The Meaning of Wife

Recently, The Times, and especially The Sunday Times, has been positively obsessed with “wifedom.” Over the past several months there has been article upon article in the Times’ Style magazine wherein writers have actively pondered on the page the concept of “the wife.”

Even the chatty and ever-entertaining Shane Watson has joined the fray, declaring her opinion that what men really want in a wife is: “a woman [they] can believe in.”  Very heady stuff, indeed, particularly from a writer known primarily for celebrity-jabbing.

Another writer in the same publication set about outlining what she believed were the current wifely archetypes in contemporary society, along with some real life examples for readers to emulate or to be admonished by.

My personal favorites (no surprises, here) were: “The Goddess Wife” - personified by Nigella Lawson, and “The Inspiring Wife” – personified by Michelle Obama.

Let’s face it, Nigella Lawson is a modern-day, brunette, Marilyn Monroe - who can cook. But, despite her sometimes over-obvious sex appeal, her hyper-confidence, and sexy smarts (she has an M.A. in medieval and modern languages), ever so often viewers can catch a glimpse of the other side of Nigella, the besotted schoolgirl underneath it all, who still gets weak in the knees at the very thought of “that sweet man of mine.”

“The Goddess Wife” is all about hearth and home, care and comfort. Everything she does, and everything she is, is about sensuousness, deliciousness, warmth, scrumptious indulgence, and ample luxury. She’s can’t help it, she’s just built that way.

“The Inspiring Wife” comes at caring from a different, though no less valuable, perspective. Michelle Obama is the perfect example of the “Inspiring Wife.” She is her husband’s equal (intellectually, socially, professionally, &etc.) and his champion.

But, she is no mere cheerleader encouraging him from the sidelines, nor is she his coach. What she is, as the article writer put so beautifully, “[Michelle Obama] is the reason Barack Obama gets up in the morning.”  She is his sunshine.

As “The Inspiring Wife,” she enkindles his greatness. The concept of “Ihe Inspiring Wife” is not a new one. My chief bridesmaid, Sarah, gave me a lovely gift the day before our wedding: a copy of A History of the Wife by Marilyn Yalom. In it, one of the countless relationships Yalom details is the remarkable marriage of John and Abigail Adams.

After Abigail had accepted John’s proposal, he wrote to her, thanking her and expressing his belief that by knowing and loving her, he would “Gain some of your sweet grace, My Dearest Friend, that will perfect my many Imperfections.”

Shane Watson’s comment touches upon this very idea: the wife as source of grace, a figure to be ‘believed in’. There is no doubt, upon reading the love letters of John and Abigail Adams, that John viewed his wife as clearly the very best part of himself.

I devoured Yalom’s book while lounging and sleeping by the pool in Tunisia. And contemplated what kind of a wife I would like to be. From the title, it may sound uber-academic and dry as toast, but is really a super, super read. So fascinating to consider the twists, turns and changes that have happened in relation to wifedom over the centuries.

In the past, being a Wife was considered a vocation, a privilege, an honour, an occupation and a gift. I think it is still all of these things today, though I think we are uncomfortable using such florid language.

There was a time when being a wife was considered a great calling, and women proudly defined themselves by the distinction: “I am a wife.” I believe we have lost that, and with it perhaps a great possibility for feminine pride and expression.

When I was growing up, and especially when I was in university, the notion of “just being a wife” was completely alien and abhorrent. We were encouraged/taught/urged to look disdainfully upon young women who “lacked ambition and brains,” who had come to university only to find a husband, and obtain their “Mrs. degree,” and little else.

In this same vein, India Knight did a piece recently where she, too, was thinking through some of these post-feminist issues. She interviewed several high-powered professional women who were attempting, as so many women do, to “have it all” (career, family, kids, life).

The general consensus amongst the women interviewed was that they would not wish their life choices on their daughters. They hoped that their daughters’ lives would be better, different and freer than their own. That their daughters would choose to have lives that were more centred on creating a family, building a home and serving their community, than their lives had been.

A dear friend of mine, wrote me recently from Dubai to congratulate me on getting married. Along with her good wishes and advice, she expressed her own sense of being at a crossroads:

Being married teaches you how to be a wife.                                                                      ...In my neck of the woods…all I have been doing for the past month, going on two months is move, organize, decorate, shop, mother, mother sick children and eat like crap. I read an email today about a novel about Hemingway's wife selling for half a million and wept. It wasn't the money, really. I just got my first check for my book by the way. It was about the fact that I miss writing, I need it as much as I need my kids. Anyway, when are you getting back to work?

This is how I began my reply to her:

I am happier now than I have ever been in my life, and I am more lost than I have ever been. I feel and am more centred, grounded, and anchored as I have never been, nor ever imagined. Anchored, and yet I also feel frighteningly adrift.

In the past, I have always defined myself by what I do, and not by who I love or, who I am in relation to someone else. All of that has changed. And I feel/know that it has changed for the better. And what of work? Ugh. I just wasted a colossal amount of time applying for two jobs I don’t even want, one of them in London, how would that even work? Why did I bother? The problem is that is muscle-memory and the force of habit. I have spent my life applying for jobs, that’s what I know how to do. Facing myself and a blank computer screen? Yikes!

As I embark on this new journey into wifedom, I am searching for examples, and trying to embrace my own uncertainties. For years my life has been guided by the mantra: “Career first, career first.” Now, I feel the sand shifting beneath me, and the turning of a tide. Could the new mantra be: “Family first?”

