Women happen to hate each other. The frontlines go in all possible directions, making every woman a loner in a citadel built of her choices. 

(Why hello there, Wanderer. Instead of translating my posts to English chronologically I decided to do it on the go. We shall see how this turns out.)

I used to be allergic to feminism, you know. Now give me a break with this whole thing, I would say. First-world-white-girl problems.

Frida sporting a Daft Punk T- shirt. I say awesome.

For no man ever treated me shockingly different than his own just because of my gender. Maybe that’s because I’m very short, round-faced and got big blue Bambi eyes. The meanest sonofabitches around seemed to answer kindly to that. Men who used to be my superiors almost always turned out to be awfully decent. Well, maybe except for this one professor, a wickedly cultured erudite, who would treat us students with coffee and ponder: “You ladies are actually guilty of all that happens to you. You lack self-respect.” Or except for this one…wait, make it two…okay, a few physicians, who would react with an outburst of laughter/a frown/a disregard/an outrage (“You shouldn’t say such things!”) when told that I do not intend to breed at all. So, Doctor, how about we focus on my health instead of on my breeding potential, okay? I guess not.

On the other side – my looks did help me land a position once. The recruiter had this warm gleam in his eye the moment our gazes met and out of many similar resumes, it was mine that made it through the whole application process. I liked this job, and I liked the guy. He never tried to take advantage of me in any way whatsoever. Does this rebalance the scales?

Feminism and I used to function in the same universe, but there was no attraction. I never loathed – or seriously mocked – the feminists, but never gave them a good solid thought either. From my point of view inequality between the sexes could wait. Good ol’ bitchiness between us women bothered me much more.

The older I got, the more apparent it became to me that those two issues (namely: the inequality between sexes and the bitchiness) are somewhat intertwined.

I needed almost twenty years of conscious life to get to the point where I am today. Which is: feminism does matter. It matters a good deal.

Many of my personal pet peeves seem to have a common root. For example:

1) A family model, known personally to me –  and to many of You as well. The one where the lady is watching her years go by while cooking, cleaning, laundrying, and attending to her numerous prodigy. At the end of the day, she’s literally pooped. The husband returns from work only to lie his butt on the sofa and pop a beer. He has no interest in those pesky kids. He’s a working man, tired and in need to unwind. From his point of view the bloody woman is being an earsore.

Now, it’s not because men are self-centered pricks “by nature”. I’d say a good deal of them are everything but that. They just get themselves entangled in a prevailing cultural model that serves no one. This model was in heavy use here in Poland during the 80s, when I was a child. I hear that it is on a brink of extinction today. Being an unpaid – and totally disrespected – domestic workforce sure is a bummer. But being a selfish man-child with a budding alcohol problem isn’t that wonderful either. I tell You that: both the Mr. and the Mrs. met a gloomy end.

I wish with all my heart that people stopped feeling obligated to step into destructive family roles. It’s happening everywhere, but not fast enough.

2) The mental luggage which we’ re all burdened with for life. The deeply planted, unspoken notion that the manly things are the only important and fun things, while the ladylike things are everything but. Hard science studies, traditionally perceived as manly, like engineering are something to be proud of. You studied something humanistic? You must be another disheveled hipster – or a woman. Look at this expression: “A woman’s occupation.” Or better: “Chick lit”, “Chick flicks.” It doesn’t sound like real and profound Art is going on here, now does it? I remember some guy on the internet’s acute definition of a “chick movie”. It went on something like this: “There are always two women walking on the beach, wearing idiotic straw hats. It goes on for ages. Later they wipe tomatoes, talk endlessly and cry all the time.” Now, I happen to be a chick and have watched lots of Kurosawa, Ridley Scott and countless superhero movies, but not even one opus as descripted above.

3) The utter and painful lack of female solidarity. I worked in many places. It was always the female coworker who happened to hate my guts from the day one. I’ve been subjected to subtle malice, minor harassment, deliberate belittling and perfidious misleading. The crushing power of unjustifiable, off-the-wall gossip. And countless snide remarks regarding my appearance.

All this was conducted in an extremely discreet, behind-the-back, cowardly manner. None of those smiling ladies ever said anything hostile to my face. After all day of such bitchiness I felt like joining Fight Club.

I am no cartoon femme fatale tantalising married men wherever I go, believe me. I just happened to be noticeably younger than any of those women, and male coworkers liked me. That’s all it takes.

The Sexy Office Lady trope in all its abundance. I wish I had such killer legs.

