Commercial announcement

FYI: Purlescence now has a blog. If you have any interest in crafty stuff, you might want to check it out. If not, not.

As you were.

The Big View

For your reading pleasure: a lovely little website devoted to "philosophy in its widest sense" - including science, mythology, and so on. It's beautifully designed, beautifully written, and full of nifty nuggets. How unusual is that? I think I have a little crush on this guy.

And if you don't want to bother reading about quantum theory, just try the past life analysis. See? Something for everyone.

Something I never imagined I would ever say

I wish I could vote in Texas.

Kinky Friedman for Governor! Without a doubt, the most exciting political idea I've ever heard. I mean that just on principle, obviously, but with a platform of healthcare, education and renewable energy, it actually sounds pretty damn reasonable too.

Plus, when he's out cutting ribbons and such (or whatever governors have to do for PR), he will no doubt leave the cat in charge. And that's never a bad thing.

Please tell me they're going to sell "Vote Kinky" buttons. I really have to have one of those. The Wanted T-shirts aren't bad, but I want to Vote Kinky. A rule for life, really.

A ridiculously long and inconclusive post. I wouldn't bother if I were you.

I keep hearing that women don’t blog. Funny, I think, casting an eye over my blogroll. I’m pretty sure they’re not just pretending to be women. Definitely sure I’m not. Some people even say women blog more than men.*

When I first heard that — which was also when I was new to blogging — I thought, but of course. Makes sense. Blogging is communication, and women are known to rather dig communication. So I was quite confused to later hear all the “women don’t blog” statements. So I thought about it a bit, and formed some wholly unscientific conclusions, based on wildly generalised and contentious assumptions about gendered behaviour that are sure to upset somebody. Shall we begin?

Hopelessly Sexist Axiom 1:
Women dig communication. This is a truth universally acknowledged, though expressed in various ways, from “girls just love to gossip” to “wimmin’s empathy and communication skills are proof of their innate superiority”.

HSA 2:
Women are frequently disinclined to spend large amounts of time on complicated technology. Now, please note what I am not saying. I am not saying: “women don’t get tech”. I am not saying: “women aren’t interested”. I am definitely not saying: “women are dumb”. All I am saying is that most women do generally prefer their tech to be simple, straightforward, easy to use and with an obvious point to it. This is of course far more contentious than #1 and it is far easier to point to the exceptions, but I stand by this statement, largely because of

HSA #3:
Women are busy. By and large, we do more housework; we do more caring for children and elderly parents; we have all kinds of unpaid, often unconsidered demands on our time. (Not to mention the very time-consuming demands of grooming the female body into a socially acceptable form – but that’s a whole other post.)

So by and large, we don’t want to waste time figuring out how to work something that may or may not prove useful and/or fun; we want to first know what it can do for us, and second, we want it to do that with the minimum of foreplay. As it were. I do know women who will happily tinker about with something of dubious function for weeks on end, just to see what it does, but for every one of them, I know 10 men like that, and 10 women saying “show me when it’s working”.

HSA #4:
A lot of what keeps women busy, keeps them isolated, as any mother of small kids will tell you. I don’t think I need elaborate on this; it’s pretty self-explanatory.

So: women discover Blogspot and Livejournal, weep tears of joy because they can now engage with the world on their own terms, in whatever small bites of free time they have available, and it is easy as pie to do so. No fiddling about unless you want to. Blogs offer the full gamut of communication, from idle gossip to high-level discussion of Serious World Affairs. The toddler-imprisoned mum can connect with others similarly oppressed, or remind herself she has a brain by taking part in far more high-brow conversations.***

So: “Where are all the women bloggers?”

Or rather:
“Where are all the women who should be blogging Big Important Opinions on Big Important Subjects on Big High-Profile Sites?”
...and the closely related, but fairer:
"“Why aren't the Big Important Women Bloggers Getting More Attention?"

Let’s unpack this even further. Sorry, it’s terribly old hat, but it must be asked: Who decides what is important, and who decides what sites are the ones that “count”?

I’ve read a squillion posts — far too many to track down and link, but you can start with Bora, above — on the complicated subject of power in the blogosphere, and how it emulates power (and patriarchy) in the “real” world, and whether or not this is inevitable, problematic, or even true. A lot of this conversation is very interesting, complex and (occasionally) important, which is why I won’t reprise it here. Further reading recommended.