While she was still here, my friend, Sarah and I shared our mutual admiration for that wonderful HBO series, John Adams. I remember telling her that one of the things I loved most about that series (apart from Laura Linney’s fabulous portrayal of Abigail Adams) was very real sense that one had while watching it, that the Founding Fathers, those great men of history, had no idea what they were doing at the time. The founding of America was not some grand design enacted with stealth and precision, they were making it all up as they went along!

And perhaps, that is the answer, the best notion toward a vision of marriage and wifedom, we are all making this stuff up as we go along. We can only do our best and try.

Unless, of course, your goal is to be “The Slacker Wife” (sadly exampled in The Times by Madonna Ritchie). “The Slacker Wife,” as the name suggestions, does “bugger all,” and causes those around her no end of grief.

One for the good guys

“I defy you stars!” – Romeo and Juliet

At last month’s W.I. meeting, we were treated to a presentation from Deborah Brady, the first woman photographer to make it in Fleet Street. Deborah Brady is one formidable lady, and her talk, “A Female in Fleet Street,” gave us an insight into the trials and tribulations of being a photographer on a daily newspaper, one the funniest and most arduous being carrying around all that equipment.

Deborah told this amazing story of how she made her incredible debut in the 1980s, by being the one and only photographer in the nation to get a clear shot of Michael Jackson as he was arriving at Heathrow airport.

She was a rookie, and had been assigned the grunt work of photographing the MJ fans and look-a-likes that had gathered to greet their hero. A split second decision, a whim, a feeling in her gut made her turn left, instead of right, and she saw Jackson walking toward her on the tarmac. With that one photograph, her life changed.

I am in awe of moments such as this. How do they happen? Do we somehow engineer them? Is it a matter of just being open and available to whatever the universe has in store for you? Is it force of will? Desire?

Deborah’s own summation is the importance to trusting your instincts and taking risks. She also shared details of the rough treatment she has enduring by daring to be a member of the “boy’s club” that is photojournalism. She’s had to be plucky and a fighter to survive.

Last night, the D.E.B. were glued to our telly watching the semi-finals of “Britain’s Got Talent.” No surprises here, we are huge Susan Boyle fans. And I had the phone at the ready to cast our vote for her.

There has been a mountain of commentary on Boyle and her well-deserved rise to fame. Much of it rather weird and crude, I think, taking an “ugly duckling has her swansong” sort of angle.

For me, Susan Boyle’s story is so much more than that. Susan Boyle—like Deborah Brady—is another incredible example of defying the odds, and fighting for what you believe in.

The rarity of it all is the sheer force of blind faith in ones self and ones God given ability. In a pre-performance interview clip, Susan Boyle said: “I want to show that I’m not a worthless person.”

After hearing this, I turned to the D.E.B. and said: “I want to go and find all those people who told her she was worthless, and beat them up!” And I meant it. And I still do, in the bright light of morning.

I have no doubt that Susan Boyle was speaking the truth, that there were countless mean-spirited, petty, cruel people who did all they could to make her feel like an outsider, a reject, a “worthless person.”

I don’t find myself often wishing to quote Piers Morgan, but I must give him credit for his assessment of Boyle, suggesting that she gave people hope in a very dark time.

What inspires me the most Susan Boyle is her determined uniqueness. She is not striving to be like anyone else. And more than that, Susan Boyle is out there as “one for the good guys.” Someone who has achieved a level of success through sheer and unadulterated talent, and not, like so many “celebrities” today who have achieved their status through notoriety, with very little substance.

I shall probably offend when I say this, but for me Susan Boyle has been a welcome and health some antidote to the Jade Goody mania that swept through Britain a few months ago.

To be sure, Goody’s story was an extremely sad one: dreadful home life/upbringing, her battle with cancer, and the two little boys she left behind. However, during all the media hype, surrounding her impending demise, I found myself wondering where are the parades and daily press coverage for the countless other mothers, daughters, and sisters who have succumb to the horror that is cancer?

Goody mania reached such a fevered pitch here in Britain, that it seemed to me that anyone who dared to even raise such a question was fit for hanging! It was as if Goody had become the new “people’s princess”.

One writer in The Times dared to posit such a question, but even he did so from behind the safety of his daughter. He wrote: “My 8 year old recently asked, ‘Daddy, why is Jade Goody famous? What has she done?’”

Out of the mouth of babes.

Fame, it would seem, is quite a funny thing. In days of old, think Ancient Greece, fame was something a man could acquire through arduous and often perilous deeds, i.e., Hercules, Achilles and so forth. (Who can forget that scene at the start of the film Troy, when sexy Brad Pitt playing Achilles says to the cowardly messenger, who is afraid to fight: ‘That is why no one will ever remember your name.’)

Fame could also be earned through the might of mind or skill: Socrates, Brutus, Galileo, &etc.

My friend Christopher reckons that all of this changed in the early 19^th c. with the likes of Lord Byron, who was “mad, bad and dangerous to know”.  Byron was a gifted artist, whose life was as scandalous and salacious, as his writing was remarkable.

So now, we live in a world of  “celebrities” who are famous for “being famous” and notorious: e.g., Paris Hilton, & etc. Hopefully, we are becoming more aware collectively, that notoriety is not talent. That beyond “appeal,” a talented individual should be able to bring the goods as it were.

