NS July 27th, 2009

[Warning: This is a vent about some crap said about certain happenings and goings-on at BlogHer, and I wasn't even there. If that pisses you off, or if you're totally uninterested, look away. I'm just a rantin']

Unless you’ve been under a rock (i.e. aren’t on Twitter), you’ll know that this past weekend was the BlogHer conference in Chicago, an annual event where female bloggers (and a few dudes!) from across the globe come together to explore issues relating to that funny little thing we call the blogosphere. People agonised over what to wear, who to room with and which parties to go to. To be honest, I was sick of hearing about BlogHer from the excited participants before it began and I wasn’t even attending! That’s more to do with my curmudgeonliness than anything else, and perhaps a pinch of jealousy, but when one’s Twitter stream is filled up with news of it for days, it can get a bit old.

Anyway, from what I gathered through reading others’ accounts, it’s kind of like a combination sorority function/business luncheon, with everyone broken into “tribes” to network and party with like-minded folks. There are tears, laughs, arguments, drunken escapades, inspiring speeches…and an endless array of free crap from the companies sponsoring it. These freebies are called ‘swag’ and apparently many of those at BlogHer were acting like flesh-eating zombies who don’t mind throwing an elbow or baring teeth to get to their prey…the free shit.
Particularly greedy in their swag-lust were the mommy bloggers, according to attendee Motherhood Uncensored in her post entitled “Not all bloggers are like that.” Many of the commenters agreed with her: mommy blogging has become very ugly indeed, and those who aren’t money-hungry soul-suckers would be best to avoid that label until Respect and Decency are brought back to the mommy blogosphere. They all applauded the introduction of a concept called “Blogging with Integrity” that was heralded at the conference and encouraged one another to embrace it to counteract the crazy swag-snatching whores.

Now, I realise that it must’ve been annoying, even infuriating, to be run over by these bloggers’ lust for more stuff, and that it is frustrating to see blogging turned into one big circle jerk of self-promotion (because I hate it too, I really do), but I get annoyed when I read stuff like this because guess what? Just because we’re all bloggers and mothers doesn’t mean we all operate under the same “rules of engagement” as one commenter suggested, nor do we have the same desires and goals. It certainly doesn’t mean we have to tow the line in deference to some kind of pack mentality that says what each of us does, we all do; what each of us says, we all say. Bullshit! It’s thinking like that that strips away womens’ individuality and makes us all part of some pseudo “team” that we’re each supposed to morally conform to and represent. Just like ‘sluts’ in the 50s and 60s who gave all women everywhere a bad name with their loose ways (ahem) and the feminist career women of the 70s and 80s who were an affront to “regular women” (ha!), bundling us all together and taking individual actions as indicative of an entire gender’s motives is not really progressive, or inclusive of differences among us. We are already constantly pressured to be bastions of morality, warned that if we fall outside of what makes us look good as a whole, our integrity, reputations and self-respect as individuals are at stake; not least of all with other women. It’s very similar to arguments for “female purity” by virginity-preserving crusaders, funnily enough.

One commenter on this post emphasized this by saying: “Your actions reflect on all of us,” in reference to not only the consumer-crazed women but a blogger named Esther who tried to bring her nursing baby into an evening cocktail party thrown by Nikon and then, when she was turned away, vented her frustration on Twitter with a tongue-in-cheek #nikonhatesbabies tag. This was viewed nearly as contemptuously as the gift-grabbers. The entitlement! The gall! The humanity!

Considering the fact that the baby was nursing and Esther was presumably not a Chicagoan with childcare right around the corner, what choice did she have except to go with her baby or miss out? She was remiss in not checking beforehand and says so herself in the comments section, but she figured a babe-in-arms dependent on her for nutrition and unable to run around or destroy anything AT A WOMEN’S EVENT would be okay — it may be poor social etiquette, given our disdain for children in adult spaces (and I do think there are some lines to be drawn, though not nearly as many as currently exist) but is it really so horrifying? And if so, what does that say about how we segregate adults from chlidren and, subsequently, mothers from the general public, particularly those who are breastfeeding? They are particularly affected by these lines in the sand about where is and is not an acceptable place to bring a baby because for them it is not as simple as “Get a babysitter,” the expression always thrown around in these types of conversation.