I'm supposed to be offering some conclusions, aren't I? Not sure I'm up to that, now it comes to it. Let's try some unsound opinions and uncomfortable arguments instead.

One. Just as modelling and prostitution are the two industries where women are reliably on top, the most famous female bloggers are – quelle surprise – those who write about sex, more or less directly, or who at least suggest sexiness. “Women Only Interesting to Men in Salacious Contexts!” shock.

Two. It’s really very easy to demonstrate that there are a vast number of female bloggers out there, writing about everything from gender issues to knitting to politics to celeb gossip to family life to, y’know, STUFF, just like male bloggers, and many of these blogs are pretty big business. So what exactly is this “no women blogger” crap?

Three. (I can see the comments already.) A provocative question: is it possible that women’s blogs are marginalised because women actually have a broader range of interests than men? Hence, women are more likely to participate in male-run blogs on Big Serious Issues than men are to participate in female-run blogs on “women’s interests” — meaning twice the traffic and googlejuice for men’s blogs.****

Four. How much does it actually matter? Given that (a) women are clearly having a blast online, even if they’re not getting the recognition they possibly deserve, and (b) as we keep forgetting, nobody really cares about blogs anyway.*****

Well. So far it has taken me two days to get this far in writing this post, and I haven’t even started inserting the links. I don’t think I ever had an actual argument, just a collection of half-formed thoughts, and after two days of splicing grrrlblogging in between commercial property news, it’s not getting any easier to roll those thoughts into any form of conclusion.

So. Um. If you’re still here, I think it’s your turn now. You probably think you know what I’m trying to say, even if I don't, and why it’s all wrong. One, two, three… go.

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* Though as some other people point out, this could be misleading, since it doesn’t include blogs hosted on independent servers. Which probably means it excludes the dominant blogs, which, arguably**, are male-dominated.
** As in, I’ll argue with you if you deny it.
*** No link here. I know there are such blogs around, but studiously ignore them. Sorry.
**** I warned you this was unscientific.
***** Of course, blogs are hugely influential among bloggers, and there are a lot of bloggers. It’s just as reasonable to argue that nobody cares about journalism, except for those who happen to read newspapers. Lots of people don’t. But do newspaper readers have a disproportionate effect on social attitudes and market trends? Probably, yes. Does the same go for bloggers?

Notes from the culture divide: Drought

In South Africa, drought is dry. Drought can be easily recognised by the lack of water. Grass is brown, the air is hot, and most importantly, there isn't any rain.

In England, it is evidently possible to be slap bang in the middle of the "worst drought in 16 years"* and not really notice. Brollies are go; suede shoes are no.

This country is crazy.

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* Or whatever. This blog brought to you by Who Needs Research, Inc.

That's nice

I love this: Nice things in London. Does what it says on the tin: details and user reviews of, ooh, everything really — shops, arts venues, clubs, restaurants... with a top 100 nice list. And each listing includes a button for "nice things near here", which should help you plan a day out. Very cool.

Our man in Havana*

I made Beloved pose in the jersey I recently made for him. (For purposes of pattern publication.) Turns out he's quite good at this modelling thing.



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* "Havana" being what I named the design.

Let some other people entertain you

When Scroobious is bored, Scroobious should really write something funny to liven things up around here, but no. Scroobious is one lazy-ass blogger. Scroobious has been passively wandering around looking for things to make her giggle. Luckily, she found some.

Over here, we have a pissed-off comics fan suggesting what equal opportunity objectification might look like. Holy gluteus maximus, Batman!

McSweeney's publishes a little Cookie Monster soul-searching. Which helps me to see that I am no monster. I just love cookies. In an innocent and wholly appropriate way. Unlike that fabric freak.

The AntiCraft tells you how to garden with doll parts. Although, as the editors point out, you don't really need the "how". ("Plant herbs. Try not to kill." Actually I could use a little help with that last part...)

Anna's own dry day* (well, something like) led me to the quite brilliant Sweatpantsmom.

And it turns out Jemima's not as individual as we thought. There's a whole website of cats in sinks. (Why am I surprised? There's a website for everything.)

Now Scroobious is bored again. And speaking of herself in the third person. Huh.

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* Note how the cool bloggers handle it: by making up a Fun Interactive Game. Not by aimlessly clicking. Duly noted.

