Reasons I wish I was a Man
1. I could go to work instead of staying home with three babies. I know if I really wanted, R would stay home and look after the bubs so I could work but R is not cut out to be a stay at home mom and I’m a TV writer for God’s sake. In the country that brought you “Neighbours” and “Prisoner”. It’s not like I’m doing anything important.
2. Niggling Insecurity. I know it’s facile to say men are less insecure than women but I know if I was one I would be a cocky, big hairy balls kind of guy. I’ve become such an apologist since I moved to Australia (being told to ‘tone it down’ enough times will do that to a girl) that I feel like a bit of the reverse-TransAmerica surgery might be what I need to get my guts back.
3. Men tend to overanalyse and overthink less than women. Again, huge generalisation. Verging on sexist. See what an apologist I am?
4. I suck at being a girly girl. I don’t do make up or dresses or bikinis. I hate shopping. I prefer sex to talking. I abhor going to the hairdresser. I like big chunky Doc Martens. Chick flicks bore me. I don’t think Alicia Keyes is the messiah.
5. Men can get away with not explaining themselves. (I'm deliberately not going to elaborate on this one in an attempt to not explain myself).
What brought on this wallowing in a puddle of self-doubt episode? I caught up with a work colleague today; P. He’s dating a woman who’s a well-known writer. Co-incidentally she was hired by the Film and Television Office to read and comment on the script I wrote but whose name I dare not speak because I haven’t looked at it for eons. The notes she gave me were mostly valid but presumably because I have a dirty foreign first name which she'd never seen before, she assumed I was male. Today P reminded me of that episode and was at pains to point out how experienced and brilliant and high achieving Ms Writer is. He mentioned all the film and TV parties he’s been going to with her. I thought of how much I hate those events and how I haven’t stepped foot in one for ages. Apparently Ms Writer is also Ms Congeniality. She knows everyone who’s anyone. She loves The Scene.
After we said good-bye I had a yucky feeling in my tummy (you can’t tell I’ve been hanging out with kids, can you?). The feeling’s stuck with me and no amount of chocolate or TV has quelled it. (To be fair, the chocolate I had was Nutella and the TV I watched was Parkinson interviewing Madonna. She looks oddly ridiculous in her disco gear singing a song she stole from Abba, talking about how Kabala has made her a better person. It alienated me even more when the audience gave her a standing ovation. Am I the only person who finds her phoney? Can I honestly tell myself if I was in that audience I wouldn’t have stood and cheered too? Are all people shells or is it just me?).
I wonder if those drugs they keep emailing me about (Viagra! Cialis! Cunnilingus! Cheap meds online) can take away this feeling? It’s a feeling of fear and unworthiness. I am suddenly horrified to think I may never finish that blasted script.
And an unearthly silence has suddenly fallen on my house. All three babies are sleeping. And if I was a man I’d do the clever thing and sleep too, like R is. I might even snore like a man, one hand clutching my big hairy balls, like R is. But I’m a woman so I’ll sit here and feel gutted and write this and try to think of:
Reasons I’m Glad I’m a Woman
1. Tits are rather nice.
2. Umm, tits?
2. Niggling Insecurity. I know it’s facile to say men are less insecure than women but I know if I was one I would be a cocky, big hairy balls kind of guy. I’ve become such an apologist since I moved to Australia (being told to ‘tone it down’ enough times will do that to a girl) that I feel like a bit of the reverse-TransAmerica surgery might be what I need to get my guts back.
3. Men tend to overanalyse and overthink less than women. Again, huge generalisation. Verging on sexist. See what an apologist I am?
4. I suck at being a girly girl. I don’t do make up or dresses or bikinis. I hate shopping. I prefer sex to talking. I abhor going to the hairdresser. I like big chunky Doc Martens. Chick flicks bore me. I don’t think Alicia Keyes is the messiah.
5. Men can get away with not explaining themselves. (I'm deliberately not going to elaborate on this one in an attempt to not explain myself).
What brought on this wallowing in a puddle of self-doubt episode? I caught up with a work colleague today; P. He’s dating a woman who’s a well-known writer. Co-incidentally she was hired by the Film and Television Office to read and comment on the script I wrote but whose name I dare not speak because I haven’t looked at it for eons. The notes she gave me were mostly valid but presumably because I have a dirty foreign first name which she'd never seen before, she assumed I was male. Today P reminded me of that episode and was at pains to point out how experienced and brilliant and high achieving Ms Writer is. He mentioned all the film and TV parties he’s been going to with her. I thought of how much I hate those events and how I haven’t stepped foot in one for ages. Apparently Ms Writer is also Ms Congeniality. She knows everyone who’s anyone. She loves The Scene.
After we said good-bye I had a yucky feeling in my tummy (you can’t tell I’ve been hanging out with kids, can you?). The feeling’s stuck with me and no amount of chocolate or TV has quelled it. (To be fair, the chocolate I had was Nutella and the TV I watched was Parkinson interviewing Madonna. She looks oddly ridiculous in her disco gear singing a song she stole from Abba, talking about how Kabala has made her a better person. It alienated me even more when the audience gave her a standing ovation. Am I the only person who finds her phoney? Can I honestly tell myself if I was in that audience I wouldn’t have stood and cheered too? Are all people shells or is it just me?).
I wonder if those drugs they keep emailing me about (Viagra! Cialis! Cunnilingus! Cheap meds online) can take away this feeling? It’s a feeling of fear and unworthiness. I am suddenly horrified to think I may never finish that blasted script.
And an unearthly silence has suddenly fallen on my house. All three babies are sleeping. And if I was a man I’d do the clever thing and sleep too, like R is. I might even snore like a man, one hand clutching my big hairy balls, like R is. But I’m a woman so I’ll sit here and feel gutted and write this and try to think of:
Reasons I’m Glad I’m a Woman
1. Tits are rather nice.
2. Umm, tits?
posted by Yidchick at 11:55 pm
6 Comments:
madonna is a weird, scrawny woman who can't come to terms with herself. you are a talented writer who has three small children, who demand your attention for any number of reasons. you got through being pregnant with twins while you and your other half helped little o through her surgery. you are fabulous - now go and get some sleep, woman!
la surl is wisdom blogified
listen to what she says: you are marvellous
:)
♥
UC
You can BUY cunnilingus? I'm getting inferior spam.
And I'll cop out and ditto surly girl, too.
And by the way, be they ever so metaphoric...there's nothing wrong with the size of your balls.
You are worth twenty-five Madonnas on your very worst day.
And that's the truth.
You're too much of a woman to ever be a man. And that's saying something...something good.
You have three babies and your intellect is still intact. Extraordinary. Amazing. Brava!
And as for Madonna...ack. Grow up already you weird kabalah wench.
I glanced at one of the blogs on the online version of the Sydney morning Herald and saw that "house-husbands" were being described as "the modern woman's ultimate luxury". It enrages me that a man can stay at home and be considered a blessing to his wife, yet so many people still think that a 'house-wife' is the fundamental right of the husband. Society assumes that the man has selflessly given up his career for his family, yet that a women simply has no better options for a career.
I know this is a gross generalisation, but the fact that the attitude is out there at all still pisses me off.
Oh, and yes you ARE fabulous!!
From a writer with non-metaphorical balls and a new baby in the house, I can only second third fourth what's being said. Writers need to see something of life, we're agreed? You're having your fill of that, plus you're clearly talented. So they'll have to wait, wait till you're ready, and it'll be worth their while.
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