And that is what makes Susan Boyle such a wonderful tonic.

The “Feel Good Factor” (No snobs allowed!)

Monday, 9 February 2009

Who knew? For once in my life I am actually ahead of a trend.

I sat down this snowy, Monday afternoon to have a cup of tea and a leisurely read of yesterday’s Sunday Times. I pulled the Style magazine gleefully from its cellophane wrapper, and, I swear, just as finished perusing the cover, which declared: “Jourdan Dunn on ‘Why Oxfam’s the New Prada’” – there was a hefty knock on our front door. It was the postman, dutifully delivering two large parcels: Flower girl dresses that I’d just purchased last week, from, you guessed it, Oxfam!!

Let me explain, I somehow missed that vital female shopping gene, the one that enables a woman to endear countless stores (and shop assistants) for hours upon hours, the capacity to survive as the last girl standing in the quest to “shop till you drop.”

Frankly, and I know I risk my forfeiting my “Girl License” here, but, truth be told, I get bored. And my feet start to hurt. I get cranky, fussy and tired. I recall a notable shopping episode some time ago, in downtown Manhattan, when I was out with my wonderful, dapper, gay, male best friend. He stopped, mid-shopping stride, in T. J. Maxx, and turned to me and enquired: “Do you need your diaper (nappy) changed, or what?”

Online shopping was invented for me. But, while I may lack the essential female “Shop till you drop” gene, I do have the standard “never trust it, unless you can see it” fear that most people have about buying things off their laptops.

So, as the fates would have it, I had to venture out. A few weeks ago I decided I wanted to have the D.E.B.’s two utterly adorable, and truly angelic goddaughters as Flower Girls in our wedding. Thus began a quest to find two, identical Flower Girl dresses. Easy-peasy, I thought.

Who was I kidding?! While I was in town working at the Shakespeare Trust last week, I did a brief investigation, just to see what was out there. I dragged myself through Laura Ashley (nothing) and Monsoon (nothing). Then, took a deep breathe and tackled the big guns: Debenhams and BHS (British Home Stores). I was quite surprised at what I found. Beautiful, gorgeous, divine, little dresses. The stuff of little princess dreams. Taffeta, Organza, Silk, Chiffon, Charmeuse. You name it. With prices to match, of course.

That’s another point. Why, I often wonder, that no matter what the item is, if you place the word “wedding” or “bride” in front of it, the price suddenly quadruples! And, people are willing to pay it! Don’t get me wrong, I adore “The Angel Goddaughters,” and want them to have nothing but the best. But let’s face it. The girls are 7 and 10 years old. So, at best, on the day, they will wear their dresses for what? Roughly 3-4 hours, tops? 

And, at the worst, they will probably have outgrown these dresses altogether before they even have another opportunity to wear them a second time. Ta da! Another instance of: “Romance vs. Practicality.” Add to this equation one’s desire to be frugal and thrifty, and you have the recipe for a right royal headache!

Enter: Oxfam.  The solution was right at my fingertips.

“The time is right for charity shopping to come into its own.” – Sarah Farquhar, Oxfam Retail Operations

Oxfam now has a brilliant online charity shop, where you can peruse the fashion (and other) offerings of a variety of its numerous shops across Britain. Who even knew that they have a dedicated Bridal Collection?! As an added bonus, once you find an item you like the look of, the website gives you details and contact information for the local Oxfam shop offering that item, so it is possible to go and see the item in the flesh before you purchase, if you so wish.

What’s nice about this online shop is that you are able to see a selection of items from Oxfam shops, beyond the one in your local vicinity. What could be more heavenly: Thift, convenience and a cup of tea.

Now, to do the impossible: Find two identical Flower Girl dresses in two different sizes. To be honest, I held out very little hope of finding the like on Oxfam.com or another such outlet, i.e., eBay and etc. I mean, come on, TWO, IDENTICAL dresses? Well, worth a gander at least, I thought. And what do you know! Voila!  

Lo and behold, Oxfam had a flurry of flower girl dresses, and--shock of century-- two identical BHS flower girl dresses in sizes 7-8 and 9-10. (God, I hope they fit!) Before making the purchase, I dropped a line to the Oxfam shop in question (in Market Harborough, Leiceistershire) to check on particulars: were the dresses White or Ivory? Were they truly identical, as they were listed separately? Detailing? and, etc.

I had a friendly and speedy reply from Kate, the manager. Kate kindly sent me additional photographs of the dresses, including close ups of the lovely silk bodices, and more images of the detailing. Her note was so sweet, she said: “I’m sorry to inform you that the dresses are not solid Ivory. There is a bit of lilac embroidery on the silk bodice. Hope this will be okay?”

I nearly fell out of my chair, and you could have knocked me over with a feather! Suddenly, these only “hopeful” dresses, where now utterly ideal! (The DEB and I have decided on a “lavender” theme for our wedding.)

Kate signed off by saying: “If the dresses don’t work for you, feel free to return them.” Excellent. Without taking a breath, I logged on and purchased them both immediately.

After I made my purchase, another message from Kate:

“Thank you for your purchase, Alycia. You will have an extra bright smile on your day because you know that you haven't been fleeced, but also because those dresses are putting food in the mouths of babes.”

You can’t really argue with that.

