

I went to my husband’s office the other day, and saw him sitting in a grey cubicle, working at a computer and drinking a can of Dr Pepper, and it was all I could do not to tear his clothes off and rip off a huge section of bubble wrap from a roll standing beside him and just lie down on it and go at it and at it until all the bubbles popped.

Sorry, this point makes no sense at all, unless your husband works fitting Jacuzzis or in some location that would make a bonk in that environment more interesting, say, than in a bed.

TIP 5. Cede Control. Let him plan an entire evening without your input or veto. “Anything you can do that is novel and breaks the routine enhances desire, provided the partner is open to being surprised,” Perel says.

Oh God, this is really embarrassing to recall. We once went to that couples resort, Sandals. You know, you’ve probably seen the brochure, gorgeous looking people lolling around beside pools feeding each other grapes. Well, it seemed okay when we got there, in the sense that there was an all you could drink bar from 11am – 4am. There was just one tiny problem, in that I was pregnant, and consequently had to make do with one daiquiri a night. The other problem was you were stuck in a resort that was filled, not with the attractive models from the brochure, but with two hundred sunburnt tedious English and Americans who wanted to befriend you and play Scrabble. Why? Why go on holiday to play Scrabble? Anyhow, the point is, one evening I said to my husband that he should make a plan for the evening.

By the end of the night, it didn’t look like he had made any plan. So we go back to our ‘chalet’ and there’s all these rose petals leading up the stairs to the door, and I think, oh goodness, someone’s been carrying a bunch of flowers around that are past their sell by date.

But no, it is not that. It is one of those erotic packages that he has purchased from the hotel, something that was probably called 'Honeymooner's Paradise' (includes lager flavoured love cream) or 'Caribbean Climax' (includes pack of flavoured condoms). There are rose petals all over the place, all over the bed. There are all sorts of candles and scented body oils and God only knows what and of course the obligatory champagne. I feel totally knackered what with being pregnant and having drunk my daiquiri, but I manage to drink some champagne and then I get all excited when I see the chocolate dipped strawberries and eat a few.

I should have been a man, I really should have. There’s my husband, all ready to roll about in the rose petals and smother me in oils and anoint me with God knows what and I just want to go to sleep. In fact, I did.
I’m a bitch, aren’t I? I probably don’t deserve him.

Still, he did try, I’ll give him that.

So, since I have done all these things Perel suggests, by rights, I should have the most fantastically exciting relationship in the history of the world, because we are so fascinated by each other’s Otherness that we want to explore this Otherness.

Or maybe I just have a humdrum, dull, cozy as a pair of slippers marriage like everyone else.

How to achieve excitement in marriage? Answers on a postcard please.

A history of fat

ok go


Yesterday I had a startling revelation. “Look,” I screamed at my husband, as I gazed at myself in the bathroom mirror, “there are my cheekbones! I haven’t seen them in years.” And indeed, there they were, smiling prettily back at me. I have also recently seen my ribs. And though I have been thinner than this in the past, this is the only time I have actually kept the weight steady for six months. How did I do it? By going to the gym every day and not eating between meals and hardly eating any desserts. I think I may even have conquered my problem with food.

Maybe the only reason in the past I did not realize I had a problem with food was that until I was thirty my metabolism was pretty high and I was thin and absolutely starving all the time. I used to have friends who’d put on an extra pan of potatoes when they knew I was coming round because they knew that after I’d eaten everything they offered me I’d need more bulk. But, like I say, I was slim. I never worked out, although I did walk a lot around London. I felt ambivalent towards my body. Yes, most of my friends were jealous of me because I am tall and have nice legs, but then I would focus more on the fact I didn’t have much in the way of breasts. Until I was thirty I guess my body was just there. Revelation: until I had my first daughter at thirty, I had never been on a diet in my life.

Of course, I had observed people on diets. A friend I knew at college used to go so far as pouring cold tea on her cereal to save, what, thirty calories? And then she tumbled into anorexia for a while. I suppose I never had to go on a diet because I was never fat. But that wasn’t to say I probably shouldn’t have been eating the amounts I was eating. I would eat when I was hungry but I would also eat chocolate when I was sad, ice cream when I was feeling restless, six slices of toast when the weather was grey (which in England is, let’s face it, a lot). I would get drunk and eat a kebab or fish and chips on a regular basis and never ever thought that that is like a thousand calories or whatever. In short I never made the connection between the amount of food you eat and how fat you become, because there was no correlation, in that I wasn’t fat.

