The wall is down

My new blogging home is:

http://westendbitch.wordpress.com

Mummy? Why is Jesus in my inbox?

(#1 in a possibly never-ending series of gripes percolating in Lola's head about the flaws in organised religion with specific reference to the happy-joy-joy Catholic faith)

For me, the hardest part about a consistent faith is the perpetual suspension of disbelief. More difficult to do than in believing that Romeo & Juliet managed to cram all that love and drama into three days, or thinking that Sven Goran Eriksson must be a real laugh over drinks in the evening.

As a youngster being dragged up through the Catholic faith I always rather suspected I had the wrong kind of mind for it all: my default position is to ask awkward questions, poke holes in arguments and generally be a nuisance. It should come as no surprise that the first word I ever uttered was 'why?'.

Well, with these Catholics if it's not one thing, it's another. Jesus rose from the dead; hold your questions. Mary was assumed into heaven because she's too special to croak it like the other mere mortals; hand down please Miss Smith. This bit of tasteless wafer the size of a two pence piece is in fact just a wee chunk of flesh magicked out of the air from someone who apparently died a couple of thousand years ago; nobody is asking you, dear.

But what really gets my proverbial goat (nothing gets my actual goat, 'Scheese) is the stinginess of this enforced credulity. You have to take all their proscribed custom and practice at face value, and woe betide you should bat so much as an eyelid. But should your poor six-year-old self haplessly enquire if your two cats are coming to heaven with you should you peg it, your wilful naiveté is mocked with a force not generally seen outwith hurricane season. Not only will your pets not be waiting for you in heaven, they don't even get a separate pet heaven. You tight theologian bastards! How dare you separate me from my beloved kitty? Better that than being stuck in eternity with a bunch of do-gooders that make me want to vomit.

I suppose the point is moot: if these same people are right about kitty heaven then they'll most likely be right about homosexuals and the distinct lack of God's favour in our direction. I choose not to believe that personally, but when I go I want a bag of catnip treats in my hand, just in case I'm right after all. Won't that just be one in the eye for those who 'know better'?

Dark days for Dubya.

I could care less whether his lame judicial nominees are confirmed or not. Since I live in a country where judge selection is far less politicised, the impact is frankly minimal.

What troubles me most in this post is the observation that:

"They had hoped for someone with a clear anti-abortion record in the hope that the Supreme Court will move to the Right and eventually overturn the 1973 Roe v Wade case setting out the legal right for abortion. "

For me, this is my entire problem with the pro-life campaigners. If you think abortion is wrong, don't have one. Better yet, don't put yourself in the position to have one. Bring your children up with those beliefs if you see fit, but allow that they may grow up to think for themselves. If you find the process so horrific, support the government in providing realistic alternatives (and here's a wacky one: improve access to informed sex education and contraception for teenagers).

If your anti-abortion stance is religious, then I have a newsflash for you: there's such a thing as separation of church and state (don't worry, we'll explain it to the President too, even if we have to resort to small words and visual aids). It is not only unethical, but entirely unconstitutional for Roe vs Wade to be overturned on religious grounds. You are NOT the only group in your country, many people have opposing views to you, and they absolutely must not be forced to live under laws imposed by your religious beliefs. The key thing is that the choice to have an abortion, much like the choice of which religion you follow, is entirely personal.

Personal, i.e. pertaining to the person making the decision. There are some medical procedures that other people find repulsive, particularly in the field of cosmetic surgery, but even though those people are hurting themselves, I don't see placards and harrassment going on outside the clinics. It would be hard to find a woman who actively wants an abortion, it's hardly an aspirational situation. But the close-mindedness of trying to make what is safe and legal back into a backstreet practice endangering countless lives needlessly is what makes me sick. You don't care if these 'immoral' women die because they've been left with no alternative. How pro-life are you then? Don't tell me the 'innocent' babies are more worthy somehow, because your official line is that all life is sacred.

So that's what got my back up this afternoon, then.

Definition of insanity

Apparently, AA (the drinking one, not the car one) define insanity as doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result. Well, sign me up for one of those delightful rooms with the padded wallpaper and have me fitted for a straitjacket, because here we go again.

Yes, I'm trying to straighten my hair.

This may seem like an everyday process, one that is certainly performed by millions of people the world over. Like those fortunate people, I too believe that products + good drying technique will result in poker straight and glossy locks. I convince myself every time that I know what I'm doing, that this master plan cannot possibly fail.