New theory

Hypothesis: Parcelforce is part of an iniquitous New Labour strategy to boost the economy by driving business into the private sector. (The proper private sector, none of this quasi-independent former government monopoly crap.)

This strategy however is doomed to fail because of the increasing burden of mental healthcare for Parcelforce customers. A little elementary cost-benefit analysis would go a long way, Tony.

Unfortunately, by the time anybody in the upper echelons has worked this out, it'll be far too late for the likes of us.

Something beautiful

When you're in need of a little midday meditation, visit
ashes and snow. If you have the cyberjuice for it, I suggest you click on "explore" in the "enhanced experience".

And then just be awed for a while.

Lack toast and intolerant

Making Light has (not for the first time) introduced me to a thing of Great Delight: the eggcorn, or "more or less common reshapings of words and expressions: a word or part of a word is semantically reanalyzed, and the spelling reflects the new interpretation". Worth perusing if you're inclined to chortle at references to, say, "the judicial and penile system". (See, the law isn't an ass, it's a dick.)

Just in case you didn't already know

Pear should not go on pizza. Especially not with tomato sauce. I don't care how appealing pear&gorgonzola sounds, it's not a pizza topping, and don't assume it's a good idea just because they haven't taken it off the menu yet. It's not.

Oh, hang on, now

I would like the record to show that, despite my recent panegyric to a shiny house, I do NOT find housework empowering*.

It's true I find I feel "happier and more in control of my life" when my home is clean and tidy. But then, so does Beloved. (Who is male. Just so we're clear.) It's hard to feel in control when you can't see the surface of your desk and there are no clean socks in the house. But that's the end result, see. The actual vacuuming? Not so much. The only way I can imagine housework making me feel empowered is if I were paying someone else to do it.

But then again, no sensible person would trust an article that contains the line: "The one thing that gives the majority a sense of empowerment is a good go around the house with the vacuum cleaner — followed by some cleaning and dusting." What kind of crazy person would do the dusting after the vacuuming?

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* Link to Gendergeek, not the original article, because (a) The Indie wants you to pay to read it, and (b) Gendergeek makes the very excellent point that actually it's all just puffery for a TV show.

The Importance of Having Henry

A few weeks ago I was chatting to a friend about confronting your imminent death*, as you do, and she mentioned that when the doctor she saw after a holiday accident had asked about her will, she grabbed a piece of paper and wrote something elegantly simple, like “All to husband. Talk to Henry.” Henry, you see, was not her husband, but her Accountant; she was confident that he’d have a handle on things.

I was overcome with profound Henry envy. I wanted a Henry. I wanted an Accountant. Now, I have previously had dealings with accountants, once or twice; useful as it can sometimes be to have someone file your tax return, I’ve never been enormously impressed with their usefulness. Fill in form, take cheque, seemed to be the order of the day. But I always suspected that there was a difference between an accountant and an Accountant. This conversation seemed to confirm that.

I am pleased to report that I seem to have acquired a Henry***. A nice chap who responded to my initial enquiry (“I have three income streams and messy records, can you sort out HMRC for me?”) with enthusiasm and offers of free Financial Advice from other members of his firm, a six-year review of my taxation history, and so forth. Better yet, he is getting someone to take a look at my nasty import duty situation (am convinced I’ve been overcharged). So it seems that I have a Henry. A composite Henry, to be sure, and possibly not one I can trust to have a handle on my entire life situation (yet), but I’m on my way.

I feel terribly grown-up.

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* Don’t worry, everybody’s fine.
** She’s also fine.
*** Not his actual name.

The joys of spring

Ah, spring, when a young woman's fancy turns to thoughts of pedicures. And springcleaning.

If you were to visit Chez Scroobious today, you might detect a certain tension in the atmosphere. The walls are brighter, true, the air is fresher, but beneath all that... is the building actually shellshocked? Why yes. Yes, I think it might be.

There has been activity, you see, of the type that normally only happens when you move. The type that involves moving heavy furniture* and scrubbing in every nook and cranny. The type that drives your duster to start emitting pathetic whimpers** after the first room. The type that comes with running commentary like, "I didn't know it was that colour!" and "Oh, so that's where this got to."

It's been fun.

