Feminism, What Did I Ever Do To You?

Time was, a long time ago, when a man would return from work, remove his hat and winkle pickers, his wife would take his coat, assure him that the children were in bed, offer him a whisky and tell him that his dinner was in the oven, when would he like it served?

Well, if my weekend was anything to go by, those times are dead, and a long long way in the past.

At around 730am last Sunday morning, I was slumped at a breakfast table in a beautiful old estancia house in the Argentine campo, with 7 loud, lovely, sprightly chocolate cereal eating children, and 3 jaded, dishevelled coffee drinking Dads, whose 3 respective wives had crawled into bed about 2 hours earlier, last seen at 530am. So it was that we served the kids their breakfasts, brought rounds of coffee, spoke in monosyllables, took turns by the warmth of the stove, and slagged off the legacy of the feminist movement: Drunken Mums.

And we talked of the golden days of yore. But thinking that we were fabricating a history that never was, I could not help but Google the original text: How To Please Your Husband, 1950. You will not believe the following. If you're a better man than me, you'll print this and pin it to the fridge.

Excerpt from a 1950s Home Economics Textbook
Compiled by Ms. Leslie Blankship (Thanks, Leslie)

Have dinner ready: Plan ahead even the night before to have a delicious meal on time. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospects of a good meal are part of the warm welcome needed.

Prepare yourself: Take 15 minutes to rest so you will be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.

Clear away the clutter: Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives, gathering up school books, toys, paper, etc. Then run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift, too.

Prepare the children: Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.

Minimize all noise: At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of washer, dryer, dishwasher, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad to see him. Some don'ts: Don't greet him with problems or complaints. Don't complain if he's late for dinner. Count this as minor compared with what he might have gone through that day.

Make him comfortable: Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax-unwind.

Listen to him: You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.

Make the evening his: Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or to other places of entertainment. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to be home and relax.

The goal: Try to make your home a place of peace and order where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.

Editor's note:

Warning: do NOT try this at home.

Ageing, Part 2

Having written, and then removed, a compairson between Blighty and Buenos Aires, because it was morbid and rather dull, I thought I would put this in its place.

This is essentially what I meant to write, but thought I had already written an entry exactly like it, called Ageing.

Turns out that was nearly 2 years ago. Which brings me nicely to the subject.

This is Ageing, Part 2. or Latest signs of my proximity to the maker.

1. Ageing or Aging.

The Oxford English Dictionary stated that it is grammatically correct to spell ageing as so, or aging. To me, the sound that would rhyme with 'gagging' puts me off, so I choose the word that would score higher in Scrabble. So that will be number one. I look things up in dictionaries, and Scrabble is as zeitgeist a reference point as I can muster. It seems a long two years. I guess that's aging for you.

2. Anecdotes

I have a growing sense of athazagoraphobia, the fear of that you have forgotten something, a chilling moment of hesitation at the start of every anecdote, as the voice in my head says, You've told him this already. What's more, you've told him this today.

3. These anecdotes often start with the year

Do you remember, in '94...

4. Star Wars to me is the Matrix to them

In a survey with my Film students, I asked them what I could do to improve the course. Several responded with something like: 'We could watch more up to date films.' I focused a lesson or two on Fight Club and The Matrix. I was informed, gently, that these were exactly the sort of 'old films' they were talking about.

5. Everyone Loves Raymond

Hilarious. I get every joke.

6. Coffee Culture

The 'Last Coffee Of The Day Deadline' is slipping back so far that at this rate I'm going to have to get up early for it to be early enough for me to have a coffee that doesn't keep me awake at night.

7. I am Post Ironic

Things I think of as being popular in my teenage years are once again cool. They are post-ironic. Take That, Beverley Hills 90210. I am flares. In a similar vein, bands that I think of as being fresh out of school, like Busted, are being covered by bands that are actually fresh out of school, like The Jonas Brothers (left -absurdly young 'people')

8. Sleep is the new sex

Lads conversations on the phone now sound exactly like they did back in the day, with one simple substitute. "Oh my God, I had the best (sleep) at the weekend. I (slept) for 6 hours straight. I've got that next day good mood feeling after that awesome (sleep). If I could bottle that (sleep) I'd (sleep) like that for the rest of my life."

