Odds & Ends: The Ladies’ Room*

Posted on March 6, 2011 by Scribe Doll

(*See legal disclaimer below)

Even in our era – sadly so full of fears and threats – there are few places as scary as the ladies’ room at a ball, or other dressing up social event.  In fact, the more elegant the clothes, the higher the atmosphere of menace in the powder room.  To all the men who have a natural fear of the gentler sex, I would say, you cannot truly experience the ferocity of the felines except in their natural habitat.  And women’s natural habitat, where nails are filed to a point and scarlet is carefully reapplied to the lips, is the only female inner sanctum where no male is allowed – the ladies’ loo.

It is the self-contained headquarters of espionage (“How did he react when I said that? I deliberately wasn’t looking at him”), psychotherapy (“He’s not worth it. Plenty more sharks – I mean fish – in the sea”), first aid (“Could you help me – my zip has got jammed?”), military strategy (“Next time he does that, just say –” and diplomacy (“You’re so much better than his new girlfriend”).  It is there that a keen zoologist can study the many facets of the female instinct, from nurturing to destructive, with all the rich graduation of colours in between.  It’s too bad only female zoologists qualify for that particular research fellowship.

Firstly, let’s look at a typical visit to the ladies’ room.  As you push the door open, all eyes turn to you.  It is a quick assessment to check that you are a bona fide member of the club.  Then, you are confronted with one of the universe’s great unresolved  riddles – why is there ALWAYS a queue in the women’s toilet? (Answers on a postcard, please.)  Once you have emerged from your private time in the cubicle, your next stop is the sink and – most importantly – the mirror.  Even though you know it will still get wet, you try and balance your make up purse on the only tiny dry section on the sink, and you start taking out your war paint.  You lengthen that thin dark line on the edge of your eyelid, smudge some more concealer on that blemish, add panache to your lashes with another stroke of mascara brush and slide the lipstick over your mouth.

That is when you catch several other pairs of eyes in the mirror. Scientists say that women’s brains can multitask better than men’s.  Although the other club members are visibly absorbed in retouching their own make up, their attention is on you.  In their feline eyes there are questions: how is SHE doing it? Is it something I can do, too? Does she have a new warfare strategy than I can learn and use to my advantage? Of course, the moment they realise they are also being watched, the staring eyes narrow into a pussycat blink and a tight lipped smile that says: don’t worry, we’re all sisters here.  At this point beware.  If one of the other club members says, “I love your dress”, the literal translation is “I hate you for looking better than I do”.  If you want to follow the club’s code of conduct (and if you wish to keep your eyes unscratched, I suggest you do), your response must never be, “Oh, thank you very much!” but “Oh, you like it? I’m not sure about it, myself, I think it makes me look so fat”.  If you’re aiming to become a senior member, then add, “I’m so glad you think it looks OK on me, I was so worried I looked awful”.  By acting the defenceless kitten, you automatically appeal to the nurturing side of the other women, who – knowing there is nothing to fear from you – will retract their claws and, if you’re very lucky, will even give you a well-disposed piece of advice (which you will make sure you bin at the exit).

Of course, once you’ve left the gynaeceum behind, and rejoined the company of men, the sisterhood vanishes like a chimera.  What is left behind is a group of Celtic female warriors, ready to fight to the death.

* Legal Disclaimer: not all women are like that.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Odds & Ends, Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Double Standards: Supermarket Plastic Bags

Posted on February 27, 2011 by Scribe Doll

“Do you need a bag?”

There is a tone of warning in the question.  In fact, if you listen closely, you will hear that the stress is on “need” and not “bag”.  That is how the cashier signals that the question is intended as a warning, and not an offer.  The look on the cashier’s face is at times anxious, as though he or she is keen for you to win at a quiz game.  At other times, the eyes are narrowed in defiance, daring you to give the wrong answer.