I wish with all my heart women would abandon the culture of cliques and heavily sugared falsity.  I wish they would ask themselves: Why do I loathe this girl so much? She’s a stranger to me, and she hardly makes half of my wages.

This witches’ brew rumbles and spills beyond the office walls too. Working childfree women despise those who don’t work at all and breed like whoa. (So do I. But I’m working on my mindset.) Self sufficient women tongue-lash dependent women. Respectable wives and mothers express their contempt for single, heavily made up, waify hoodrats who spend their nights boogying. Waify hoodrats mock the boring sexless wives, but also laugh their asses off not-so-slim single ladies out there.

The frontlines go in all possible directions, making every woman a loner in a citadel built of her choices.

It shouldn’t be like this. And it doesn’t have to. Since I found out how biased I really am I work hard to develop my mindset.

Yes, I do prefer to interact with men. I adore men. They got those wonderfully impractical minds, you know. They invented many things that set my soul on fire: samurai movies, video games, heavy metal. All my favourite writers, directors and musicians wear pants, and pants only.

It may be that I’m missing out on something. Giving something important away.

That’s why I believe feminism is good for me.

Next post will be about computer games. Stay tuned!

Marlene Dietrich wanted to be beautiful.

Even when she reached that age. You know,  when some women go out of their way to be ageless. Can’t blame them. There comes a time when the only looks-oriented compliment a lady can hope for is: “Wow, you don’t look your age at all.”

And don’t even get me started on this perfidious archaeologic saying about “remains of a bygone beauty”, okay? I facepalm hard  every time I hear this one.

Marlene wanted beauty, period. Her approach was methodical.

During the last years of her career walking and standing still presented a challenge to her, so she would squeeze herself into some heavy-duty corsetry before every show. They say she would stretch the skin of her face, pinning it with needles; what she sure did was to crest her physiognomy with an enormous wig. All those preparations made her a little stiff (excuse the lame pun.) She would reportedly fall from the stage from time to time, bruising herself. No wonder. If I had to carry a lampshade made of dead hair on my noggin (do you have any idea how much this fucker itches?) completed with a Hellraiser style crown of thorns underneath, I’d make sure to introduce some vodka into my system before going out there and entertaining people.

Why the misfortunate woman would go to such lengths to maintain her public image? Everyone knew she was 60 years old and not so healthy.  She would get away with showing up clad in comfortably loose gowns. Heck, she didn’t have to stand at all; how about being carried onstage in some pearl encrusted sedan chair? Cleopatra style, very glamour. Marlene’s fans would understand and love her even more. Why the bloody wig? Why the caked on makeup and unforgivingly tight dressses? I’ve seen the photographs. The artist there bears an uncanny resemblance to a velvety-eyelashed, scintillating, rather unhappy mummy.

The Magnificent Marlene at her best. Frankly, if I ever was that stunning, I’d found it hard to let myself go too.

I think what Marlene yearned for was Perfection.

Perfection is a mythological animal. No one has ever have seen it, yet everyone seems to know what it looks like. Various so called “ladies’ magazines” keep showing newer and newer beauty products down our throats, singing the same old tantalising song: “We know how to make you perfect. This new, outstanding solution made of an extract from Tasmanian spotted ray’s left testicle (do rays have testicles? Is there a biologist in the house?) will make Your neck regain its bygone smoothness. You, dear reader, will retrieve your source of joy in life, because the hubby/the boyfriend will immediately stop checking out all the younger women out there.”

Sounds cheesy and trite? Alas, but it works.

There’s no use pointing out how ridiculous this whole Quest for Perfection is. One can analyse it, uncover it, make jokes of it, even psychologically explain it – and it still stands strong.  I don’t know who did this number on us – was it Nature or Culture? It doesn’t matter. Many ladies will borrow the money they don’t have and put it in the bloody Tasmanian spotted ray steak by-product.

I used to work in a place where one of my coworkers was a young woman of breathtaking beauty. I mean it. She was tall, gracefully slim, leggy, suntanned and golden-haired. She had the face of an elf. Men abandoned all reason when she was around.

Well, this incredibly attractive person went and got herself a botox. At the age of twenty-something.

After that it became sort of an office prank to approach her – and ask her nicely to lift her eyebrows. She was a good-humoured lady, willing to comply. She would raise her eyebrows.

Only that the bloody eyebrows wouldn’t move.