Class privilege in assuming one can afford and locate an out-of-town babysitter aside, Esther’s only ‘crime’ was thinking she could mix parenting with having fun and networking. From what I’ve read, she was initially (and understandably) disappointed that she didn’t get to go but she wasn’t asking for special treatment, she just made an honest mistake in thinking that her baby would be welcome there. But even though Esther had already expressed misgivings for her mistake and said that she had talked to Nikon and all had been smoothed over, the disparaging comments still came rolling in.

“Some mommy bloggers are so self righteous.”

“[I] cringed every time I read a blog post this weekend where bloggers said about taking children seemingly with no sitter of some sort in tow. It’s a blogger convention, not Sesame Street.”

“It’s pretty shocking that anyone thinks that it is okay to take a baby to a cocktail party.”

“Why would you bring a baby to a loud party, anyway? With alcohol, and candles, and so many people, and loud music and voices, and people smoking? [What sordid things could a baby do with alcohol and candles, pray tell? Unless you're saying mothers can't be trusted to drink responsibily around their children? And it's illegal to smoke indoors in Chicago, so that wouldn't have been an issue at all]Give me a break.”

“A private party is not the mall.”

So breastfeeding women (and anyone who can’t afford or find a babysitter) should just stick to Sesame Street and the mall while the more glamorous ladies with nannies get drunk on daiquiris and congratulate themselves on “thinking ahead” (i.e. being middle class and not being restricted by a nursing infant’s needs or their incomes)? Okay, got it.

And if THAT is what constitutes good “mommy blogging” these days, I want no part of it either.

• Feminist Fury , Human Oddities , I Bitch Therefore I Am , In The News , Lactivism , Miscellaneous Missives , Parenting 101
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NS June 16th, 2009

Things I have said or thought since being awakened by The Noble Baby at 4.28 this morning, followed an hour later by his sister:

• Banal Breakdown , Funny Ha-Ha , I Bitch Therefore I Am , Parenting 101
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NS June 12th, 2009

Disclaimer: I know that this post will inadvertently get the backs up of some of my readers because it will come across as criticising something they are doing, or thinking of doing. For that, I apologise. My intention is not to offend and I will try to be as tactful as possible in explaining my thoughts on this sensitive subject. If you disagree that’s fine, let me know why in comments. I want this to be a discussion, not a one-sided rant.

I am not a mummy blogger. Not in the ‘traditional’ sense of the word anyway. I am a mother who blogs, certainly, but I don’t write solely about my children (in fact, they make up a relatively small percentage of my subject matter), nor do I try to monetize my site by putting ads up, writing product reviews and doing giveaways in the hopes of boosting my profile and bringing in a bit of revenue. Mummy blogging has become synonymous with both of these, even if it’s a bit of a myth that blogging mothers do either to the exclusion of other topics.

Let me be clear: I absolutely support a woman’s right to make some money from her blog and can completely understand the impulse to do so. Who doesn’t want to get paid for writing? The problem, though, is that we’re not. Companies who want to shower us with free gifts or, on the odd occasion, a trip, are not paying us for our content. They don’t give a toss how well we write or about the important topics we discuss or the communities we build. Well, they do, but only when it comes to reviews of their products or services. A free sample is not ‘getting paid.’ Would you take a job in which you wouldn’t receive any money but only the promise of a free massage, hoover or weekend at Butlins every now and again? Would you find it abhorrent if you opened the newspaper, read a great article, and then at the bottom a plea from the journalist to buy some of the stuff in the ads alongside, because otherwise she won’t get paid? What is it about mummy blogging that is so desirable to companies but at the same time so hard to make a proper income from?

Susanna at A Modern Mother put her finger on what’s been bothering me about this phenomenon and it is this: mothers don’t get paid for the work they do if it relates, in any way, to mothering. She says:

What really annoys me is that this perpetuates the stereotype that a mother’s job does not hold value. So you blog in your spare time. That’s nice. I’m executing a £5 million campaign for a new product and would like you to plaster my brand all over your blog and write about it. For free. OK?