I glance at the contents of my shopping basket, aligned on the conveyor belt.  Avocadoes in a plastic box, apples in a plastic bag, cheese in a plastic wrapper, shampoo in a plastic bottle, yoghurt in a plastic tub, and the Saturday Guardian neatly sealed in cellophane to stop all the extra bits from falling out.

In the nanosecond which follows, I search the till person’s face.  No, she is not teasing me or being ironic.  I stifle the impulse to shout Look at all this unnecessary plastic packaging! How dare you guilt-trip me about one plastic bag?! Instead, I force my lips into a tight smile over my snarl and give  my answer.

Now, as most of you will know, your answer to this seemingly innocuous question determines the cashier’s reaction, as follows:

Script 1: “No, thanks.  I’ve got my own bag.”

The cashier rewards you with an approving smile.  A smile that says you’re an upstanding pillar of the community.  You’re one of us. The kind of person who buys only charity Christmas cards, eats alfalfa, uses organic loo roll, and feels deeply guilty about the Yeti size carbon footprint of your people carrier.

Script 2: “Yes, please.”

The cashier pulls out a plastic bag from under the till, avoiding eye contact.  You’re a public enemy.  You’re politically incorrect.  You’re probably a smoker.  You’re destroying the Earth.  And climate change is all your fault, too.

I suddenly feel like Hester Prynne.  The plastic bag I carry out, branded with the supermarket logo, is my scarlet letter.  Thus, I proceed home, and vow to make amends with a pilgrimage to the recycling bin.

I unpack my shopping, and study the packaging.  I need my reading glasses to decipher the recycling instructions.  Recycled.  Recycled.  Widely Recycled.  Check with Local Recycling. I stare at the cheese wrapper.  Not Currently Recycled. I resolve not to buy cheese again.  I examine the contents of my fridge, and discover several other items with the same label, and other items with no guidelines at all.  I consider the impact of my new resolution on my future diet.  Downhearted, I slice an avocado and drop the knife in horror.  The handle is plastic.  How will I dispose of it when the time comes? In need of distraction from the escalating panic, I switch on the television.  It is made with plastic, so are the remote controls.  I will listen to some music, instead.  Ah! The CD box is plastic.  The CD itself is made of plastic.  The room spins before me.  My plants are in plastic pots.  My laptop is plastic.  The alarm clock, the telephone, shower curtain, toothbrush, toilet seat, the window frames, and even the lenses of my glasses… Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh! The Furies are upon me, brandishing their whips.  Crushed by guilt, I collapse on the synthetic fibre carpet.

*   *   *

I am much better, these days.  There is the occasional relapse but I have mostly recovered.  I have resumed my weekly shop at the supermarket.  I choose my foods carefully before adding them to my basket.  Once I am ready, I walk over to the till and place them neatly on the conveyor belt.  I look at the cashier straight in the eye, with the confidence of a clear conscience.  He or she looks up at me and asks, “Do you need a bag?” (stressing “need”).

I smile broadly and, taking care to stress the last word, reply, “No – actually – I need two.”

Scribe Doll

Posted in Double Standards, Uncategorized | 5 Comments

Words and Civilisation: The Truth About Honesty

Posted on February 20, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Can I be honest?

Why are you suddenly looking worried? There, you see, just because I said, “Can I be honest?” you automatically assume I’m about to say something negative; or at least something you think I think you won’t like.

Don’t you find that fascinating? If you notice – people never ask you that and then follow it up with a compliment.  They never say, “Can I be honest? I love your jumper” or “can I be honest? You make me very happy”.  It’s always, “Can I be honest? You don’t look good in that jumper” or “Can I be honest? I think we should break up”.  You hear that self-righteous little question, and you just know you’re in for a punch in the stomach.  What makes it worse, is that they take it for granted that that virtuous little word honest gives them the right to start verbally kicking you.  They bulldozer over your dreams and any remaining vestiges of your self-confidence but, hey, they’re being honest – as if that’s supposed to be some kind of comfort to you.  And you don’t even have the right to object because, as we’ve all been taught, honesty is a good thing.  Always.

