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Wednesday 7 December 2011

HOUSEWIFE PORN


Housewife porn. [Did I get your attention with that one?] This is a phrase that has been bandied about in my household of late. Why you ask? Well, it’s one of those phrases that is simply misunderstood – and very underused if you ask me - and yet explains OH so much about women. And no, I’m NOT talking about housewives engaging in actual porn, so let’s just get straight from the get go. Nor am I solely talking about housewives. Let's say this one is for women everywhere, whether they are a wife, or even in a house. (Duplex-girlfriend porn just doesn't have the same ring to it, now does it?)

Firstly, a friend of mine coined the expression when she and I became obsessed with a preposterous, yet utterly satisfying book that captivated the nation; I heard the phrase, and it made me laugh at its mere mention. Okay, fine, I don’t think she invented the actual phrase, but her introduction of it hit so on point and seemed to fill a niche that was sorely lacking, that it felt worthy of a blog.

Firstly, I must back up and discuss the actual word porn. Let’s be honest, it scares people…or (some) women for that matter. The word comes loaded with some heavy connotations. Men hear the word porn and it most likely conjures up a content smile; for women, a look of disdain and repulsion. And not that this will come as a surprise to anyone, but as men and women are wired so differently, they also have different approaches to what makes their motor run, so to speak. [If you don’t know this at this point, you have a lot of homework to do]. The thing is, women do in fact have a version of porn; it is just radically and fundamentally different than our male counterparts (there are exceptions to this of course as there are plenty of women who are into bog standard porn).

You see 'housewife porn' - or my version of it anyway - usually entails a large dose of romanticism and fantasy that male porn just doesn’t possess (male porn usually entails a realtor that walks in the door of the house she is showing and drops her clothes after four seconds). It has to do with the seduction, the dance if you will, not what might follow it. For many, it can begin with an amazing book, television show or movie that is successful at fully engrossing its audience; and in that said work of fiction there is usually a man (or several if you're lucky) that is so captivating, so sexy, (& so ridiculously unrealistic), that his mere existence sets one's pulse racing and mind reeling. And so the addiction begins.

In short, in this fictional universe this man says all the right things, he’s strong yet vulnerable, he’s emotional, yet aloof, (in my world he's over 5'11) and he’s usually neck deep in some tumultuous romance that we eat up, hook line and sinker – and of course he would promptly dump this hussy as soon as we arrived onto the scene. Mind you, I never said this was rational or realistic; this is imaginary land where we all could seduce 26-year-old football studs (Texas forever bitches!) and heal all the wounds their broken homes inflicted upon them. You see, unlike male porn, women are all about the story, the obsession of falling neck deep into a world where our reality of working, cooking and picking up dirty boxer shorts is nowhere in sight. (Our romantic hero would never drop his boxers on the floor, and if he did, well somehow we’d handle it because he would be such a good listener).

A show I am watching at the moment (watching is a mild term for it, I am obsessed – as are many members of my familial clan) is a good example of what I deem housewife porn. Now don’t get me wrong, this show is incredibly written and critically lauded – so it’s by no means lowbrow, you hear me!  – but it also happily possesses a variety of storylines and...ahem, male characters that are so guiltily alluring that a woman (okay, fine, ME) might find herself looking for her suitcase so that she can pack up and hitch the next ride to fiction-town. Preposterous I realize, but women’s imaginations are unparalleled and often underestimated. We can happily get lost in fun-filled obsessions bursting with athletic and baby faced young men who say and do all the right things - or don’t, we like bad boys as well – because, in short… it’s a helluva lot better than thinking about what to make for dinner.


Sunday 4 December 2011

CLAUS, OR NOT TO CLAUS?


With Christmas fast approaching and the King becoming more aware of life around him with every day that passes, the subject of Santa Claus has come up in our house. In essence, do we or don’t we introduce the fat jolly white man in a red suit as the bearer of gifts. To be honest, I’ve always been on the fence about the notion of Santa Claus, and before you start screaming Bah Humbug, just hear me out on this.

I grew up in a large family and was number four (out of five) in a line of sisters that were keen to serve up a large dose of reality into my life. [This may explain why I created such a large world of magic and make believe inside my own head]. Hence, pretty early on, I knew that the only person inhaling the cookies that we left by the fireplace was my father. And to be frank, this never bothered me, in fact I liked the pretense that we all went along with, and I loved it even more watching my father try to be sneaky and creative about things to keep up the charade. Furthermore, I never quite understood how everyone else out there was buying the fact that there were so many so-called ‘Santas’ out there - one at every shopping mall in fact – and some of them were downright awful imposters; I mean come on, kids aren’t that gullible.

I suppose the thing is this, once you’re a parent, you suddenly feel the power of your words. Every word you say has meaning for them – even the things you don’t mean get lodged into their little sponge-like brains (note to self: stop saying the F word!). And the thought of relaying this whole fabricated world in the North Pole with elves, and Rudolph leading a sleigh across the universe (when we all know Santa uses Fed-ex) only to turn around and tear this very world down a few years later just seems cruel. Not to mention, the feminist part of me always had a hard time that Mrs. Claus never got any credit, and we all know how much she probably did behind the scenes! To make matters worse, I don’t know about you, but I never enjoyed going to some made up ‘North Pole’ at the mall sandwiched in between Hickory Farms and a pet store, to sit on some strange man’s lap and stare at his fake mustache while he asked me if I was naughty or nice (none of your business stranger danger!)

On the flip side of all this, I am in fact, a storyteller. Hell, I have centered my entire life around spinning fiction in all its imaginative glory. (Obviously I try to limit this to the page and not be one of those people that walks around making up stories about my own life, cause that's just sad – Sure, I own a plane, and I just had tea with Johnny Depp on my own private island….uh huh, sure you did). So whilst I don’t really want to lie to the King about Mr. Ho Ho Ho, I also want to cultivate his imagination in all its abundant glory (although King, please be a doctor or an engineer. The creative arts are a cruel and thankless path), and will it really hurt to let him think that some fat guy chucks presents down the chimney we don’t have? Shoot, I guess I’ll have to say Santa leaves presents on the balcony for those that don’t have chimneys. Great. Another lie I have to tell. You see, where does it end?

So as you can gather, I’m still sitting firmly on the fence whether to Claus or not to Claus. I suppose at the moment, as the King is still trying to eat the wrapping paper his gifts come in, I have a little time to make up my mind. Ho ho ho.
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