This is precisely how it feels to me. Like a patronising pat on the head, as if blogging was just a housewife’s “hobby” and that she will be only too happy and flattered to hawk products for huge companies, without pay. She already does so much work for free (keeping house and raising children) that surely one more charitable act won’t hurt, right? Doing a review is essentially a strategically placed press release, written and distributed via social networking and new media, with only a free sample of the product as payment. People who do this for a living, in an office and on staff for these companies, make a comfortable salary doing exactly the same thing, and they usually get to keep the samples, too. So of course companies are falling over themselves to get to mummy bloggers — it’s practically free labour!

Now, I can understand that to many mummy bloggers, their blog *is* their hobby and they figure “Hey, if I can get a few free dvds, an all-expenses paid trip for my kids or some lovely new body scrub, why not? It’s not hurting anyone and I work hard, I shouldn’t feel bad about that.” And I agree, they shouldn’t feel bad. All I ask if that we exercise caution, prudence and a healthy dose of skepticism when performing a cost-benefit analysis of whether doing a review is actually worth our precious time. As I commented on Susanna’s post: “Is the amount of time it takes to send the email confirming your interest, receiving said product, using it and writing up the review really worth the value of the free sample? Does it enhance your life, blog or career prospects in some significant way? If not, don’t do it!”

Also, and this will be the unpopular bit of my post, I just get a sort of icky feeling when I see a bunch of reviews or product mentions on someone’s otherwise lovely and entertaining blog. It just turns me off. I wish it didn’t, but it does. The odd one here or there, fair enough. I like learning about great books, movies, products or places to go like anyone else. But when it becomes blog fodder for an entire week, or when they are ocurring on a regular basis, it does make me wonder if the blogger’s content is being affected by what they’re hawking. I’m sure most reviewers have given this considered thought and try their utmost to ensure that doesn’t happen but I can’t help but think that it must seep into the subconscious of their writing in some small way. And some giveaways leave me with an even worse taste in my mouth. Requiring others to write about the product in question in order to enter the draw is essentially snowballing the free PR and is yet another way in which our time and words are devalued. That combined with ads lurking around every corner of the site is enough to make me click away before I’ve even read the post. It doesn’t mean they will lose me as a reader or that I think less of them personally, only that I don’t want to be part of the consumerism they are promoting.

I started reading blogs because they were honest and real and in no way indebted to advertisers, like traditional media outlets too often are. The propensity now towards writing about what will draw the most readers and therefore increasing profile and revenue saddens me because it takes some of the lovely rose-coloured sheen off of blogging for me. Search engine optimization and keyword-planting reduces the power blogging had to feel like real voices from the real people, about the real issues. I’m not so cynical as to think that every review has been done with consumerist, self-promoting intentions. I know that these are people just doing the best they can with what they have and trying to get a bit of recognition for what they do.

Besides, I knew that it would happen eventually. I knew the companies wouldn’t be able to leave blogging alone in its safe little haven of social awareness and person-to-person networking and would turn it into a business opportunity. I just didn’t think that when it happened we would be doing it for free.

• Bloggy love , Career , I Bitch Therefore I Am , Miscellaneous Missives
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NS June 9th, 2009

Smile, baby!

Why the long face, sugar pie?

It can’t be that bad, can it?

Let’s see a nice smile, love — go on!

You’d be so much prettier if you smiled.

Ooh, stay out of HER way, she looks mad!

If you’re a woman and have ever walked down the street deep in thought, in a foul mood or with worry creasing your brow, you will most likely have heard at least one of the above, if not all of them, from strange men passing by.

