I decided to become a vegetarian last month, after watching The Cove. The film’s message about the degredation of the environment as a result of fish consumption was so convincing that I walked out of there, turned to Lauren (whose environmentalism has led to her being a vegetarian for years), and said, I think I am going to be a vegetarian.
Good idea, she said.
But being a vegetarian is not easy. Being disdainful about meat-eating is easy; explaining why I am a vegetarian in a slightly high-handed way is simple; feeling good about myself because now I am a vegetarian and thus doing my part to do a difference in the world is not a challenge.
But I have not yet mastered the part of vegetarianism that involves eating no meat. Every morning I wake up and think, ah, here I am, waking up, a vegetarian! But depending on the mishaps and stresses of the day and the degree to which I am convinced that they are due to me having low iron levels (moot because I have thalassemia minor, and thus my iron levels are always low), more than once I have fallen off the wagon and found myself chewing through a beef sandwich at lunchtime. And then I feel bad, but not too bad, and then I have the somewhat pleasant opportunity to start over again, to say, OK, now I am a vegetarian, as I fold the greasy paper from my meaty sandwich and place it in the bin.
And then I think about how it seems that my favourite part of vegetarianism is the becoming, rather than the being.
“Women can’t rise far enough to suit me,” he said. “I’m a gynocrat – I’d like rule by women.” —
Martin Amis says new novel will get him ‘in trouble with the feminists’ | Books | guardian.co.uk
Do we really still need to discuss how saying that you really love women does not excuse being a misogynist, just as claiming to really love members of a particular race does not serve as a licence for racist slurs? I guess we do.
On the bright side, however, I feel more confidence than ever in my mildly controversial blog post on Amis v Price.
Not kidding: today there was an Airedale terrier in the place I went for lunch (Mrs. Marengo’s) and as it (and its owner) were leaving when I did, I followed them down the street in what would have been a totally creepy way if the Airedale was a person, but which seemed totally reasonable - no, in fact necessary - because I just really wanted to pat the adorable dog. And then I did and I have to say, I was very happy, and judging from the tail wagging, the Airedale was also very pleased.
And after I bade the Airedale farewell and headed back to the office (for the dog-following had taken me slightly off course), I realised that I feel kind of sorry for people who are not dog people and who will never know the joy of stalking a dog through Soho in order to give it a brief, life-affirming cuddle.
And then I also realised that I will miss my childhood dog, Maisie, forever.
I’m in charge of Edelfamily Christmas dinner this year, so am delighted to have this handy guide (Thanksgiving menus are v similar to Christmas ones, you know).My twerpy little sister and her twerpy little friend like to make fun of M. and I because we “prep” days before parties. But advance planning is the key to health and happiness, as
compulsivefrequent hosts know.In today’s Times, Mark Bittman offers you 101 make-ahead Thanksgiving dishes. Enjoy your family … and get out of the kitchen!
The convention of putting your A-level and GCSE grades - ALL of them - on your CV.
In the US, this would be the equivalent (in terms of the amount of learning you’ve done) of not only listing your SAT scores and what you got on your AP exams, but noting what your GPA was when you were in the tenth grade.
When I was in tenth grade, I failed the first quarter of math. Flat-out failed it: I hated the teacher so much (he was apt to sexually harass the girls and throw things at the boys) that I had some kind of strong anxiety reaction and simply drew a blank every time we had any kind of assessment.
Thus, I feel for people who feel they must diligently report that they got a terrible mark in, say, GCSE Religious Studies, because they were so busy trying to buy cigarettes and kiss boys and write plays and doing all the other things that you do when you were fifteen that make GCSE Religious Studies not a priority. I think it is a very good thing that potential employers cannot learn about my tenth-grade math failure on my CV, because even though it would now - thirteen years later - be totally irrelevant, it nonetheless would surely not look pretty.
(Although I suppose that they can now read about it on my blog. There you go, future employers. Jean Hannah Edelstein: a failure at math, aged 15.)
I saw Take Care of Yourself today at the Whitechapel Gallery. I expected to find it interesting, in light of my professional expertise, but I didn’t expect to find it so familiar, and not a little bit painful.
The artist, Sophie Calle, received a most horrible break-up email from a lover, and was inspired to share it with dozens of women from different fields of expertise to get their particular take on the matter - a judge finds that he’s broken a contract, a psychiatrist decides that he’s a perfectly sinister personality type.
With the exception of one woman who protests that Calle can’t have loved him very much if she is moved to share this most private statement in public, all of the women agree: despite the manner in which he couches his rejection in the most florid of prose, Calle’s ex-lover is a jerk. And this near-universal recognition made me think about how easy it is to see when someone else is in a relationship with someone who you see is clearly abhorrent, but how easy it is to lose this perspective when you are in a relationship yourself.
