Muffin Anyone? Only if it's "skinny"

I have kept silent for too long about how ruddy bloody crap the world is. Well today a good bit of old fashioned sharing of exasperations has led me to write this post. That and procrastination to avoid the fact I have a seminar to prepare for (quaking in fear... us mathematicians are not used to this).

And today the issue is going to be women, or dare I say the way in which we are objectified, pressurised and downright defiled by society.

Now, before you guys out there start complaining about this and say that men get there fair share of it from women, I know. I've seen the aero advert. I'm not claiming this is the guys fault or even a one way mechanism, simply that right now I have a bone to pick on the behalf of my gender and I'm not quitting until at least one lady stops shaving her legs.

I was having a conversation with a new friend I've made in Bristol. I'd like to take a minute to say a big "howdy and hello there" as I just sent her a link (after she twisted my arm :-P). She is a pretty cool chick and I think we have a fair amount of stuff in common. One of which is anger! But I digress. The subject of muffin tops came up...

Now for those of you that don't know what these are, and I hope that you don't because by having it in your vocabulary it simply means you have been exposed more than you ought to the crapness of media, it is the bit of your belly/sides/back that overhangs trousers at the top. Like a muffin. Now I for one think they sound a lot sexier when they are known as love handles. For two, however and more importantly, I think that if the same people that write articles about muffin tops (oh yes, this is considered newsworthy) hadn't introduced trousers that were so ridiculously low slung the wearer could not bend forward without exposing herself and half of that ever so sexy not-at-all low rising thong (g-string), then the whole phenomenon would not exist!

The sad truth is though, that instead of giving the sound advice to getting rid of muffin tops - buy a pair of trousers that fit - magazines are proporting all kinds of diets and exercises plans to generate women that spend all their time, money and energies obsessing after things that are not achievable and not supposed to be. The self-esteem of the lovely ladies in society has sunken so low as a result of the impossibility of the task that they set standards for themselves that allow the less than lovely members of society to use and abuse them. Consumerism rapes their pockets, men rape their bodies and the lies of who they are suppose to be are screaming so loudly and repeatedly in their ears that there is no space for the quite truth of a woman.

The truth that I can't help believe lies in places like this: Proverbs 31. If we could all aim to live out that character I am convinced that the pain we see demonstrated in eating disorders, unwanted pregnancies, abusive relationships, control issues, low self-esteem, self-harm, psychotic bitchiness etc etc I could go on would subside; I am convinced that the world would not be able to help slackening it's grip on the hearts of the daughters of Eve.

I don't want to start a discussion about women is the church, looking at contentious arguments about jewellery, dresses, head coverings and speaking out. Not 'cause I don't want to talk about it, not at all! Just now is not the time and I have, I confess, a lot more learning and thinking and listening to do about all this stuff. I do know, however, that as I reform my ideas on what sets aside a woman of the Kingdom from women of the world, that somethings have got to change.

What? I am not yet sure. Is it sufficient to sometimes go out with hairy legs or do I need to stop mosturising too? Maybe these things have no significance if the heart attitude is changed? I do know that as long as I pay any heed to what the WAGs are doing (Wives And Girlfriends, a distressing term coined by British media to describe the horrifying iconography of the partners of footballers in all their emaciated glory) or for even one second accept as truth what the media purports as necessary or significant, I will lose sight of my WOG (I couldn't help myself!) role model and as such the whole crux of my true feminine identity.

Vienna: I gave you my heart and the very next day you gave it away.

I never though I would be the person that screams out "You fucking arsehole!" in the streets of one of the cultural capitals of the world. But I did. And I make no apology.

I have met some perverts in my time, indeed in the past few days have been some priceless examples one of whom will be getting a post of their own in due course, but I have never been so outraged in all my life.

After a ABSOLUTELY fabulous night and day in this spectacular capital of Austria I really was feeling moved to perfection. This is by far the most beautiful city I have ever had the priviledge to spend time in (more so than Budapest, I kid you not) and I am even now looking into a way to get to move here for a while, in due course. However nothing, I repeat NOTHING, can excuse the behaviour of a certain Venetian man this evening.

That said, I cannot be sure he was a local. One of the main reasons for this is that we are currently amid the Euro season and I totally overlooked the fact that I was going to be in one of the major football centres. I'd left Geneva thinking "I'm escaping at just the right time" only for it to hit me on the train that I was heading into the fray... It did not affect my day too badly in the long run but it certainly notices as there is a huge 'fan zone' set up in a park between the museums and the parliament - forcing you to purchase McCafes and overpriced Carlsberg and throw away your bottles of water. It seems to be a bit of a repeating occurence that by chance I end up at these major sporting events abroad and it is kinda exciting, so after taking Dave out for a thank you dinner (OMGoodness, all you can eat sushi for €14!!!) I headed off to catch the end of the Swiss-Turkish game and soak up the atmosphere.
There was none.
Now, I must admit to having had a wry smile when I heard the English were not in the Euro. I was kinda glad they weren't going to mess up my town. But you know what, at least they know how to party. It was boring and unfriendly and the only time there was any action was when Turkey scored their first goal; then I became very aware of my location in a pocket of Turkish supporters wearing my 'I heart Switzerland' T-shirt. I left soon after to go on a rambling attempt to find David and his friends. Well, at least I can say I was there... Euro '08 man, livin' the dream.