I don’t get it as much now that I always have children in tow (maybe because they think mothers don’t have much to smile about, or perhaps because until you’ve had a man’s children you are anyone’s to be had?) but before they came along I would get it on a regular basis. It irritated me — no, infuriated me — long before I even called myself a feminist with any enthusiasm. From the time I was old enough to be considered a sexual object (pretty much from adolescence), I’d been getting comments about my body, my face, my clothes, mood, emotions, mannerisms…you name it; if I was doing or speaking or wearing it, it would be remarked upon by men I didn’t know. I used to just find it slighly irritating and accepted that it was just “how men are.” But as I grew older and more weary of this phenomenon, so my anger grew alongside. What gave them the right to tell ME to smile, or that they liked my top (while leering at my chest) or that I’d be more pleasing to their eye and expectations if I just did x, y or z?

It all came to a head one day several years ago when I was walking back to my downtown apartment from the grocery store. I was a full time student and working 25-30 hours a week at a bar and restaurant. I was stressed out and pissed off about something and doing the 20 minute walk home, laden with bags of food in the oppressive summer heat, wasn’t doing me any favours. On my way there I’d been told to smile no less than two times, by different men — one in a suit and with a briefcase, the other a scrawny teenage redneck type. Already on the verge of exploding in anger, I knew that one more comment would be the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.

Sure enough, on my way home another man passed by in the opposite direction — all swagger and trailing the telltale scent of midday boozing — imploring me to smile while giving me the once over. I didn’t manage a tight, thin smile or just ignoring him, as I usually do. This time I hardened my scowl and shot him a look that said I was going to do no such thing. Looking bemused, he turned and followed me, again calling out, “C’mon baby, it can’t be that bad. Whatsa matter? Smile for me and you’ll feel better.” I glanced over my shoulder and took in his cocky stance and patronising words. I turned to look him in the eye and said in an even, clear voice: “Fuck off.” I saw his expression turn from one of amusement to shock and anger. I walked away quickly, my heart pounding in my chest. I’d finally stood up to one of the bullies and it felt great!

My pride in myself was short-lived because suddenly, as I stood at the intersection waiting for the lights to change so I could cross, a voice like gravel growled into my ear, “Bitch!” and a pair of hands pushed me from behind, square in the back. I fell forward onto my knees, letting go of my grocery bags to break the fall. A car swerved to avoid hitting me and I watched as the tires whizzed by, inches from my face. My canned goods rolled out of the brown paper bags and onto the glittering asphalt, heat rising from it in visible waves that appeared to melt into the objects surrounding it. My rage bubbled to the surface and before I even had time to make a considered, conscious decision, I grabbed a tin of pastry dough that had landed beside me (those Pillsbury cinnamon rolls — American readers will know what I mean), stood up and spun around with it held aloft. I brought it down on the side of his forehead and the tin burst open with a satisfying THWACK! before the dough popped out and landed on the pavement between us. A comic moment, looking back, but not funny at all at the time.

A small gash opened up on his forehead and blood trickled out. Nothing life-threatening, for sure, but enough to daze him and knock him back a few steps. At that point a valet across the street came running to assist and my attacker turned and fled. I must’ve looked a sight: teeth bared, flashing eyes, mangled tin in my clenched fist as I let loose a string of expletives after him. I was terrified, exhilirated, vindicated and embarrassed all at once. I wasn’t proud that I’d reacted violently to the situation but reminded myself that he could’ve gotten me killed by pushing me into traffic.

In shock, I waved away the valet who offered to call the police, saying I just wanted to get out of there and forget about it. I went home and got ready for work, still running on adrenaline, but when I arrived late and my manager admonished me, I found my hands shaking and my eyes welling up with tears as I explained the reason for my tardiness. To this day I regret not going to the police but I figured they’d never catch the guy and was afraid that because I’d relatiated, I could get into trouble.

The reason I’m telling you all of this is to give you some background on why I feel so strongly about being told to smile. I knew that it was a jerkface thing for men to do but I hadn’t really put my finger on why it bothered me so much and what was sinister about it until today. This post on the community boards at Feministing put another spin on the whole being told to smile thing. An excerpt below:

(Note: I’m a customer and overhear this exchange while waiting in line.)

Barista: “Here’s your change… have a nice day.”

Customer: “You know, you haven’t smiled once.”

Barista: “Sorry.”

Customer: “I’m so sick of the attitude of people in the service industry! Is it so hard to give your customers a smile as you’re pouring water through beans? You all are so arrogant, it makes me sick!”

