Mock Duck

The Inner Gender Stereotyper

Reading Doing the Compossible on stereotypes: here and, rather more hearteningly, here, I was thinking about the whole subject of marketing and sexual stereotyping in books. Like Emily, this is something that greatly exercises me. That every book aimed at women has to have a pink cover. That every book aimed at men or boys has to be written by a man or have an androgynously-named author, preferably with some mysterious non-gender-specific (in other words not female-sounding) initials - Otherwise, we are told, the blokes won't buy.

I usually get pretty indignant about all this stuff except recently I found myself on the other side of the fence. On Vulpes we have been putting together a "Mothers' Day Gift list". Now, part of me quite likes this idea - being topical, being searchable, introducing ideas to people who might not otherwise have thought of them...But that's the whole problem. Because what does constitute a good "Mothers' Day List" and if it wanders too far off the gender-stereotyped beaten track, does it continue to make any sense as an idea at all?

Obviously the favoured theme is Women's Fiction. Most mothers, after all, are mothers. That is one thing we can count on them having in common. Therefore books about family relationships, mothers and daughters etc, would seem to be a safe bet. But then, I start to look at the list and think - but who are these generic mothers we are talking to? Where is my mother on that list? My mother never reads about relationships. She likes politics, or history, novels about the second world war and non-fiction books about the holocaust. (Hmm, interesting Mother's Day List shaping up here.) She likes detective novels, books that reveal something about other cultures, or books of sudoku puzzles.

But then my mum isn't a typical mum, I think to myself proudly. Then I think of all my friends mums. It turns out none of them are typical mums either. What the hell IS a typical mum? Where have I got this "typical mum" sexist notion from?

So what do I add to the list? Politics, I think. The scripts of "Yes Minister" and "Yes Prime Minister". Hilarious whatever your political persuasion. Even Mrs Thatcher liked them. After all, she was a mother. (Gulp)

But can I really suggest a load of comedy scripts for a Mother's Day Book List?

Try again. Detective fiction. Sara Paretski. Strong woman character kicking ass on the mean streets of Chicago. Too young? But who is to say a mother is necessarily old? And who is to say an older mother wouldn't love Sara Paretski anyway? And who is to say any Mum wouldn't enjoy any book whoever it is aimed at? It seems to me that women made up a substantial part of the readership for Harry Potter. And yet who cared about them - all anyone talked about was the importance of appealing to boys.

Sigh. I am slowly turning into my own worst sexist nightmare. Maybe we shouldn't do these themed lists at all. Maybe we should never group stuff together. Maybe we should say "hey we are all individuals!" ("We ARE all individuals!") "Read what you want. Don't ask me what your mother might like! Now...Fuck off!"

But that might sound a bit unfriendly for a Mothers' Day message.

Hopefully there are so many of us on Vulpes and we are so different, that perhaps it does not matter too much at the end of the day. After all, some nice commenter said they particularly liked our recent post on Valentine gifts (another ideological nightmare) because the choices were so "unusual". Perhaps "unusual" can be our new USP.

So, in the end, I just bit the bullet and suggested something I liked. And that Mum liked too. Which then turned out to be out of print. (Boo!) Allowing me to comfort myself with the thought that my choice, therefore, was truly original and unlikely to be reproduced on Mothers' Day lists elsewhere (yay!).

What did I choose? I'm afraid you'll just have to go and look at the list on Vulpes.

(Ok, I didn't say it was going to be really way out  - like "100 sexual positions for the over 60s" or anything, did I? Actually I really wish I had thought of that now...)

Ennui

The trouble with this blog, I've decided, is it's just too much about me.

Me me me me me me me.

I feel kind of sick. Like I've eaten too many of bloody Tunnockses - or been swathing my luxury porridge in double cream and chocolate. (Mmmm.)

But I'm sick of it. Me that is. Or writing. You can talk too much about writing too, I've suddenly decided. My life has telescoped down to the size of a pinprick. And a boring prick at that.

Perhaps I'm just depressed. Probably.

I've been contemplating a post on women liking sympathetic characters (nooooo!) or a couple of blog posts I was reading about writing sex-scenes...and suddenly I felt so overcome with 21st century ennui I was quite...well, overcome with 21st century ennui. I love the word ennui. In fact, I might say it again just to cheer myself up: ennui, ennui, ennnnuuuuui.