9. Not understanding TV

There are adverts on television for things I find utterly bewildering. There was one on last week involving what appeared to be flying Gerbils, that were sort of superheroes, or possibly cleaning products. There was a time when I would have thought it was simply badly edited, but now I suspect that the frames of reference are so alien to me, that it's me.

10. Competitive Ageing

I was visibly delighted last weekend when I found out from Katie that friends of ours, who I thought were our age, were actually a bit older. Evil miser laugh and hand rubbing glee.

11. Grans

Grans used to be a bit dull. Now they're good company. Amiable, really. Well, we've got more in common now.

12. Running

I no longer run because I want to, or feel like it, or need to burn excess energy, or like it. I run to turn back time.

Right, TV and slippers time. Catch you again.

Dentist, Wisdom Teeth, and the English

Stick with this. It gets better.

Dentists and Men
I don't know why it is that men hate going to the doctor or the dentist. Maybe someone with more psychobabble than me can answer that, but I'm one of them, and barely grown out of the childish phase of being nagged to make an appointment, dragged to the appointment and feeling like I should have month of sweeities as a treat for going at all.

Well, a second language does nothing to make these prospects easier. The specific prospect in question was having my wisdom teeth removed.

Wisdom
Why didn't you have them out at 18, I keep being asked, like everyone else we know? Which brings up an issue I thought I'd buried but turns out I'm still quite touchy about, so I reply, tetchily, a la Kevin the Teenager.

- Because I didn't have any wisdom teeth at 18, ok? I looked about 12 with voice to match. Happy now?

The Saga
So begins the saga to remove my four wisdom teeth: mis quatros muellos de huisio.

Appointment 1: Getting to Base Camp
Right side, top and bottom, dos muellos, assured that it wouldn't be too painful.

I sit down, meet the odontologo, who spots my foreignness. Standard ice breaker begins:
- Where you from?
- Scotland.
- Ah, you're not from England?
- No, I smile, nada que ver.
- Ah... he says to himself... not from England... still muttering... from Scotland. In that case, we can use an anesthetic.

Good line. Wasn't painful, sounded horrific, out in 10 mins, job done.

Appontment 2: A Day Hike. 2 weeks later.
As above, left hand side, top, one, 5 mins, easy peasy. What's all the fuss? Men are weak.

Appointment 3: Everest. 3 weeks later.
Tooth 4, known to me as Hidden Everest, was a trickier business. An impeached molar, reluctantly within the gum, rotated 90 degrees as if it had turned towards the cheeky, and decided it was going to leave my gob sideways, not up, like everyone else's wisdom teeth.

After Appointment 2, I'd been told I had to go and buy Celestone and that I was to apply it myself one hour before my 6pm appointment.

So, at 5pm I headed to the farmacia, asked for Celestone.
Fine, they said. Do you want to have us apply that here?
No thanks, I said. And added, proudly. I am going to apply it myself.
The look on the woman's face was somewhere between bemused and plain old amused. It also said, You do not know what celestone is, do you, foreign boy?

Rather than reply, she opened the box, removed the celestone from its packaging and placed on the counter a syringe with an inch long needle.

- So, she said, are you really going to stick this in your own ass?

It's hard to describe how many people in the queue hit the floor laughing, or how hard they laughed.


- Is there... someone... here that could 'apply'... that? Foreign boy replies, sheepishly.
- I'll call the nurse.

It turns out I had misunderstood the meaning of you need to apply it yourself before the appointment. This did not mean I had to apply it so much as I need to 'get it done'.
Had the verb INJECT ever come up, that would have solved a lot of confusion.

So, a sore ass full of celestone, a taxi ride to the odontologia, an hour and twenty minutes of wrenching around in mi boca, and I am finally the appropriate number of wisdoms short of a full mouth of teeth.

Enough.

Gripe: Update

As predicted, a further twist in the tale: my previously smug fellow teachers wandered happily into work, feeling refreshed after an impromptu two week mid term break - fresh from the golf course, shopping, mini breaks to Brazil - to be hit with the following, from the al powerful Ministry of Eduction via the management:

Two things, gente.

1. Your week long September half term is cancelled. Lessons will continue as normal.

2. The three week Winter break in now two weeks.

Thank you, that will be all.

The Management.

La Gripe Porcina, and teacher holidays, and U-Turns

La Gripe Procina is all the rage here at the moment, more in staff room conversations than any real threat, it would seem. A child cannot sneeze without a muttering being heard in the staff room that the ministerio will shut us down within the hour.