And I thought of all of the times that I had received similarly horrible missives, or speeches, or whatever (not very many, but too many all the same), and still longed for a way to see the good in the men rejecting me even when my friends - both women and men - assured me that I was better off alone. Life would be easier, no doubt, if we could maintain that clarity of view that we have with regards to partners of other people, I suppose, but perhaps it would also be impossible: only with the loss of that critcial perspective can we dupe ourselves into risking love.
I am very grouchy today.
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Women's rights, hung out to dry | Jean Hannah Edelstein | Comment is free | guardian.co.uk
“We all love a nice cup of tea but in the cut and thrust of office life it can be easy to put off putting the kettle on, seeing the time it takes as unjustifiable luxury. This shouldn’t be the case: there are many reasons why it pays to offer to get a round in.” —
If you only do one thing this week … make tea for your colleagues | Money | The Guardian
Here’s the thing, folks. I have lived in the UK for six years. I have worked in offices in the UK for nearly five of those years. I do not understand the tea round. This article makes it sound really jolly and pleasant, but actually it can be very sinister and political. Who’s included in the tea run? Are they making the tea the way that you like it? Who is using your favourite mug? Do you intentionally leave someone out of the tea run in order to indicate that you are mad at them (yes, yes, you absolutely do because you are British and couldn’t possibly just discuss it with them).
Yes, this all sounds a bit bitter, like an over-steeped cup. But maybe I am, because the tea run makes me frown. I’m just going to come out and say it: I don’t like tea that much. I mean, it’s fine, but I can really take it or leave it. So it never occurs to me to make tea in the office.
The result of my lack of desire? I am never quite sure when it is time to go on a tea run. So I will sit there in my office thinking, ‘hm, I should get some tea…um, now? Now? NOW?’ and as I am doing all of this thinking - which is obviously keeping me from doing my work - almost invariably someone else will go and get some tea first and then everyone thinks I am a rude non-getter of tea. Or else I think, ‘yes, yes, NOW’ and I say ‘DOES ANYONE WANT SOME TEA?’ and everyone is like, ‘meh, not right now, thanks’, and then I feel just as confused.
Oh, British people. I love you. But I do not love your incomprehensible tea system that threatens to stand between me and assimilation forever.
Inspired by Publisher’s Weekly, who have just published their list of the top 10 books of 2009, here are my own top 10 picks:
1. Himglish and Femalese: Why Women Don’t Get Why Men Don’t Get Them by Jean Hannah Edelstein
2. Himglish and Femalese: Why Women Don’t Get Why Men Don’t Get Them by Jean Hannah Edelstein
3. Himglish and Femalese: Why Women Don’t Get Why Men Don’t Get Them by Jean Hannah Edelstein
4. Himglish and Femalese: Why Women Don’t Get Why Men Don’t Get Them by Jean Hannah Edelstein
5. Himglish and Femalese: Why Women Don’t Get Why Men Don’t Get Them by Jean Hannah Edelstein
6. Himglish and Femalese: Why Women Don’t Get Why Men Don’t Get Them by Jean Hannah Edelstein
7. Himglish and Femalese: Why Women Don’t Get Why Men Don’t Get Them by Jean Hannah Edelstein
8. Himglish and Femalese: Why Women Don’t Get Why Men Don’t Get Them by Jean Hannah Edelstein
9. Himglish and Femalese: Why Women Don’t Get Why Men Don’t Get Them by Jean Hannah Edelstein
10. Himglish and Femalese: Why Women Don’t Get Why Men Don’t Get Them by Jean Hannah Edelstein
Gosh, would you look at that? How surprising. Rest assured, of course, that I gave a fair chance to all the ‘big’ books of the year, but made them all stand on their own two feet. It disturbed me when I was done that all of the books on the list were the same one, and by me. But, naturally, I published it anyway.
“Back when I got into journalism, the idea that a fistfight in a newsroom would turn into a news story was unthinkable. The guys in the sports department at the New York Daily News, they had so many, you wouldn’t even look up.” —
Washington Post editor Henry Allen, 68, who punched Style reporter Manuel Roig-Franzia on Friday night for filing “the second-worst piece I’ve ever had handed to me in 43 years.” (via andrewromano)
Good old-fashioned print journalism. I like to think that they were wearing bow ties and suspenders when this happened. And that they knocked over some typewriters. These days a pissed-off editor will just send you a snarky tweet.
“And what was the big story concerning women during the last conference season? Pay inequality? Childcare? Rape conviction rates? Don’t be ridiculous; this is Britain, 2009. It was Sarah Brown’s dress. Then Sarah Brown’s shoes. Then Samantha Cameron’s dress. Then Samantha Cameron’s shoes. Sorry, I cannot type the brand of Samantha Cameron’s shoes. My hand is beating my head.” —
Good luck, Liz Truss | Tanya Gold | Comment is free | The Guardian
For once, I think Tanya Gold is spot-on.