So, what was it that affronted me so very very much? Well, in context I really did have a truely marvelous day even though I didn't get to do very much specific things and had no idea where I was at given I forgot to get a map, so literally spent 10 hours wondering in circles thinking 'there has to be a centre somewhere I will follow the big beautiful old buildings' and quickly realising that that is all Vienna has. It was incredibly cool though and gave me a good chance to think and chill and eat weird sausage and go through a market and... ooh ooh tangent: I was in this market and an olive man made me eat one of his olives even though I didn't understand and didn't want an olive and it seemed to have a chilli inside. He insisted it was a pepper but he was lying. Remember - fallible! I swear I nearly died and it gave me terrible hiccups (Question: hiccoughs?).

Anyways, great day. Then what happens? Well, as wondered aimlessly towards where David was, without really knowing 'cause I was only well practised at being lost in Vienna, a cyclist comes scarily close to me on the pavement. I shriek a little at the danger but that was not even close to the end of the issue. The b***ard (I am a little calmer now so will refrain) grabbed my behind and whilst doing so lifted up my floaty (but not at all sluttily short) white summery skirt, then continued on his way!!! DISGRACEFUL. Needless to say I chased him down the street hoping he would have to stop at the lights. Though really, is that the kind of man that follows traffic procedure?

After that there was a bit of a damper on things. Maybe it's the football, it does strange things to people. I am however a little suspicious it might be a crazy sport in Austria given that one of the people I met at the pub later (you gotta love Irish pubs abroad) said quite brazenly that he enjoyed doing that when he sees an opportunity and can never say no...! What is this world coming to I do not know. He did say he never grabbed, only lifted a little in a jokey way, but I still think that is not a valid excuse.

Rounding up the day I am not too upset now. It seems a little more funny and Vienna did totally speak into my heart (awww, soppy moment). I want to share one of the things that I found as I wondered lost round the streets that really was kinda worth it for this alone. A mural on a wall which, I hope I do not misquote, said something along the lines of:
"Do not try to be an apple if you are a banana. You will only be a second rate apple"
Love it. Also, it ties in with what D was saying about me on the first night. He remarked that he had forgotten how loud I was... then added that it was ok 'cause it just meant he didn't have to work so hard at the conversation since I did enough for both of us! I liked that, it is a new take on the concern I sometimes have of being "too much" and yeah, I am reminded that it ok to be bananas if that's what you are. Anyway, nobody likes a bad apple.

I am leaving in the morning. Only just realised and thought I had time for Klimpt but I don't which is a shame. Well, I will just have to return won't I. Hmmm, I have done this rather late and it is not as succinct as I would have liked. Also, the spellchecker is not working and I can't be arsed to go into Word. You will have to be more forgiving whilst I am writing from abroad me thinks. Now, I must sleep as it's gone 2am and I am up at 7. Silly silly Kat(i)e.

N'night!

Linguistic Potholes

Kebab houses in Geneva are different to the ones back home. For a start you can order red wine in them, and sit on a terrace with a plate. You can even have a rice based meal... Crazy. They also differ in the sense that on the whole you are expected to speak French: beware. More dangers lurk in this language than in the meat you are eating there. Scary.

There is one truly consistent thing about kebaberies though: the people that run them. Always the same type of man that is incredibly flirty and in the really irritating sense, such that he likes to tease and patronise women (I do not like this technique, pas du tout). They find this a lot easier to do when one does not speak very good French and the other day, having gone for a pint by the lake (do not get me started on how beautiful that is) with a friend, kebabs seemed the natural progression. In this, Mr Donor got the perfect opportunity to perform the standard unsuccessful mating ritual and at the same time publicly humiliate me.

Pronunciation is key in French and it is not always easy to perfect. If I were to give you one piece of advice it is this: never say "Thank-you very much" to a sleazy Turkish man.

There are a few words that you run the risk of being gravely misinterpreted with. Beaucoup (a lot) is one such. When I responded with the natural "Merci beaucoup" (thanks a lot/very much) I had momentarily forgotten this and boy is that one scenario where you shouldn't be flippant. When he asked me "Quoi?" I was well aware that I should not repeat myself but perhaps I would have been better off ignorant, since the damage had been done and I understood enough to know that the entire shop had just heard me say "Thank-you nice arse".

However, since I had also made the second worst mistake in a kebab shop (to not say "sans piquant" in time) it turned out that having inadvertently seduced my server I could get whatever I wanted (as long as what I wanted was a fresh kebab bun without hot sauce). So I suppose I learnt that sexual impropriety does pay off. Hmmmm. Ponder that one...