Perhaps I need a pet to remind me of the important things in life - food, running around, poo. Not that I believe in the pet industry either. Sigh. Maybe I need to visit a rescue centre and get a cat. Or even a rescue goldfish. Do they have rescue goldfishes? I think it might be time.

I am No Longer Porn!

Just to say: if you want to experience this site in its full green glory you may have to press the refresh button.

And also, Technorati has finally lifted it's ban!! Wee-heee! I am no longer porn. Only writing "porn" will probably make them change their minds again. I now have an expert rating of....dadada...5. Which isn't great but is a start at least. I'll just have to do some catching up.

Plus here's a new review of The Suicide Shop on Vulpes.

Hedonism

Since when did asceticism become so fashionable?

Apart from the whole luxury porridge fiasco, I went round to a friends the other night (you know who you are) who proceeded to rave about her recent holiday. Skiing down the Alps? Sunning herself in the Algarve? No, nine days of silent, segregated meditation in a cold German retreat.

"It was great," she enthused. "It's all about breaking through the pain barrier."

Hours of sitting stock-still in the lotus position in a cold drafty hall  without being able to move doesn't sound like my idea of fun.

Other friends are busy going organic, refusing to take even so much as an aspirin's worth of conventional medicine, avoiding anything with E numbers (even if that E number is Vitamin C) and ruthlessly excising anything that risks engendering a mild sense of enjoyment such as caffeine, sugar, alcohol, cocaine...that sort of thing.

Yesterday, I went round to another friend's (you know who you are too, come to think of it). "Bring pudding with you," she said cheerfully.

"Oh," she said, peering at the chocolate concoction in a jar I brought (from Peckhams. See porridge post.) "I forgot to tell you. I've given up chocolate for Lent."

Lent? But she isn't even religious.

"Yes, but I was getting into the awful habit of having a Tunnocks teacake every now and again."

SINNER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"But you're like a stick."

"That's not the point."

"What IS the point?"

She looked at me, witheringly. But didn't come up with an answer.

Back to the meditation party:

"I really should do an hour a day in the morning and an hour again at night. But I've lapsed a bit."

Bloody hell.

"And I shouldn't really be drinking anything because they don't approve of alcohol and..."

Argh! Yadda yadda bread products. Yadda yadda dairy. Yadda yadda E numbers.

"Right," I said to The Geek, as we headed home. "That's it. As soon as we get back we're having a chocolate bath with four joints stuck up our nostrils, a big bag of pick 'n' mix Es (with matching E numbers) and...ooo...let's really push the boat out and treat ourselves to a hedonistic bowl of unwashed inorganic genetically-modified salad leaves."

The Geek rolled his eyes. "You are such a child."

"Well if you think I'm going to be silent for the next nine days you have another think coming!"

We walked on in silence whilst I contemplated pushing through the pain barrier with a Tunnocks teacake.

Random Thoughts I Had Today

1. Changing the working day to the working night

After a conversation with taxi driver working 5.30-1am I thought - why don't we all move our working day to those hours? And school too for that matter. People could spend the day in the sun (what sun?), outside with their kids, walking their yapping bleeding dogs three doors down that is driving me mad...
Sorry. And then everyone can spend their time in the office when it's dark outside anyway and they're not missing much except another episode of Celebrity Come Dancing. Obviously there would still be the odd shift-worker (gardeners, flower-growers etc) doing days for extra money but...it seems to me that as a general policy it would make so much more sense. Am I some sort of unsung genius or has the porridge  just gone to my head?

2. Where ARE all the Porridge Entrepreneurs?

I have never met one. And yet (like a fool) I bought a tub of Peckham's luxury porridge with walnuts for £1.25. I opened it up and found - cold porridge with a walnut or two chopped up on top. I'm not sure what I expected really, but somebody somewhere is making a killing.

Geek Dreams

The Geek and I watched The Bourne Ultimatum last night. Not as good as the other two, I thought, with slightly too much jumping about for an old person like me, but pretty good all the same. It put me in mind of the Geek's dream-book, which I have been meaning to write about for some time.

He started keeping a dreambook because of some tome he was reading that seemed to think it was a helpful thing to do. The small rumpled notebook used to hang about temptingly in the bedroom, next to the cold cup of coffee and the clock radio. I would occasionally pass by and resist the temptation of flicking it open.

Then one day I was tidying and - well I put it down to the shock of the vacuuming myself, I wasn't in my right mind - I just thought "bugger it", said down and read it.

It was like nothing I could have imagined. Page after page of recurring dreams. And this is how they go.