Barista: *eyes begin to well up*

Customer: “Why aren’t you smiling?!”

Barista: “…because my father died last night.”

How utterly horrid.

Upon reading this and remembering my own negative associations with being told to smile, I realised that the reason some people (and not just men) feel entitled to issue this order (usually to women) is because our moods and emotions have always been open for public scrutiny. I mean, we’re the “feeling” sex, right? We wear our hearts on our sleeves and what you see is what you get, no more. So if we don’t look happy, or friendly, or eager to please, we must be miserable bitches plotting someone’s death or the snatching, seasoning and eating of small children. Ahem.

The real issue though is that, to some assclowns, seeing an unhappy woman or one who isn’t laying herself at their feet in service and devotion is an affront to their sense of power, be it through gender privilege or class privilege or just plain obnoxiousness. We’re people pleasers, remember, or didn’t you get that memo? It’s a generalisation that is centuries old, certainly, one that hasn’t really abated even as we’ve progressed.

The scene in the coffee shop really ticks me off, and not just because it was a grieving woman being admonished for not dancing when someone said dance. In this instance, the customer obviously had ‘service’ and ‘subservience’ confused because her attitude towards the person making her coffee was nothing short of proprietal. With her asinine words, the customer displayed a sense of entitlement to “service with a smile” from the underlings catering to her whims and desires by providing goods and services. She’s one of those people who thinks that if she walks into a restaurant or a clothing store, the assistants and servers should come running, smiles plastered on, when she snaps her fingers, falling over themselves to please her. Her idea of good service is undoubtedly where the ‘servant’ is bending over backward in order to kiss her superior ass more thoroughly and reverently.

As we all know, service industries are often those with the least pay, status and rights. The working poor, part-timers with few rights or benefits and students fill the majority of those roles. This doesn’t include just retail and restaurant work though; even professional female-dominated fields that we might not typically count as services fall under this umbrella. Nursing, teaching, administration/clerical work, care in the community, PR, non-profit…all of these are services and all are full of women. What do they have in common, besides their propensity to be chockablock with the female of the species? They’re all areas in which the people (particularly women) are expected to cater to the customer or patient or boss, with — you guessed it — a smile.

No one wants a nurse who does her job thoroughly but doesn’t smile, do they? We expect her to be more caring, more sympathetic, more willing to deal with the shit (literally). But do we expect the same of a male doctor when he walks into the room? Sometimes we do, but often not. If they are brusque and impersonable we may be disappointed or put off but we aren’t usually angered or shocked by it. We’ve been conditioned to be used to the idea that if men are rude or unapproachable in the professional realm, it’s usually because they are too busy, too important, too cool or merely lacking in “people skills” to have the inclination to perform niceties. If you think about it, the only areas in which we don’t use niceness and customer ass-kissing as a prerequisite for measuring success and customer satisfaction are areas which are historically male-dominated: the upper echelons of business and finance, consultant/specialist medicine, law, science, engineering and professional sports, amongst others. In these areas, we just want someone knowledgable and skiled who can get shit done. We certainly don’t criticise them harshly if they aren’t bubbly and full of smiles. Efficiency, not affability, is the key to their success.

In the meantime, mirthless female baristas get told off for being arrogant, non-flirty and no-nonsense admin assistants don’t get promoted and women who tell strange men to leave them alone get pushed into traffic.

What part of this ridiculous double standard is there to smile about, exactly?

• Feminist Fury , Human Oddities , I Bitch Therefore I Am
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NS June 4th, 2009

Hey, look everybody, Catfight!

Okay, so there’s not an actual fight going on in this photograph, featured in the New York Post, but the message is that these two ladies (Megan Fox and Angelina Jolie) are engaged in a war, alright — a war of how smokin’ HOT they are, or are perceived to be; of how old or young they are; and, of course, how much of a “bad girl” each is. Below the picture of them squaring off in this Battle of the Babes, we are treated to bullet-pointed analysis of their tattoos, significant others, age, best quotes, ancestry and professional accolades, searching for ways in which the two are different from and alike one another, and using those differences or sameness to create an illusion of friction, competition, judgment and controversy.