Before it starts to look like I’m taking the good ol’ “Ladies, Y U so silly?” route please acknowledge that this is by no means an exclusively feminine issue. Men are being iffy about their looks too.

One word: hair. Those on the head.

Hair of man seems to be some sort of a masochistic fetish. Intensity of its influence on a man’s well-being can be compared to the Great Cellulite Problem on our side, methinks. Except that those funny little holes on our thighs doesn’t land in the plain sight all the time.

I’ve seen a documentary lately. It was called “It Might Get Loud” and was about electric guitars, rock music and mighty cool stuff. Look it up, it’s worth it – even for the sole reason that it’s got FRIGGIN’ JIMMY PAGE in it.

It also has The Edge, the one from U2. For such an outstanding artist that he is, he seems like a very down-to-earth person. A nice, decent gent. He also wears a fisherman’s beanie. Like, all the time. When the cap isn’t there, a hat is.

The movie left me a little puzzled. Does Edgey greets his wife in the morning, wearing this? Does he goes to bed in the evening, sporting his “don’t-you-dare-look-at-the-top-of -my-head” device?

Because if he does, that’s a bloody shame. I bet U2 fans couldn’t care less whether he still has hair in there or not. I certainly don’t.

Believe it or not, but this post was supposed to cover the abdication of the Pope.

Sooo, the Pope (head of the Catholic Church) had abdicated.  He had a very good point: stated that he feels too old (he’s no spring chicken indeed) to carry on such grave and numerous responsibilities. Sounds legit to me. There was an outburst of commentaries, some of them eulogic, some sparkling with wit. But (I guess) no one focused on the theatrical aspect on the case.

Being a pope (poping?) is mostly – or in my case, all, since I’m not religious – about theatrics, really. Yes, being an Officially Approved Highest Friggin’ Authority concerning, well, everything for a huge heap of people is the part of the deal.  One gets to sleep on very soft pillows and drink his morning tea from Rosenthal, I guess. But there are certain disadvantages.

At age this advanced, one has to bear with a wardrobe full of fantabulously impractical, yet visibly heavy robes on a daily basis. Mastering the complicated pope choreography is a must. Business trips require tiresome Walking, Greeting, Speaking and Conducting. The crosier is not the most comfortable fashion accessory either. And don’t even get me started on those paparazzi. They are everywhere and shot what they shouldn’t be shooting. As a result, a particularly goofy windward take becomes laughing stock of the internet far and wide. This gentleman is 86. I don’t see him improving his public image by jumping into a Marlene style corset and fake eyelashes any time soon.

I’ve browsed through commentaries on gazeta.pl. As usual, they were loaded with vitriol. They say B16 capitulated before the Triumphant Parade of Progress. I don’t think so. I think he just couldn’t be bothered with any of this showy crap anymore. It takes a particular mindset to rule the stage and certainly not anyone can be Marlene.

Wyborcza.pl suggested age-related prostate gland problems as a possible cause of the pope’s withdrawal. Now – I don’t like him very much, but that is pretty fucking low.

Here goes trite truth: liking people is somehow considered a virtue.

Sympathy towards kindred human beings proves your adaptation skills and emotional maturity.

Whoever despises his fellow man denounces himself as antisocial (and probably emotionally unstable). A pitiful deviation from Her Gracious Majesty the Norm.

When one doesn’t like people, people won’t like him either. Which will bite him in the butt sooner or later. Sympathy of others is a powerful asset, acummulated for the dark hour. In other words – you gotta have a shoulder to cry on the day you’re sacked.

I’m not joking, people. Some years ago I’ve found myself jobless. I’ve turned to one of those anonymous user forums for advice. You know, the ones full of Certified Left-Legged Twist Instructors, various “coaches” and other producers of fuckall. Yes, I am ashamed – but You see, back then I really was at my wit’s end.

The very first advice I got (coming from a resourceful young’un with a heavily gelled coif) was this: “Browse through your Facebook friend list, I AM ABSOLUTELY SURE that there are at least 200 names there…” Har har.

Movies and TV shows teach us that it takes an acute childhood trauma – sexual abuse or something – to create an unsocial person. Like it was utterly impossible to have a (more or less) averagely happy upbringing and yet become a misanthrope. A person who won’t return a smile. A grumpy fucker who doesn’t smile at all.

Ernestine Phoodudley, a completely fictious character, didn’t like society much. As a whole. Certain individuals were able to ignite whole lotta positivity in her. But when it comes to the so-called Humanity, Ernestine stood firmly where Pratchett has made his standpoint: that the IQ of a mob is the IQ of its most stupid member divided by the number of mobsters.