Kate also shared with me the extraordinary recent example: Her shop recently sold a St. Patrick wedding gown, brand new. (Yes, she did say a brand new St. Patrick) Original price - £1,800.  ($2,655.75 USD) Oxfam price - £750. ($1,106.18 USD) Kate added: “Ok [the Oxfam price is still] a lot of money, but it will go an awfully long way.”

Due to snow and Royal Mail Second Class parcel delivery, I have been eagerly awaiting my Oxfam parcels for almost a week. They arrived today, and they are even mre gorgeous than I even imagined! They are absolutely flawless and in immaculate condition. And what a bargain! The same dresses available from BHS’s wedding collection (bhs.co.uk) are £65.00 ($96.00 USD), each. I got them from Oxfam for £14.99 ($22.09 USD) each!!

Not only is this the smart option for the thrifty-minded, it is a choice that, as Kate said, comes with a guaranteed feel-good factor. Everybody wins.

Have a look: Oxfam Bridal Collection

Holiday report

We're off "up North" later this morning. Celebrating New Year's in Cumbria with "the rellies."

Been up since half 6, working on a letter of recommendation for a former student -- some things never change! 

I have 10, 000 things to do to finish off our preparations, but actually I'd love to just sit here and write. So many things to catch up on and tell. Need to fill in how the D.E.B. and I spent Christmas Day and "Boxing Day" (Boxing Day, such a civilised and sensible idea. Something that surely should have spread to the colonies). The Queen's speech (I love the Queen!), the Times recently declaring this "The Year of the Wife" (interesting...)

And then, the New Year. Gosh, so much more to think and write about: change, uncertainty, hope for the future, new beginnings, the forthcoming Obama presidency (I love Michelle Obama, she shops at J. Crew!). How far things have come, and how far we have to go. Knowledge gained, lessons still to be learned. New challenges, and the same old doubts.

But briefly, for now: happy, happy, joy, joy. Blessings all round.

p.s. My tiara finally arrived (from California) late yesterday.  Just in time for some New Year's sparkle. 

Not your Granny's W.I.

Joining the Barford W.I. was one the best decisions I’ve ever made.  When I joined in September, I had an image in my head that most people—particularly Americans—probably have of the Women’s Institute: Endearing and enduring, old, English matrons who represent and uphold—with very stiff upper lips, of course—all that is “middle England.” Oh, and of course, Calendar Girls. Lovely. And in many ways that is what it is, and is true. But, I also see that there is more to W.I. than just “jam & Jerusalem”.

First of all, these ladies know how to have a laugh.  Last night’s W.I. Christmas “do” at The Glebe Hotel was fantastic! Our gathering started around 7:30 PM (half 7, as we say here) in The Glebe’s lovely, art deco bar.  There, we were greeted by our Lady President for “welcoming drinks”. Social hour was followed by a full, festive Christmas dinner with all the trimmings: turkey, with stuffing and sausage, roast potatoes, veggies, gravy, and cranberry sauce. We were escorted to our seats by restaurant staff in formal attire. Each of the tables was named after an English Christmas Pantomime favo(u)rite: “Dick Whittington,” “Puss in Boots,” and etc.

I had chosen a place at the “Cinderella” table with my friend Diane. Diane and I decided that the Cinderella table was the “bad girl” table. Mind you, I think every table at this event was a “bad girl” table! Although many of the “Cinderellas” were being decidedly “cheeky” in their refusal to don the festive hats that had been placed at each of our places, along with a Christmas cracker. Being fond as I am of wearing character hats for no particular reason, I happily joined in the fun, and donned my pirates’ hat with pride.

I’ve always been utterly fascinated by the concept of the British “Christmas cracker” and do wonder how (and why) we come have to have lost this “old country” tradition in America. For me, the Christmas cracker epitomizes the British sense of Christmas as a time of magic, merriment and fun.

During our luscious meal, the Restaurant Manager went from table-to-table performing magic tricks for a highly skeptical and increasingly inebriated female audience. He didn’t stand a chance. But, he actually did quite well. After dessert, that was of course, Christmas pudding, it was our turn to perform. Time for toasts and jokes. I have to say that the zinger Auntie Dorothy had given me went down a treat. I got a rousing round of applause and laughter, and had several requests for email copies of the joke.

I got four-stars for my “performance” of the joke – which means a lot to me, as I was nervous as heck, and longed to overcome my well deserved reputation as a “duff” joke-teller. As my friends will concur, when telling a joke, I inevitably amuse myself, laugh uncontrollably, and end up hashing the joke altogether. So, just making it through with a straight face was a coup for me, and let me tell ya, the Barford W.I.  can be a tough crowd.

An example. At our December meeting, last week, the Guest Speaker was a London Music Hall historian, and his presentation went up like a lead balloon. Bless him. I thought he was super. He shared details of the careers of a number of notable stage sensations from 1920s London. Periodically, throughout his lecture, he would burst into song, suddenly performing one of the legendary tunes of time. Apparently, the tunes were not legendary enough. He belted out the old classic: “When’re ya takin’ me up th’ altar, Walter,” and when he reached the chorus, he stretched out his arms towards the assembled women, paused dramatically, and waited for us to join the rousing refrain. No one did. He was a trooper, and in true stage form, the show went on. And on.  The W.I. member sitting next to me, who’s at least 70, if she’s a day, leaned over and whispered in my ear: “How old does he think we all are? He needs an audience that’s at least 15 years older.”