Right.

You’re not even allowed to disagree with their opinion because they’ve all got that same answer ready, on cue: “You just don’t want to face the truth.”

The truth.  What a great excuse.  They should patent it.

Your brother and his wife take you out for a meal on my birthday, to this restaurant you like.  As soon as you sit down, you ask, as one does, “So, how’s life?”  Your brother doesn’t miss a beat.  “We’re so broke.  There’s the new uniform for Tim, and the loft conversion has set us back a lot more than we’d budgeted for.”

That makes you feel guilty for choosing this expensive restaurant, so you suggest going down the road for a pizza, or something.  “Oh, no, darling,” he says.  We must celebrate your birthday properly.”

“But you just said you’re broke.”

“Oh, never mind that! I’m just telling you the truth because you’re my sister.”

So you’re sitting there, staring at the menu, trying to pick out the cheapest dish, when he says, “Actually, it’s also a very important date for Maggie.”

He gives her hand an adoring squeeze.  You look up at your sister-in-law, and she says, eyes all moist, “That’s right.  Fifteen years ago today, my dad died of  a bowel cancer.”

For a moment, you feel guilty.  How inconsiderate of you to born on that particular date.  Although, thinking about it, you were born a good quarter of century before this particular tragic event.  Should you resent your sister-in-law’s father, instead? Guilt? Resentment? Which one? You decide to resent your brother.

Now please be honest – how are you supposed to enjoy your birthday dinner after that? You don’t want this much honesty!

I want a T-shirt, which says, “No to honesty.  Yes to consideration”.

So this is my new policy.  Whenever someone makes that holier-than-thou face and asks in that pontificating tone, “Can I be honest?” I reply, “No”.  You should see how that stumps them.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Uncategorized, Words and Civilisation | 4 Comments

Words and Civilisation: Coffee

Posted on February 14, 2011 by Scribe Doll

All I wanted, this morning, was coffee.

I sleepwalked towards the nearest authorised dealer and staggered into Starbucks.  “Flat latte”, I mumbled through my somnolent haze.

The trademark cheerful foreign language student in the green apron didn’t react.  I had entered the wrong combination.  It was the flat that was wrong.  That was Prêt-à-Manger terminology.  I stammered, my pre-coffee brain searching for the correct pin.  “I – I mean – A – a wet latte”.

There.  I had managed it.

“What size?” – the Korean student, not missing a beat.

I began pointing at a stack of paper cups, unable to emit a human sentence.  The student picked up the largest cup.  “No – small!”

“Tall”, the student corrected me, patiently.  He scribbled some obscure symbols with a black marker on the side of the cup, then passed it down the assembly line, shouting, “Tall wet latte!”

That was it.  Tall wet latte.  The access code for a small, milky coffee without the froth on top.  As opposed to a dry latte, which has a fluffy head of milk froth on top (when I first heard another customer order that, I expected him to walk away with a sachet of ready-to-make beverage in powder form.)

Then, there are the size names.  Tall.  Grande.  Venti.  Tall – why can’t they just call it short? Is it politically correct to spare the feelings of the midget coffee?  I am also puzzled by the reasoning behind mixing English and Italian.  Tall.  Grande.  Venti.  Translation – Tall, Large, Twenty.  Twenty?! Twenty what? Twenty centimetres of coffee? Twenty grams of paper to make the cup? Twenty gulps to drink the stuff? Twenty reasons for taking your custom elsewhere?

In a spirit of rebellion, you try Costa, Nero and Coffee Republic, only to be offered the same choices with a completely different set of vocabulary to memorise – none of which is actually recognizable anywhere along the Italian Peninsula.

For a start, if you ordered latte there, you’d be served a glass of milk.  That is what the word means.

Unless you meant a caffelatte.

Scribe Doll

Posted in Uncategorized, Words and Civilisation | 6 Comments