The minisetrio's policy is to shut down any school for 2 weeks where there is a case of H1N1, leading me to introduce the kids to the concept of "taking one for the team". Few takes, so far.  

And, being teachers, and rather used to taking a holiday, it hasn't taken long before a 'snowed in' sense of excitement has been replaced by a bitter a sense of entitlement. Why are we still taching? It's dangerous? Would someone please think of the lie ins... sorry... the children?

So here is my take on the rising witch hunt of hysteria regarding la gripe argentina.   

 

Level 1: Sombreros. People in Mexico falling ill of la gripe. Sombreros banned from la cuidad. Mexican officials get annoyed that Argies close airports to Mexicans, taunting them with the yellow fever problems in Argentina. A Yeah, well your mum's got the pox level of political maturity.  

 

Level 2: No kissing! First case finds its way to Argentina. Initial panic, people stay home. Pamphlet handed out to all citizens stating that people should "not kiss, nor share a straw when drinking mate, nor touch each other less than necessary". About as likely to work as a 'drink in moderation' initiative in Glasgow.

 

Level 3: Panic. Panic passes after weeks of inactivity, before cases start to spread in the capital. Who's laughing now? says Mexico. Schools in Mexico cancelled - a dream is born. 

 

Level 4: The 'Del Po' Factor. Talk of closing public places for 72 hours. Alcoholic gel distributed to all teachers. Students asked to clear their lockers, just in case… Witch hunt begins, every sneeze and cough leading to accusations of spreading the disease! Es una chancha! 

 

Edict from the government: if your school has a reported case of InfluenzaAH1N1, then you will be closed with immediate effect for two weeks.

 

We are standing on the steps of greatness, people. Yes, we don't want anyone to be ill. Yes, we all want two weeks off. Yes, these desires can be compatible. How? It's Argentina – fake something!

 

So it's all fun and games and la gripe moves from being a genuine threat to the best excuse for a couple of sick days since la gripe español. Furthermore, students are told that they cannot return to school until they have a signed official doctor's note.

 

Attendance drops to about 50% - of which a 5% are in any way ill. Del Potro's progress at Roland Garros (screened 9am – 3pm here) in no way helps the numbers.   

Level 5: Jealousy. School that we have heard of close! Lincoln, St Andrew's, Northlands… they're dropping like flies. Could be any minute now! As I write, I feel very much like my school is very much in the eye of the storm. Schools around us – at least, compatible privados - are closing left right and center and, with every smug text message I receive from a fellow teacher at an ailing school, texting from the golf course or in the pub, so my sense of injustice rises.

 

Level 6: U-turn. Government announces that schools that close must either catch up the time this July or at the end of the school year.

Stick that Northlands! How do you like me now, San Andreas?

 

Schools now panic plan and rapidly re-adjust to email enough work home so as not to be brought back in December, but not so much that they have to get up before 10am. You see, when they need to, they can be efficient.

 

Will update you on any changes.

Reports

Report writing for a teacher has to one of the most frustrating times of the year. You're tired, irritated, and handcuffed by the educational-if-well-intentioned-double-speak-tautologically-euphemistically-worded-euphemisms that frankly no longer even make sense to me. 

The modern day report is much like writing a personal ad. You simply cannot write what you mean, because it doesn't mean what you write. She writes good sense of humour, you read unattractive; she writes adventurous, you're dating the whore of Babylon. Voluptuous: book the steakhouse.  Men seek people people their mental age and desperately infer they give a monkeys about personality. 

45 but looks eg acts younger good looking male seeks 18 yr old female with no personality for afternoon on couch playing Wii and maybe more?       

But enough personal ads from teachers, back to reports. Write an honest report and believe me, it'll be highlighted and back on your desk/inbox/pigeon hole with your wrist slapped worse than if you said 'brainstorm'.   

 

Read what is not there, that's the trick. So allow me, fellow teachers, browsing students and nervous parents to translate what's going on when you get your termlys reminders of who's who. Here's your glossary:

'chatty' = abusive

'energetic' = violent

'hard working' = I once received a piece of homework

'has potential' = does not have potential, but behaviour is dreadful

'able to improvise and think on his feet' = the school dealer, guaranteed

'unfocused' = multiple personalities, probably due to long term addiction to crack

'very focused' = psychopath

'he has some boundary issues' = physical assualt: matter of time  

'she has some boundary issues' = sexual harassment: matter of time 

And let's put a few together, shall we:

'If he focused his energy in more positive way, he might surprise himself = If he shut up for 10 seconds, we'd all be surprised.  