After trying unsuccessfully to win the group over with old show tunes, he tried some old, classic, music hall jokes:

“A man takes his girlfriend out for a picnic in a park. They reach a quiet spot, and the man sits on the ground. He pats the ground next to him and says, ‘Some dew.’ His girlfriend exclaims: ‘Well, some don’t!’”

(I snickered softly in the back row, as the sound of tumbleweed drifting through the room could be heard.)

“A man takes his wife out for dinner at a posh hotel. As they walk through the double doors, a gorgeous blonde sashays past them. She flicked her hair, wiggled her hips and winked at the man as she went by. ‘Who was that woman?’ exclaimed the wife. ‘Oh, don’t you start,’ said the husband, ‘I’m going to have a tough enough time explaining who you are to her in the morning.’”

(I snorted loudly in the deadly silent room.)

 “Two men in a pub. One says: ‘What are you getting your wife for Christmas?’ The other says: ‘A violin.’ ‘Oh, really,’ asks the first man, ‘is she musical?’ ‘No,’ the man responds, ‘but she needs a chin rest.’”

(I howled with laughter, amid the sound of crickets in the distance.)

These gals were not cutting this poor guy any slack whatsoever, and THAT made it all the more funny! But, needless to so, after seeing this poor guy lose his shirt, I was more than a little concerned about my own “performance” at the W.I. Christmas “do”. But, it went down really well, and there is a bit of mercy and grace in being a newbie. I’m just glad I had the guts to do to it all. It’s made me a bit of celeb around Barford. I have people coming up to me in the local shop saying, “Oh, I hear you told a cracking joke the other night at the W.I. dinner.” There are worst ways to be known, for sure.

In addition to my “zinger” I think the other top joke at the dinner was this one, told by my jam & preserve making hero, Hilary:

 “A couple goes along to the doctor’s. The doctor says he has some serious news for them, and wants to speak to the wife privately. The wife goes into the doctor’s office, and the doctor says: ‘I’m afraid your husband is in a truly bad way, very grave condition. But with your cooperation he could make it through this. Here is what we need you to do. Restructure his diet. Dutifully prepare for him three, solid, wholesome meals a day. The same time every day. All his favorite foods. Keep him comfortable. Let him have a drink when he wants to. No chores or extra tasks after work. Don’t make any demands, don’t complain, argue or badger him. And make love whenever he wants, as often as he wants. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes, Doctor.’ The wife says. The wife then leaves the doctor’s office. As the couple leave the surgery, the husband turns to the wife as says, ‘What did he say?’ The wife responds: ‘I’m sorry, dear. You’re going to die.’”

Brilliant.

But, the W.I. isn’t just about jokes and lemon curd. At the W.I. dinner, I also heard about one of the Federation of Women’s Institute resolutions for 2009: a campaign to legalize prostitution in Britain. I was more than a little surprised. This seemed a rather a strong proposition for a jam-friendly organization that has “For Home & Country” as one if its mottoes. But, then, as this was discussed over “welcoming drinks,” it became clear to me that this stance isn’t at all discordant with W.I. values, but rather well within them.

My wise friend, Diane, explained: “The W.I. stands for women.  And is committed to the welfare and safety of all women. All women. Every woman is someone’s daughter, regardless to where life may find her. That street walker is someone’s daughter, and she deserves to be safe.” 

This resolution grew out of the concern expressed by a local W.I. (in Bedford, I believe) following the murder of five prostitutes in their city. But, the concern is also one that the W.I. believes registers much closer to home, a concern for “the countless, good British wives who are walking around with no idea that they have been infected with an STD/STI.” The thinking runs thus: prostitution has and will always exist, so by creating some sort of regulatory standard in legalizing prostitution will ensure the health and safety of the sex workers, the clientele, and their (the clientele’s) families. This ain’t your Granny’s W.I., sister. I mean no offense to my countrywomen, but I can’t even imagine a member of the “Junior League” or “Daughters of the American Revolution” even using the terms “prostitution” or “STI/STD” in a sentence, let alone as the basis for a resolution or nationwide campaign! (Please forgive me, if my perceptions of these two revered institutions of American womanhood are not as staid as I assume.)

Such progressive and forward thinking is at the heart of the modern British W.I. We’ve gone way passed the now-infamous calendar, girls. The modern W.I. is tackling all sorts of issues of importance to the modern woman. Chins dropped recently when the Times reported on a recent W.I. development: sex guides for the over-60s. Of course, snickering could be heard from one end of the country to the other, but, I have to say, yet, again, I am impressed and inspired by the sheer chutzpah of the women of W.I. The guides are cover a range of topics, such as age and mobility issues; martial aids/devices; intimacy and libido; masturbation; and STDs/STIs. The videos are presented by Mrs. Janice Langley, a 66 year-old, West Sussex W.I. member, who is also a registered Nurse and sex therapist.  Janice’s presentation is frank, friendly, and straightforward.

Tastefully done, and filmed in Janice’s home, you feel as if you’ve just stopped ‘round to hers for a cup of tea, and a quiet chat. Janice’s tone is warm, conversational and friendly. However, this stuff is far from laughable, though the press mill has had a field day making fun of it.  Janice’s presentation is frank and candid. And there were even a few points that made a closet conservative gal like me blush a little.