And that's not the only thing. In further frightening domesticity, I am all excited after visiting a lovely little shop full of fabulously colourful and shiny kitchen equipment. You know, real copper pots, that sort of thing. A Nigella Lawson fantasy. I came home with a titanium frying pan and some big knives. Most pleasing. But I keep having flashbacks to a conversation I had, at around 16, with a lovely woman who was almost a mother to me. She was really pleased with her new pots. I said, "If I ever get excited about pots, just shoot me." Yes. I actually said that, to this wonderful person whom I loved and admired very much. And yet we're still friends. I don't deserve such people.

Anyway, I'm excited about pots. It's the beginning of the end, or something.

Oh, and our long neglected posters have been dragged off to the framers. I tell you, we're going to be doing things differently around here, oh yes. Stuff will get done, not put aside for dealing with later. Uh huh.

Well, a girl can dream.

Further signs of spring:

1a) Catnip resurgent.
1b) Stoned cats.
2) Birds. I'd forgotten how many of them we get around these parts. Cool.
3) My fingers are starting to itch for weeding, not knitting. (Well, not only knitting.)
4) Men are still crazy. I got a wolf whistle the other day, from a chap so old and toothless it came out as more of a wolf wheeze. Oh, and of course I shagged George Clooney on Friday night.

Uh huh. He wanted a threesome; he let me pick the other girl. She was dark and exotic, very sexy, but disappointingly passive. Still we had fun, me and George.

I never had a movie star dream before. I like that I go straight for the best.

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*A particular challenge since this little flat is so very crowded, with our furniture on top of the landlady's. In some cases literally.
** If you don't believe cloths can express themselves audibly, then you just haven't been cleaning enough.

No accounting for tastes

Since yesterday, two men have tried to pick me up in the street. This hasn't happened in aaaaages and frankly, I'm confused.

Yesterday: long dress, high-necked jersey. None of it tight or indeed particularly shapely. Hair (frizzy) in ponytail. No make-up. And this chap drives past me three times — leaning out window, grinning like a loon. Finally asks for phone number.

Today: running togs. Running togs. Every lump and bump unforgivingly revealed in cotton lycra. Sweaty. Frizzy haired. Another chap tries to get friendly.

Now, the first one, okay; maybe he has a thing for Puritan chic. I don't get it, but okay. The second one? Seriously. There is no explanation.

Request to the men of the world: please, consider checking me out when I'm actually looking cute. Lipstick. An outfit with a shape to it. Clean, shiny hair. Then, I might feel flattered. As it is I'm a little bit creeped out.

PS. Thank you, oh wise and thoughtful Interwebs, for your response to my glum. What an unexpected bunch of linkage. (Gapingvoid? Love that site, read it often, but not sure why it's supposed to make me smile. Thanks, though.) I'm especially fond of the weird knitting stuff, btw, please keep that coming. You are all very lovely.

Commercial break

A very peculiar thing: I have signed up to do a 10km run in July.

I'll pause here to allow you to collect yourselves. ...Have you quite recovered? Excellent.

Well, as I was saying, I appear to be committed to getting sweaty in public. I'm not sure exactly how this happened, but since the organiser is one of my Truckles buddies, there's a fair chance wine was involved. Also, I think she mentioned the magic words "brunch at the finish line".

So anyway, the training has commenced. On Friday, and again this morning (in the rain!), I ventured out onto the streets of Isleworth for a gentle jog. Redolent as that word is of 80s-style rayon shorts, I'm forced to use it; "running" would be a completely unfitting description of the activity I performed. I think I was actually overtaken by one of the old ladies from The Producers. But the general picking up of knees, kicking up of heels and bouncing of bosoms seemed to indicate that I was doing something more than walking.

I'm pleased to report that I made it to the end of my route (I'm no judge of distance but I reckon it must have been, ooh, 500m at least) without a walking break. Or, for that matter, a collapsing break. At this rate, the 10km will be a doddle; after two months of training, I'll just trot lightly through central London till I get to the pastries. No problem.

There's just one thing. Scarier by far than the training. Part of this whole race deal is getting sponsorship. I've never quite understood that; asking people to pay you to do something completely pointless. But there it is. Our team is running for Muscular Dystrophy; or rather, we're not actually for it, we're against it, even though I hear it kills little kiddies, and I'm kind of against little kiddies, so this is a bit confusing for me.* Still, if you think horrible muscle-wasting disease is a problem (I admit I wouldn't want it), or if you just like the idea of paying me to humiliate myself in public, please donate a few pennies.** It's easy, which is more than I can say for getting me out of bed to pound the pavement.