So after the special shampoo, the gunky styling creme, and a muscle strain in my shoulder from all the blowdrying, you'd think I'd be proud of myself.

Instead I'm checking my scalp for superficial burns and cursing the ringlets that have popped out from nowhere. Goldilocks I am not, and consequently I would like hair that suits someone over the age of five.

Now this might not seem like a particularly valid grievance, particularly in such serious times, but I've been living with this petty anguish since I was a nipper. For we curly-haired sprogs had a hell to endure every bathtime that normal people did not: detangling. I don't think the complex relationship with my evil mother can be attributed to one factor, but the ritual of getting the 'tugs' from my hair every other day is certainly near the top of the list for consideration.

I just want to look like those pretty people on the covers of magazines. Losing six stones overnight isn't likely, but I should at least be able to have the hair. I can't even take solace in those rare seasons where curls are in, because naturally curly hair doesn't look like those pictures. Those models spend forever being twisted and teased (ooh, lucky!) and it's just as pointless as the hours I spend ironing my own unruly tresses. Is it any wonder I want a quick 20 minute solution to save me another morning of avoiding mirrors - meaning I usually end up at work looking like Wurzel Gummidge. I want promises, hyperbole and assurances that miracles do happen, dammit. Then I remember: they never come true.

Curse you, lying hair product mavericks, you won't foil me again.

Ooh, Pantene do a straightening gel...

These charity wristbands piss me right off.

Go ahead, call me uncharitable, but my GAYE (heh, gay) contributions state otherwise. I've been out shaking buckets on World Aids' Day, walked, baked and occasionally shut the hell up, all in the name of charity. That doesn't make me better than anyone else. There are plenty of other things about me that take care of that.

The root of my discontent lies not in some anti-fashion agenda to be cooler than thou, nor does it come from bitterness over an allergy to cheap rubber. No, to find the real reason we have to delve a little deeper into both my past and my psyche, two places where you must be this high to ride; pregnant women and those with heart conditions are advised not to proceed, etc.

Where I come from, i.e. the middle of nowhere with no much in the way of culture, the only social activities we had to choose from as nippers were rolling around in the muck, or going "to the baths". I wouldn't like to speculate on why it was "baths" instead of "pool", but I think it was less to do with the Romans, and more with the intermittent personal hygiene habits of some of my schoolmates. God I can hear my mother now, "it's one thing to be poor, but there's no excuse for being dirty", generally whilst scraping off several layers of grime and epidermis from either my brother or myself.

So off to the baths we would duly go, once a week at most. Sunday morning was always my favourite, since all the good Catholics were at mass and my Protestant grandfather liked nothing more than to 'corrupt' our prayerful lives and upset my mother. So we'd cry and whinge until we were allowed to have swimming and a giant breakfast after instead of a boring, knee-cracking sermon from the doddery Canon.

I don't know if this particular system made its way outside the environs of Lanarkshire, but since our Council never had the brightest crayons in the box, it's likely our municipal guidelines were simply pinched from elsewhere. Anyway, upon pitching up at the baths and paying your 50 pence for an hour or so of swimming, you had to exchange your locker key for a gaudy plastic band. Staying in past your time was never really an option. The lifeguards were like ninjas, the moment you splashed near to a side, they were on you: either humiliating you out of the pool with barked orders and insults; or plucking you out by the swimsuit straps/waistband like a dying flounder. One such occasion of being slapped down on the tiles after merely attempting a kick turn was enough to leave you knowing not to mess around. So at the shout of "WHITE BANDS OUT THE POOL PLEASE", you knew you absolutely had to haul ass, all the while making it look like you were neither bothered nor scared.

So if I laugh in your face when I see you respective coloured pieces of rubber hanging round your wrist, it's really nothing personal. I'm just masking the reliving of my childhood traumas, and it's nothing at all to do with you being a trend-slaved ponce. Honest.

With our compliments ("I like your hair!")

I'm not good with compliments.

A little difficult, you might suppose, given that pretty much everything I do in my waking hours is motivated by a desire for recognition and praise. My life thus far has been punctuated by the certificates of achievement, the written pats on the head that fill countless shoeboxes in my possession. To the casual observer, I'm falling over myself for pleasant things to be said both to and about me.Not so, for in the presence of anything vaguely complimentary, I metaphorically shrivel like an apricot in a tumble dryer (don't try this at home kids. People from Whirlpool will mock you, and nobody wants a piece of that) and wish to be anywhere but in the receiving line.