I mean, isn’t that the trash media’s job summed up, right there? The Post epitomizes it, obviously, as does the Daily Mail here in the UK. I wouldn’t line my cat’s litter tray with either, personally, not least because I once read that misogyny can be contracted through direct physical contact with it, especially when soaked in urine.

The Boston Herald, not wanting to be left out of the Catfight! stakes decided it would be fun to pit the “Octomom” (Nadya Suleman) against Kate Gosseling of “Jon and Kate Plus Eight” fame (a popular US tv show about a couple with 8 kids, for those who haen’t a clue who I’m talking about) and stir up some trouble between the two.

And so and on and so on, ad nauseum. Examples of woman versus woman Catfights! can be found every day, in multiple media outlets (not just the tabloids) across the world. I’ve asked myself why this is and while many people’s first instinct is to say (or at least think) that women are just petty and bitchy like that, I know better. I know that Catfights! are our culture’s way of keeping women otherwise occupied while the men behind the curtain pull all the strings and make all the laws that will keep us at each other’s throats for another century.

I’ve often heard a sentiment expressed that women are each other’s worst enemies, not men. When we fuss and stress out about how we look before going out on the town, our fellas roll their eyes and say we’re being silly, that no one will care what we wear or how we look. They love us for who we are, as individuals. We are told that the only reason we care is that other women care — that they will be judging our clothes, our hair and makeup, our topics of conversation, the way we laugh, what we order from the bar. In a way, they’re right. We do try to please other women and care what they think, as much as we might not like to admit it. But competition and shallow judgment among us is not some biological norm, it’s not the way we were “wired.”

The only reason we care so much what other females think is because we know that they will have read the same magazines full of ads for diet pills and stories on the latest fashions, heard the same sexist jokes, seen the same beer commercials, worked with the same chauvinists and interalized all of the ways, both large and small, that our society marginalizes, belittles and objectifies women. And we know that if we’ve been suckered into worrying about how we look and how we behave every time we leave the house, other women will have too.

Because we’ve been conditioned to base our sense of identity on our public image, what other choice do we have? It’s a rare, extremely self-assured woman who doesn’t mold herself into what others think she should be and instead into what she was destined to become. Take, for example, the “Mommy Wars.” It is a myth that they were created by, run for the benefit of or perpetuated by mothers who revel in judging other women for their differing choices, to make themselves feel better about theirs. Make no mistake — we did not create this war, oh no. Why would we strike the match that burns us? There is nothing for us to gain by wasting time and energy on tearing each other down. We’re all busy enough as it is, right? So if I don’t have a vested interest in making you feel bad about yourself and you don’t have a vested interest in making me feel bad about myself, what the hell are we doing on this faux battleground? It’s like invading a country and then finding it had no weapons of mass destruction after all.

But as we know, even when weapons are not found, one or both sides will feel they’ve come too far to quit outright. And so we press on, heaping more misguided bullshit on top of the pile threatening to break us. We can’t see the forest for the trees now and it’s easier to blame something else instead: each other, politics, religion, idealism, feminism…

We avoid talking about the ways in which our choices have empowered us as mothers or what has worked for our families fear of being accused of harboring a superiority complex or inflicting guilt upon those who made different choices or had different circumstances. We draw lines in the sand between those of us who have had children and those of us who haven’t. Even amongst feminists, we have been put into neat little boxes (or, more accurately, waves) to keep us separate, divided and anything but united. Because the powers that be know that if we were to ever break out of our boxes, tear down the walls dividing us, burn the straw man fallacies and advance as one unwavering, unmoldable mass, it would be like King Kong crashing through New York. Thousands would flee their homes, running in fear from the hairy-legged fembots seeking to destroy mankind by putting a W-O in front of it. Or, at least that’s what some people and organizations would like everyone to think.

When the claws have been retracted and the fur has stopped flying, I think we’ll all see exactly who or what was behind the Catfight! concept…and it won’t be wearing a skirt.

• Feminist Fury , Human Oddities , I Bitch Therefore I Am , In The News
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