I think the media’s reaction to this series of W.I. sex guides says a great deal about our present-day attitudes about older people, especially older women, and sex: ‘It’s all well and good, as long as the old dears stick to baking cakes, making jam and knitting.’ Indeed. I would wager that these naysayers will feel quite differently about it when they are over 60.

I think these videos are a testament to a contemporary “Old Age” renaissance. A renaissance that is long overdue. A movement against the tide, defiantly declaring: How old is old? To me, these videos and the women behind them are beacons of hope. There are possibilities for life, pleasure and fulfillment after 60, after heart attacks, or a stroke. And it is never too late to for love.

And, that is no laughing matter.

p.s. Three clips of the Women’s Institute Sex Guides are available on YouTube.

Thrift, Thrift, Horatio

"Thrift, thrift, Horatio, the funeral bak'd meats,
did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables." - Hamlet (I.ii. 176–181)

In this famous line from Hamlet, the Danish Prince is, of course, being fiendishly sarcastic about the haste with which his mother has married his uncle, following the death of his father. However, the frugal economy Hamlet implies seems a  suggestion most apt for today, in these financially uncertain times.

India Knight is a woman of many talents, and she has inspired me yet again. Just when I thought knew what to expect from her as a writer, she comes storming out of left field. This past weekend, as the D.E.B. and I curled up with our copy of the Sunday Times, I was stunned to see her name emblazoned across the cover of the Times’ Style magazine. India is now a Style guru with a new book coming out this Thursday, extolling the virtues of being “thrifty”- The Thrift Book: Live Well and Spend Less.

Her article–based on the book—is itself a great read. India shares openly her own financial demons, such as being hounded by bailiffs, and being flat broke even at a time when she had two books on the top bestseller lists. Knight does an excellent job of assessing our “must have” culture, and outlines some very simple ways we can “kick the habit,” do better, and be better.

I was surprised to find that without even trying, by just giving into my own current, personal circumstances, I have been (largely unknowingly) “doing my bit,” becoming a better consumer, and in India’s words, “become more green.”

For example, in the section entitled “Sensible Supermarket Shopping,” Knight suggests making the following adjustments to one’s food shopping regime:

a.) Shop locally, daily, buying only precisely what you need.

b.) Shop online from a properly compiled list.

c.) “If you find yourself naturally resistant to the idea of buying discounted food because you’re middle class, get over it.”

d.) Stop shopping at “posh” supermarkets.

Living how and where I do – more or less vehicle-less in rural Warwickshire, with the world’s tiniest refrigerator – I have very few options other than to shop locally, almost daily and online.  (see previous posts: “Patience and Fortitude” and “Is this an appliance, I see before me?”)

Thankfully, the Barford community has pulled together in true English village fashion, and re-opened its Village Shop. In just under two years, the Barford community dug deep, and raised the £300,000.00 needed to build and open the new shop. The shop is gorgeous, and cost effective. It has one paid staff member. Apart from the Manager, the rest of the staff is composed entirely of community volunteers. It seems that the frugal and communal lessons of WWII continue to inspire generations of Britons, and change the face of British communities.

Ribbon-cutting ceremony at the new Village Shop

The Vicar, blessing the Shop and all who shop within her

Barford's answer to Starbucks

The D.E.B. during the Opening Day shopping spree

While basking in the glow of my newly found sense of  “how green am I,” India Knight presented me with a fresh challenge. Clothes. Now, I have to say, I have never considered myself, nor ever really aspired to be a “full-on fashionista.” That is not to suggest that I am a slouch. I like to look good, I care about my appearance, I enjoy beautiful things, and would like to think of myself as a “woman of style.” Although I have never paid $700.00 for pair of shoes, I have been known to get more than a little crazy in Anthropologie on Fifth Avenue; I weep to think of how far away I am from J. Crew, and I have never met a cashmere sweater (jumper) that I didn’t like. In her article, and I assume in her book as well, India Knight challenges her readers to re-discover thrifts shops, eBay, and to consider making their own clothing.

I have always, always loved, loved, loved thrifts shops in England, i.e., Oxfam, and the countless Hospice and Cancer Society shops that dot every large English village, hamlet or town. To me, these shops are unique in that they are actually thrift shops, whereas “thrift” or second-hand shops in NYC are really just expensive shops in disguise – dressed down, with dim lighting, dull furnishings, and microscopic dressing rooms to fool the wannabe spend-conscious shopper. (It will come as no surprise that my favorite second-hand shop in NYC is St. Luke’s Thrift Shop. It doesn’t get any better than last season Episcoplian.)

I have decided to take India at her word, and have created a “Thrift Shop Challenge” for myself. I just found out a few hours ago that I have been invited for an interview for a short-term vacancy at The Shakespeare Institute! (No one is more surprised than me.) Of course, after receiving the news, my first thought was: What will I wear? Normally, my second thought would be: www.jcrew.com. 

Here is was what I found today (weepingly) on jcrew.com. Gorgeous... 

                              The "Kate Flannel Dress" ($198.00 USD) from J.Crew.com                           (They don't deliver internationally...sniff, sniff!)

Can I be thrifty, and find a comparably fetching interview ensemble here in England without succumbing to high street offerings at the likes of Next, Laura Ashley, Monsoon or Hobbs? We shall see. My interview is in exactly 7 days from today, so the challenge is on!

