If you’ve briefly met me, have known me for some time or you’re the only person reading this, it would be easy to think I hate women.
I mean pussies do scare me.
However the most amazing and worst people in my life are women. Despite being a westerner where Christianity makes people believe God and Satan are men, the angels and demons in my reality are women. So I want to set a few things straight, I don’t hate all women. I’m more like a vegetarian who doesn’t try and convert people to the order of Quorn and occasionally misses a bacon sandwich. If women were meat that is. (I know, bad analogy.) I’d like to just glaze over a few aspects of my childhood that will hopefully act as a foundation for the rest of the blog.
Firstly I was raised with the expectations of the man who would marry me (because anything other than straight wasn’t allowed). He was to be a gentleman, send flowers for no particular reason, to send love letters and poetry, take me out to fancy restaurants etc.This idealistic man had to be strong enough to save me from a burning building, yet gentle enough to whisper sweet nothings in my ear whilst we danced the night away. I was raised in the belief that one day this perfect gentleman/prince would whisk me away to become his pretty little, submissive house wife as if he was adopting a new pet from the pound. (It’s important to note that this has probably skewed my views on how to act as a man now and influences my nightmares.)
Secondly I was raised to be a ‘proper and perfect lady’. I had elocution lessons, (which is probably why I swear so much yet still sound vaguely posh without a consistent accent.) I was made to partake in those lessons where you ballance pillows or books on your head to improve your posture. Sometimes I wonder whether my parents could see what I was and were fed up of how I wanted construction toys, robotics kits, science kits and wanted to be a cowboy all the time. They made my ‘training’ a game between my sister and I. I vaguely remember being told that if I acted proper I would get rewarded. Whether it was chocolate, toys or promises of a wealthy husband with a big house and lots of money and I’d never have to worry about anything, ever again. I remember thinking this was a good idea because I could use this man’s wealth to help support my family. I don’t remember when I gave up on this way of thinking. However I remember how to lay a table for a 5 course meal with wine and all the different types of knives, forks and spoons.
So despite my parent’s best efforts to instill a submissive housewife mentality in me, I still ended up as me, however it clearly stunted my growth especially seeing as I thought that the above was how all men and women were supposed to be until my late teenage years. Factor in how the only women in my life were oblivious to my suffering and how I was I was being abused….well what I’m trying to say that the women in my life are either abusers , bitches, manipulators or weak… well it didn’t give me a good opinion of women.
However there are the odd exceptions. There are two women in particular that do not fit this mould and due to them I now have a strong respect for women. Both of these women are my grandmothers. I also get my best qualities from these two powerful matriarchs. Firstly my paternal grandmother (who used to work in the Ministry of defence or MI6 or something,) is a fiercely independent woman who now lives on her own, is part of Mensa and has won many game shows. She gave me my love of books, the orient, dark wood furniture, ginger and dogs. I spent many an afternoon hidden in her spare bedroom/makeshift library, with my nose in a leather bound tome of fantasy or poetry. Or even playing (the proper version of) Mahjong. She also made me love side lamps with their orange glow that’s great to read by. She also makes the best roast potatoes. (Which is saying alot because I hate chips with a passion and am not a big lover of potato products. I would dream about those roast potatoes as a child.) Also thanks to her when ever I think of sofas and arm chairs I see her dark brown, studded suite. She has this leather armchair that is so comfy one of her old dogs and I used to fight for it. (Sadly that dog past away a few years ago and I still miss him.)
My maternal grandmother is where I get all my crafty skills from. She started me off young on complex scraper foils and stitching kits and always made sure to have art supplies in so I could draw to my hearts content. She also taught me how to knit and got me cooking. I used to go to her house after school and make things. She also taught me how to butter bread without tearing it to shreds. (I still think of her every time I butter things.) I also got my love of sewing machines from her too. I spent many an afternoon hidden in a ‘wool fort’ looking at her button collection.
So without these women I would be far worse off as a person