The Geek is sitting at the computer in the flat. Suddenly two black-clad figures burst through the window, glass smashing everywhere. They tell the Geek they are members of the FBI, the world is facing a new terrorist threat and there is only one man who can save the planet.

The Geek pulls away shaking his head.

"You!" (No pressure, then.)

"But...but...how...?"

They look at each other knowingly.

"By constructing THIS!"

They stand aside to reveal...a flatpack Ikea wardrobe.

"Right. You've got ten minutes to build it or the world goes tits up. You get going and we'll read out the instructions..."

Ha! Beat that, Jason Bourne.

Some Benefits of Trainspotting

My four year old niece has been visiting my parents and we have been over to see them a few times. She is a rumbumptious sort. Asked why the yellow bus is her favourite toy she cries, "because it's the noisiest!" asked why she likes the Tweenies, the answer is the same. At the end of one day, no less than 8 adults lay around in various states of shattered-heapness, whilst she suggested, "let's play the running around screaming game again!!!!"

But then we discovered an extraordinary thing. Having taken the Geek upstairs to show him her new room in my parent's flat, after a while we suddenly realised something was different. There was a strange thing cast over the flat. A strange thing called quiet.

And the quiet went on and on and on. Eventually we got up and tiptoed upstairs and peeked into her room. There, on the floor, two concentrated figures sat. One tiny child, one tall hairy bespectacled geek, both huddled over the the Geek's trainset, that had been residing in a box in the parents' attic.  My niece operated the train, whooshing it round the track a few times before pulling slowly into the station, whereupon she would bark a few instructions to the Geek.

"People in!" or "People out!"

He would dutifully oblige.

With distressing frequency, people would have to be removed from the train to go to hospital. "Quick, they are bleeding. They are bleeding all over!" The odd person would have to get off because they had "forgotten their prescription".

Meanwhile, the Geek patiently constructed platforms, trees, hospitals and other emergency buildings (to house all the bleeding people), whilst still carrying out his stationmaster duties putting people in and out of the train.

And so they stayed. All afternoon. Not a peep out of them.

At dinner, my niece came rushing in breathless, downed her tea as quick as she could before racing back upstairs. We looked at each other in amazement. How was this possible? And the quiet continued. No shouting. No noisy buses. No tweenies.

Eventually, much to her distress, it was home-time for the Geek. ("He can come back another day"). On the way home I asked him his secret.

He shrugged. "I like playing with the trains," he said, "And I'm calm. Unlike you."

So simple.

Romance

You know how it is. You are lying in bed with your boyfriend, the sunlight sneaking in past the curtains on a Saturday morning. The outside world does not exist. The sounds, the bustle of the street all melds into the background. It is just the two of you, wrapped in your own little cocoon. You stare into each others eyes and you know this is a moment of intensity, a moment of connection. You reach out a hand and stroke a finger sleepily down the side of his face.

"What are you thinking about?" you whisper, gently. 

He gazes at you; time eternal spins on the axis of this moment. His eyes seem to melt into yours. You let out an involuntary sigh. Giving yourself up to the moment. Giving yourself up to his words...
"Spaceships," he says.

I know you are out there....

Hey all you C19th proboards people (I have ways of knowing you're there! Err...actually I was told I'd been linked to) - don't be shy. I'd love to hear about your forum experiences.

Dwarves and elves

My friend, Lisa, and I decided that we are the elf and the dwarf in The Lord of the Rings. She's Orlando Bloom and I'm Gimli.

"Oh yes, that's about right," said The Geek, eating a sandwich.

"What?"

"You are like Gimli."

"You're saying I'm short, fat and hairy."

The Geek pauses for a moment then starts munching again.

"Well, he's Scottish."

I glare at him.

"You're saying I'm a short, fat, hairy dwarf?"

He pops the end of the sandwich in his mouth.

"You ARE saying I'm a short fat hairy dwarf."

The Geek pauses momentarily before heading to the loaf to cut another slice.

"I was just agreeing with you."

"But you're not supposed to agree with me!!"

"It was you and Lisa that said it."

"WE'RE allowed to say it. But YOU'RE not. YOU'RE not supposed to see me that way. You're supposed  to be romantic. You're supposed to see me as a...as a supermodel crossed with an angel."

He crosses over and puts his arms around me. "I do see you as supermodel," he says and I relax back blissfully into his arms. "Crossed with a short fat hairy dwarf."