I usually attribute this to the carefully cultivated false modesty that enabled me to survive high school. It was essentially big fish, small pond syndrome (well, killer whale to plankton is probably a more accurate comparison) and it was very noticed when one was to succeed in anything. Social death could easily happen after the slightest indication from a maths teacher that your fractals were the prettiest. Actually, I'm not entirely sure fractals were ever on the syllabus, perhaps I mean quadratic equations? I was one of those precocious types to begin with - getting good grades from the most sadistic of educators, and constantly singled out as an example of how it should be done. You must all know that there are two reactions in this scenario: if it happens to you, cringe and motion for the ground to open and swallow you; if you're mere observer, instantly loathe that crawler for daring to be better than you, not that you care because you're too cool to be brainy. So I learnt within a few weeks that pride and a sense of achievement would be the equivalent of a 'kick me' sign between the shoulder blades. I adapted well, pooh-poohing even the slightest nugget of praise as being the action of addle-minded teachers who all wanted to marry me or something hideous. It worked, and I survived with nary a bruise for my troubles.

But it's more than that. Should Mrs Lola happen to say I'm looking particularly stunning, or a friend remark upon my professional telephone manner, and I'm instantly backing away like I've been stung by a terribly vicious kamikaze wasp. I don't know what to do with things like that. I might throw around compliments like cheap confetti, but I'm 100% uncomfortable being on the receiving end.I suppose there's a book of etiquette somewhere to deal with situations just like these. Only I can put the grace into gracious after all, but I have no earthly idea how to begin.

Stay in one place, forever

Is it any wonder they say that moving house is one of the most stressful experiences known to us poor humans? (and cats, they don't like it much either.)

My existence since the age of eighteen has been nomadic to say the least. Abandoning the provincial life in Scotland for the grime-smeared lights of London was without doubt the best move I ever made, but since I got here I can't seem to stick to one borough for more than a calendar year. Add to the mix a solid year of living out of a suitcase, during which my flatmate moved my house twice and you have some appreciation of how au fait I am with the complex maze of the lettings market.

That said, I'm abandoning familiar ground in the next month or so, heading to Brighton for an academic year while Mrs Lola adds yet more letters after her name. Our grand seaside adventure (and indeed the official start of our living together as a genuine engaged couple) cannot begin however until we crack the letting agents code and get permission to actually rent a place in which we can live.

Easier said than done. The ads are vague at best and deceptive at worst. The available dates are hazy and not even talking with a perky letting agent can clarify with any certainty.

Here's the kind of thing we're trying to work around:

• plumbing for washing machine i.e. gaping hole in the kitchen wall with protruding rubber hoses. Bring your own washing machine for a 6 month let. They're just so portable.
• modern décor - walls are cream, floors are beige. You're not allowed to decorate, so leave your personality at the door.
• close to Brighton station if you have a helicopter
• sea views - and the smell of salt water soaked effluence washing up on the grubbiest bit of shoreline is right outside your window
• part-furnished a few broken bits of furniture the landlord couldn't find another home for
• must be seen so you won't call up in tears when you realise what a shithole it actually is.

My head is, as they say, bursting. I'm sure that in six weeks or so I'll be laughing about it all over a gallon glass of Shiraz, but in the meantime I'm checking the weather websites and exploring the feasibility of a 2 man tent on the beach. It doesn't get that cold in January, does it?

And so it begins...

I'm getting married.

Now, this is not the start of a manifesto; not for these pages are endless discussion of floral arrangements, or the etiquette for favours. No, it's simply an observation of the biggest, life-altering, oh my GOD! event that's on the landscape of my life for the forseeable future.

A date hasn't been set, mostly because a venue has yet to be confirmed. Families are scattered across the British Isles, and friends across the globe. I don't think that when my beloved popped the question either of us had any real appreciation of what would be involved, even though we're trying to lowball it. Not for us the acres of meringue tulle and marquees that cover Cheshire; nor do we need a philharmonic orchestra and a guest list including everyone we've ever met, from nursery onwards. This is going to take one hell of a strategy.

Add another complication to the mix, if you'll permit: this is no ordinary wedding. Nope, both my fiancée and myself are of the female persuasion, ergo the event in question is actually a civil partnership service. Some might welcome the blank canvas in which to create a truly memorable event. I'm floundering in the absence of tradition, lost without a million stupid rules to dictate our special day.

So that's the main issue plaguing my brain today. Well, it's easier than actually doing any work.