Edit: of course yesterday was also the London Marathon, which does rather put things in perspective. Look, there are people who will run for 26 miles in chicken suits, and the word for those people is "insane". And then there are people who will run for 10km in tasteful sportswear, and the word for them is "courageous and inspiring". Right? Right.

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* It's a good thing I have so few readers, or I might get into trouble for saying things like that.
** I'm not in that picture. If you give generously, you might eventually see a pic of this year's team, which will include me. Not sure that's an incentive...

Brave new world

Last night Beloved's beloved died. The other woman, obviously, being his iMac. The one he leaves me alone in bed for. Well, my rival, she dead. (I didn't do it. Honest.) No warning. No explanation. Just quietly expired. It is an ex-Mac. It has ceased to be. It has gone to meet its maker. (Except Steve Jobs is still alive, isn't he, so that doesn't quite work.)

Major stress induction here. Not only is this, well, his one true mechanical love, but he had scheduled a rather packed weekend of working on my website (all rather urgent stuff). And I had scheduled a rather packed weekend of freelancing (all rather urgent stuff). Cue visions of the two of us fighting over my PC, wailing at each other to work faster, etc.

Also cue great anxiety over the larger question of dealing with the iMac's untimely demise. How to rescue data? How to replace iMac? Computer purchase is, after all, a major investment requiring weeks of intensive research, financial juggling etc.

Or maybe not.

He's just popped off to the discount Apple Centre up the road (handy, that) to get himself a shiny new laptop. Well, he wanted one anyway. And he's paying cash.

Conclusions:

1) I really, really, really like having a husband in (very) gainful employment.
2) Stress is a great way to concentrate the mind. Considering how hard it was to get him to choose a simple cellphone, this should have been much harder. Let's hear it for stress.

Wibble

I am having lots of homesick right now. Also lots of worry. And frustration. And more worry. And then some extra homesick. With a side order of fretting. There's a lot of chocolate in the house (Beloved went to Switzerland to visit family just before Easter; meditate for a moment on that happy, happy conjunction), but it's not really helping. I haven't put back (much of) the weight I lost in recent fever, even after substantial Easter choc consumption, and even that isn't really helping. So. Help? Tell me something to make me smile. You're the All-wise Interweb, I know you can do it.

Quiet news day at Scroobious Corner

Summary of today's emails between Vivaldifan and I:

"BORED."
"..." (He is actually quite busy, apparently.)
"STILL BORED."
"..."
"BORED AND STRESSED."
"[yawn]"
"NEED COOKIE. SEND COOKIE."
"When is a cookie a cookie, and not a biscuit and not a brownie? Go blog." [Translation: make your own entertainment, woman, and let me publish this here newspaper.]

Which is why we will now broach the Great Cookie Debate.

It is commonly believed that cookie is merely Merkin for biscuit. While this theory has its roots in truth and is appealingly simple, I maintain that this is not so. A biscuit, you see, is a dainty thing that can sit neatly alongside a teacup without completely overbalancing the saucer and causing slooshy mess. It is also light, crunchy, and possibly iced. It may contain raisins (though most do not), but is generally of a smooth consistency.

But a cookie, now, a cookie. A cookie is a great big childish messy thing. It is never a neat circle; it has oozed joyously in the oven. It is full of chocolate chunks, or raisins, or similar textural goodness. It is possible (though, obviously, fundamentally wrong) to get a small cookie, but a cookie baked in the true spirit of cookieness should be bigger than your palm. Preferably much bigger. The mere thought of eating more than one should cause a happy blend of fear and excitement to roost in one's belly. And it is chewy. It tastes of grandmotherly ovens and Saturday afternoons. (Not Sunday. Biscuits taste of Sunday tea with your other grandmother, the ladylike one, the one who tells you that blue and green should never be seen, and who serves tea with biscuits from a tin.)

Brownies are not cookies. Brownies are just dense, chocolatey cake. I have to admit I don't quite understand brownies. And what do you call those divine chocolatey-fudgey things with huge chunks of biscuit in them? They deserve a proper name. Like, say, "manna". Or "mine".

There you have it. I hope that's cleared a few things up.

Now I want a cookie even more. Also a grandmother.