'He is a polite and likeable member of the tutor group = He does not swear, spit, nor attack me.

'She has worked quietly and conscientiously this term = Hand on heart? No clue who this is. 

'I feel he is working harder than his grades suggest = He is working exactly as hard as his grades suggest. (Note: What I feel is, frankly, tired. The reason I wrote that I feel... is because I am offering you enough hope to dissuade you from thinking anything can really be done about it. Like arranging a meeting, for example. It's nothing concrete, just a feeling, you know?

 

'He must demonstrate to his teachers that his attitude is positive towards the subject' = In terms of contributions to the lesson, you would do well to distinguish between the student and the desk

 

But it hasn't always been like this. The best two reports I've ever heard are as follows. Both from posh schools, and from a time when teacher's were guests in their own lessons. That is to say, better times:

2. Your son reminds me much of one of those new vacumm cleaners. He makes an awful lot of noise but picks up very little.

 

And this gem, from an old Headmaster from those better days when Simkins would receive a good half dozen of the cane for blubbering like a girl after finding out his mother had died. Feeble boy. Apathy drips from the quill. 

 

1. Simkins has been in my class for the entire Michaelmas term, and even now I cannot put a face to that name. This reflects well on neither of us, but the ball is in his court. 

 

Spare the rod... 

Argentina's Hardest Man

Attached, or readable if you click the image, is a far superior article about the Argentine male than this one, but here's an anecdote to add to the overall picture. 

One of the first things you notice living here is that for all the famous machismo, on fresh arrival from the UK, there is a notable lack of alpha male posturing. There isn't the bullying banter in the pubs (well, there aren't pubs, there are bars), drunkeness is not public, no one eyeballs you, or drops their shoulder into you on the street. There's none of that 'you looking at my bird' tediousness.  

That's partly because the definitions are different. In Britain being a man is defined in the following order. 

1. Ability to drink. 

2. Car, and ability to drive it.

3. Ability, or assumed ability, to fight. 

4. Ability as a sportsman, or importance placed on sport. 

5. Your success with women.

 

But really it's a Top three. This ability to get a girl is a distant 5th behind your sporting ability and the others. This can be elucidated by the fact that a Barcardi Breezer drinking, Mini-driving 'man' could play pro football and live in the playboy mansion, the damage would already have been done. 

It's different here. The Argentine list, from what I've seen, runs as follows. 

1. Not being a woman. 

You'll see group of Argie guys in the pub watching football, talking for hours about women, bantering about conquests, commenting on the barmaids and passing eye candy, all sitting round a communal litre bottle of Quilmes. 7-8 glasses. No rounds, no pressure. Maybe I'll break the gas with an espresso. Anyone else? Yeah.  

The celebrations for gooooooooools will be missed by at least half of the group, who were doing their hair in the bathrooms for some part of most of the second half. They'll talk emotions, listen to one another intently, reinforce the importance of time spend together and say they should do this more often, plan a weekend trip together, exchange tips for cosmetics products, comment on each other's shirts in ways that bolster self-esteem.  

It's all so nice and normal and devoid of the homoerotic bonding of drunken Brits and as such it is totally, totally weird.   

No better anecdote than this one, though I could choose from a few, including a mates' husband (she's American, he's from here) who died of embarrassment each time her 6' 2'' extreme snowboarding über-Argie male, asked politely but specifically at the bar for an extra cherry in his strawberry diaquiris. 

Ryan, an Aussie who runs a risk company, told m this. He was having a few cherry, er, diaquiris with one of the harder men in Argentina, Raúl. Raúl works for the Army's special services, essentially the equivalent of the British Marines SBS. 

Raúl disappeard to the baño, and, after a lengthy while, Ryan thought he had better check his mate was ok. They were, after all, already on their their third drink. 

On arriving in the bathroom, Raúl was standing in front of the mirror, having an apparent, you talking to me, moment. 

"You ok mate", Ryan piped up.   

"Not exactly", replied Argentina's hardest man. "I think I'm getting crows feet, Ryan."

Tough time to break it to him that the waitress had forgotten the extra cheery. That could break an Argentine man.