Chance has brought her a fascinating office job. She had no occasion to indulge in those misanthropic tendencies there.

An unwritten rule reads that the receptionist should be a relatively young woman, devoid of any prospects and ready to smile. Like, all the time. Kindness without hope for reciprocation and cloud cuckoolander optimism help a lot, too.

Ernestine fulfilled those expectations. She would move papers from one tray to another. She would patiently answer the phone, often to hear: “Good afternoon, this is Unintelligible Mumble speaking, I need to talk to the CEO regarding a step dancing kitchenware presentation.” She would salivate numerous post marks. She would hit the bakery down the street when needed. She would hit the toy store too. (Boss forgot to buy his progeny a birthday present.) She would pull up office roller-blinds in the morning and pull them down in the end of the day, like a pro.

She also made a conscious effort to take a liking to her boss. For the boss represented everything that she thought of as alien.

He was an avid believer. An exemplary husband of the first woman who ever agreed to go on a date with him and a happy father of eight (healthy quadruples, two times in a row.) He probably believed that the late Polish president has been assassinated. He was afraid of gay people, trans people and sex liking people alike.

Our heroine decided to seize this chance to strenghten her tolerance and broaden personal horizons.

One day Ernestine received an e-mail from her boss, reading: “Do this and that. Boss.” There was a long tail of forwarded messages following it; and Ernestine browsed through it all out of sheer boredom.

Here’s what her innocent eyes have seen:

To: Main Bigwig in the Accounting

Dear Bigwig,

I feel like sacking this precariate girl that keeps hangin’ around in the reception.

How much period of notice is this creature entitled to anyway?

Love & Kisses,

Boss

Feeling like she’s been stabbed in the heart, Ernestine sprung up for her chair and ran straightly to the boss’ desk.

“Doth thou intend to get rid of me, O boss mine?”

The boss blinked.  “Where did you get the idea, sugarpuff?”

Ernestine waved around with the (still warm) email printout. Her principal shoot a gaze towards the telltale piece of paper, gulped and said helplessly:  “Oh, crap.”

“But why?” Ernestine’s eyes were two pools of grief. “Didn’t I obediently move the documents from one tray to another? Didn’t I pull up the roller-blinds daily, smiling, being optimistic and highly professional about it? Answer me!”

“You see, Ernestine…” The boss scratched his bald spot. “We all love you here. We do. No one says <<Good morning!>> as gracefully as you do. But me and the account executive – I’m sure that you remember this nice gentleman, the one who keeps transferring your payment two weeks late, such a funny guy! – have looked into some charts and you are not worthwhile to us.  We don’t feel like paying that kind of money for your not-so-valuable presence in this office anymore. We’ll find some desperate hillbilly girl who has just stepped out of the Greyhound bus and will pull those blinds up for the half of your wages. So no hard feelings and pack your stuff.”

” If I could say something” said Ernestine, her voice only a little shaky  “I have no savings, because I’ve been spending all my money on shoes. I’m a careless creature with no moral backbone, ready to marinate myself in your air-conditioning even for a lot less. So call this hillbilly girl off. I’ll blow you…I mean, roll you those blinds as usual. But please, do not make me loathe myself so acutely. Please let me at least take Fridays off.”

“No” said boss, contented. “Any more brilliant ideas? Har har.”

“Part-time job, maybe?” Ernestine was shivering. ” Five hours a day?”

“Six” said boss firmly. “And you will work in the most inconvenient hours that I’ll be able to come up with.”

“Deal” she whispered in answer.

This is where our absolutely fictious tale comes to an end. Here’s the moral:

Go on, decide to like people if you consider it necessary.  You can radiate with tolerance and broaden your personal horizons like whoa.

But a few hundred bucks is still a few hundred bucks.

Thank you for your attention.

Dear Reader,

I am loquacious (read as: a bloody windbag) and I enjoy it to the fullest.  You have been warned.

I cannot promise You any kind of thematic cohesion on this blog. Thousands of themes keep mixing and shuffling freely in this head of mine.

Please allow me to use a metaphor: sometimes it’s all about patent Dr Martens dupes (Death to the brand! Especially when one cannot afford it, right?) Sometimes it’s about AK-47 assault rifles (widely known as the Kalashnikoffs.)

I listen to music. I read. I watch. I play video games. I process everything – although not necessarily in the same order.