     

Beauty’s where you find it

If, as Madonna (or ‘Madge’ as she’s called here) so wisely instructed us in the 1990s, "Beauty's where you find it," I’m in trouble. I’m struggling to find it here in the wilds of South Warwickshire.

Recently, I came across a rather interesting piece by Tad Safran (“American Beauty?” 11 December 2007) in The Times--my new favo(u)rite newspaper--that really made me think.

Okay, yes, there is no doubt that he was more than a wee bit harsh on the general female populace of Great Britain by labeling them (all) as: “unkempt and lazy about grooming.” Indeed, the words “sweeping” and “generalization” come readily to mind, as do the words “gross” and “exaggeration.” 

However--stay with me--however, Tad’s provocative essay did make me think about US-UK cultural differences in relation to beauty.

First, I hasten to add, I am not referring to the manic, extreme, irrational approaches to beauty that we Americans are (in)famous for. I’m just talking about the standard, runoff the mill, girlie-girl, “nothing-else-to-do-on-a-Saturday-so-let’s-grab-some-sushi-and-get-our-nails-done” approach to beauty, or, as I like to call it “maintenance.”

In his critique, Safran acknowledges, that one source of the US-UK beauty divide is the high cost of beauty treatments in the UK. I say, “Amen, brother!” 

And I would add to that the lack of choice or selection of salons and/or places to have beauty stuff done is another deterring factor. Pull up a chair, sister, I have a laundry list of examples, and I’ve only been here two months!

First off, outside of London and other major cities, as the Italian New Yorkers say, “Forget about it!” 

In the past two months I have been fleeced, ripped off and any other word you can think of to describe being stripped of copious amounts of cash and getting very little in return. 

In New York, in my former little enclave on Bleecker Street, there were 4 nail salons in a 5-minute radius. At my favourite, Gigi Nail (oh girls, how I miss you!), you can get a wonderful manicure and pedicure, what really amounts to a two hour royal treatment, including a short back massage, for $25.00 USD. (That’s a mere £14.96 GBP)

I’d walk away from Gigi Nail feeling like a queen AND a Good Samaritan for leaving a $10.00 tip! So, all in, $35.00 (£20 GBP and change!) 

For the love of Isis, you are lucky – at least in this part of Britain – to find a “nail salon” that will only charge you £35.00 GBP ($57.00 USD) for a slap-shod pedicure, and a haphazard manicure that looks like it has been completed by a 3 year-old! An angry, colo(u)r-blind, 3 year-old.

I'm not exaggerating. A few weeks ago, the D.E.B. and I were going to see David Tennant and Patrick Stewart in Hamlet at the RSC, and I decided to treat myself to a “salon day” (nails and waxing) in lieu of the big evening. 

First, it was a Monday, so most of the salons in the area were closed. Closed? Closed?! What’s that? I’m sure that somewhere in New York City there is at least one nail salon that is even open on Christmas Day! Or at least Christmas afternoon.

I trudged desperately about the town, like a homeless person looking for a place to sleep, and I found one salon that was open. The staff were all very friendly and nice. I really liked them. They made me a cup of tea. 

The only problem was the lack of what in the US would be standard beauty equipment. For my “pedicure” I was placed in an ordinary armchair, and instructed to soak my feet into a Rubbermaid plastic sink bowl. I thought they were joking. 

No electric massage chair, no heated Jacuzzi/whirlpool tub in which to soak my feet and cares away. This was not a “salon pedicure.” This was letting your best friend give you a pedicure in her kitchen, because she’s in her sixth week of Beauty School and needs the practice. That is all well and good, and as a good friend I would do that, if I had a friend who were a Cosmetology student, but I would do it as a favo(u)r, with lowered expectations, and certainly not expect to pay that friend $127.00 USD (£78.00 GBP) for the privilege of being her guinea pig!

I cannot even describe the shambles that was the manicure I received on this occasion. No electronic drying devices were available to dry my nails? Suffice it to say, when the manicurist started blowing on my wet nails herself, I asked for a hair dryer. They, in turn, looked at me in disbelief, and thought I was insane. Of course, my nails were smudged and ruined before I even left the building. What a complete and utter waste of time and money.

I can’t even begin to decry the saga of trying to find someone to do a decent wax job! And I don’t just mean waxing of the "Brazilian" or "Hollywood" variety, I mean I can’t even find someone to do my eyebrows decently! 

Back in NYC, I would go to Gigi Nail for a wax treatment (eyebrows, bikini, & etc.) once every four weeks. For some reason, here, I go, get waxed and then need to go back in less than two weeks. So, either, my hair has suddenly and miraculously started growing at a rapidly increased and alarming rate, or the waxers I’m going to are just not up to snuff.

So, two months in and I am well and truly ready to throw in the towel. I am tired of throwing away money, and walking away disappointed. But, I refuse to become in Safran’s words a “lazy, unkempt frump.” Oh no, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went to Boots, and spent £12.00 GBP on self-waxing product by Veet.

I was giddy at the prospect of liberating myself of my UK beauty salon nightmare, and trying something new. In this, my new Veet “home waxing and individual crucifixion kit” did not disappoint. It was a new experience, to say the least.

I coached myself somewhat unconfidently through the strange directions: “Heat waxing strips with hands.” Ponderous. I have always had notoriously cold hands, so how does this work then? Should I go and use someone else’s hands? After successfully heating my hands, then heating the strips, I proceeded to smooth the strips into place. Always one to go for a leap into the deep end, I started with the most sensitive area first. 