Then I moved to the US while five months pregnant and started eating junk. I sat around the house eating those Big Bag packets of chips and frozen TV dinners, and after I gave birth to my daughter I was practically as fat as when I’d been carrying her. And then I had a new baby and didn’t know anyone so I just ate and ate and ate, until mercifully I went on holiday to Vienna and my mum put me on a diet and I lost the weight. Until I came back to the US, got pregnant again, put on a bunch of weight by pigging out, had the baby, lost weight in Vienna, came back to States, put all the weight on again. Aaaaaaah!

I used to think there was nothing wrong with being fat if you’re happy, but I’m beginning to wonder if that’s true. Like I met this girl a few weeks back who was kind of interesting. She was one of those pretty fat women who just wear everything a thin woman wears but in a size 26. Like she was wearing a shirt with a waist, although she didn’t have a waist and bootleg trousers although they didn’t exactly look much like bootlegs because she was so fat. And she was just weird, she was like totally confident. She was super confident. She was like look at me I’m so fucking gorgeous. I mean, sure, she had a pretty face, but the rest of it was like, out of control. But she did get away with it. She was telling me how she fancied this hot guy at this party we were at and I was thinking, are you insane, are you nuts? Do you really think he would sleep with you in a million years? But you know what, maybe she pulled all the time, maybe she was out with hot guys all the time. Maybe there really are people who are happy being fat, but I certainly wasn’t one of them.

And this time in Vienna my mum didn’t even put me on a diet, she just gave me the psychological going over. “Why can’t you exercise any self control? Don’t you realize that if you eat too much you will just pack on the fat? I’m not going to bother stopping you eating because you don’t want to stop eating.” For the record, even at my fattest I wasn’t that fat, I was maybe at the fattest fat time a size 18. I am now a 10.

And I don’t know what it was, but for some reason the penny finally dropped. And I realized that if you just work out, eat normal sized meals and not junk and crap, surprise surprise, you will be able to keep a steady weight. And that after a while exercise isn’t even hard, because you are fit enough to do it.

And I also realized something else. To keep the weight off you actually have to like yourself. You actually have to say, you are worth something. And then, guess what, sometimes it actually becomes less like a mantra, and more like… the truth.

This post has been censored

The world is packed with nerds and obsessives. Recently, at the tram museum here in Baltimore (I was only there because my daughter was attending a birthday party), I found myself going up and down some tracks, in a tram which was packed with screaming five year olds on a sugar high, as well as a fifty year old man, wearing a bobble hat with a camera slung over his shoulder. While beaming at me in a slightly sinister fashion, the man leaned over and informed me that he loved to come here on a regular basis to ride this perfectly restored nineteen fifties tram. After a brief cross-questioning of which trams I had experience of, the self-confessed train fanatic told me he was deeply jealous that I had rode on a Viennese tram, in his opinion one of the most beautiful trams in existence (or so he had heard). He also told me of a recent holiday he'd made to London where he'd taken 2,000 photos of the Underground network. I said, "You mean you actually took photos inside the tunnels?"

"Oh yeah, it was amazing," he replied, opening his back pack and pulling out a photo album. "It was an absolutely brilliant holiday. I've got some of the photos here, if you'd like to see them." Mercifully, at this point, the tram ride ended and I was spared from having to look at the tunnel photos, although now I wish I had, just to see whether they were simply pitch black. But my point is this. Yesterday, before I went to my first Baltimore Bloggers Happy Hour, I was afraid, very afraid, that it would be wall to wall nerds clutching photo albums full of train tunnels. Because that - perhaps unjustly - is the common stereotype of the blogger.

Mercifully, the people at this blogging thing were all pretty normal and fun. Beyond that, I cannot tell you what exactly went down. All I can say is that I learnt some things that in any other circumstances I would blog about. But only a masochist would blog about bloggers. It is ironic, that you cannot blog about fellow bloggers or you might find yourself blogged about, quite possibly in a negative context.

Ah, feel my pain. Here I am, my memory throbbing with anecdotes, but my hands are tied. The syndrome I am currently feeling can probably best be compared to the blue balls syndrome in the male (for those of you not familiar with this term, it refers to the testicular aching that occurs when the blood filling the vessels in a male's genital area during sexual arousal is not dissipated by orgasm).

Pity me, dear friends, sitting here with my blue balls, my fingers frozen over the keyboard.



Don't hate me because I'm beautiful!