You’re sitting at your desk, doing paperwork; you’ve spent the entire morning editing the margins, perfecting the font – none of that Arial size 10 bullshit for you, you’ve gone for deluxe fonts. Instead of a plain black font, you’ve one upped yourself and gone for dark, dark, dark, dark grey. The difference is barely noticeable but you know. Oh, boy do you know. You’ve decided to print it on the fancy paper that’s normally reserved for special events. Sure, the finance department will probably yell at you again for wasting resources and money, and apparently, the company is nearly ~broke,~ but you don’t care – this report is worth it. You are worth it.
(The report in question is the weekly update for Linda in HR but it doesn’t matter. This report is too dang valuable for stupid Linda and her stupid bangs that she won’t shut up about. Shut up Linda)
The other day, I was in the kitchen, wearing a classic shirt waist dress and an old school apron, chain smoking and generally looking like a discontent housewife, whilst I was cooking a big old home cooked meal for my darling husband. It was his favourite; cheeky Nandos style pot roast. Naturally, I’d never had any, because it’s important that a woman retains her figure, but he seemed to like it, so that’s the important thing.
My darling husband was late. He often arrived late, sometimes with lipstick on his collar, but he swore to me that he wasn’t having an affair so that was the end of that conversation. As I sat alone in the kitchen, with no one to keep me company but my children, I couldn’t help but glance at the salt shaker. It looked so boring. It was just a little ceramic pot with a few holes in it. I hated it. It was dull, drab, desolate, and it reminded me of the limitations of humanity.
I had no such qualms with the pepper shaker. I loved the pepper shaker.
With Valentine’s Day and the inevitable nuclear holocaust coming up, don’t we all just want someone with whom to watch as the mushroom clouds explode as you eat heart shaped candy? Well, here’s a post for all the straight male readers out there – that’s right, all three of you. Here’s a post on how to date a feminist; because as the world eats itself up, you need someone by your side to blame everything on the patriarchy. Read on straight dudes for the ultimate feminist dating guide.
Unless you studied English Lit any further than GCSE level (that’s high school for you readers across the pond), there’s a fairly good chance that if I asked you to name as many women writers as you could your list would look something like this:
Jane Austen; the Brontë sisters; J K Rowling.
If you’re lucky, maybe even add Harper Lee or Virginia Woolf to that list. Now what if I asked you to name male writers?