Nothing could have prepared me for the sheer, blinding pain of trying to rip off the Veet, duct tape-like, waxing strip that was now permanently affixed to my bikini area by what could only have been cement glue. Shedding a single tear, I rolled over in silent, utter agony, with the hope that I would not lose consciousness.  The only thing worse than the pain I was experiencing was the complete humiliation of having to call out for help after finding I had subsequently laminated myself to the bathroom floor.

Beauty is indeed where you find it. And the pursuit of beauty is anything but trivial, for it comes at great price and sacrifice. 

"We all love the Sexist Alpha Male"?

“Be honest: we all love the sexist alpha male.” – India Knight, Sunday Times, 28 Sept 2008

Finding myself newspaper-less in Barford, (I used to get The New York Times delivered to my apartment every weekend…sniff, sniff.)  I started flirting with The Times (same name, different paper). In it I discovered a very intriguing weekly column by India Knight. 

Interesting...

Far be it from me to deny anyone the right to have their opinion; and be it even farther from me to agree with one such as this. Oh, India, India, India. How wrong you are!

There is no way that India Knight has formed her conclusions based on personal experience. If she were, surely, her brutish Alpha Male would have her chained so tightly to her cooker, it would be impossible for her to produce her engaging weekly column. 

No, India must be dreaming. Fantasizing about someone dragging you by hair into a cave is one thing – living with a Caveman is quite another. Take from me, India, love in “Neanderthal Land” is not all that it is cracked up to be!

Reading this piece, I began to wonder how my opinion could differ so markedly from India’s. We are roughly the same age, have similar education and life backgrounds (Thank you, Wikipedia – how did we live before Google?), so we are generationally, educationally and socially similar. 

Could this be yet another US-UK cultural difference? Quite possibly. I don’t mean to suggest that the US holds exclusive rights on the Neanderthal man – certainly bone-headed oafs come in all national varieties.  What I mean is, well, the grass is always greener, and we often hold in disdain things with which we are most familiar.

An example. My junior year of college, I had an English friend, Meggie, who grew up in what she described as a “very English” household. Every morning, her father would get up, and make cups of tea for everyone: Meggie, her brother, her mum and himself. 

He would then take tea to each person’s room, and leave it for them on their bedside table. What a lovely way to start the day! I was so fascinated by this ritual. So tender, loving and domestic. 

Then, I will never forget, I spent the weekend at Meggie’s parents’ house. Early each morning there was a light knock on my door, and after I answered, Meg’s dad came in, and brought me a cup of tea. He placed it gently on my bedside table and whispered softly, “Good morning.” 

What’s not to love about that?! That was a pivotal moment for me. I have no doubt that that experience shaped my attitude about men, and Englishmen in particular, and although I had no intentions towards Meg’s dad (!!!) I knew that he was the kind of man I wanted to eventually find.

By contrast, though she loved him dearly, Meg viewed her father, and men like him, as “wet,” and avoided them like the plague. She preferred what she called “the rough, tough, silent types,” and thus began her countless tales of “love-'em-and-leave-'em” woe. Maybe it’s a matter of what you are used to, what you grow up with, &etc.

“Mister Rogers." That is where my love of the Beta Male began. (PBS has a lot to answer for.) He was neat, caring, tidy (always took off his outdoor shoes, hung his coat up neatly on the hook, and put on a fresh cashmere sweater/jumper every time he came into the house). 

He shared. He was loving, and personified gentleness: “Won’t you be my neighbo(u)r?” Brainwashed at the age of 5. Mister Rogers and cashmere. My life would never be the same.

After years in the wilderness, I have finally found this sort of man in real life, and now that I have, I could never, ever be without him! 

But, it is more than the fact that he wakes me each and every morning with a kiss, and a cup of tea on my bedside table. Or, that he brings me flowers when I’m feeling “poorly” or ‘just because’; or, that he still thinks I’m sexy, even when I’m wearing Vick’s Vapor Rub instead of Victoria’s Secret; or, that he confidently wears pastel colo(u)rs and makes them look masculine (and hot); or, that he cuddles me, as I cry during the sappy part of the chick flick I’ve chosen for us to watch; or, he when I knows that I have waited until the very last possible minute to meet a project deadline, he rushes home from work, cooks dinner, walks the dog, and does the washing-up, so I can type my way through the night – it is all these things, and more. Much more.

No, India, no! We shall honor and celebrate the Beta Male! That sterling gentleman, with his heart of solid gold. We shall crown him King, and revere him as our lord and master! And I know I am not alone in thinking this way. I’m not the only woman out here who spent a better part of the 1990s with Ralph Tresvant’s “Sensitivity” on continual play loop, as I cried into my beer, doubting that my Prince Charming would ever come along.

Poor India, you have no idea what you are missing! Incredible passion comes from great sensitivity. The Beta Male, that you coldly dismiss as a dear soul who quote, “sympathises when you have period cramps and offers to make you a nice cup of camomile,” but, whom you’d overlook “when picking a boyfriend rather than a friend,” in favo(u)r of a more primitive primate, has so much more to offer. 

And besides, a nice cup of c(h)amomile is just thing one needs -- after one has been playfully dragged into a very tidy cave.