Downton Abbey

You know if I like something that it is no longer a fringe concept. I seem to only jump on bandwagons once they have got rolling and they are ready to roll out of town.  Maybe it’s smart. I’m waiting to see what the mainstream of society thinks about a particular trend - the people of the world are my test subjects, and I will not become part of a popular activity/idea/movement unless it has been proven to be funny, to not cause cancer, and certainly not until there is extensive tie-in merchandising.

Which brings me to Downton Abbey, of course.

My friend Sarah, who keeps me in the know about all things British cozy/period drama/ways of cooking with soda pop, told me a very long time ago that there was a show I should watch called Downton Abbey, that I would love it. I said, I will get on that, dear friend, because I know you’ve never directed me falsely. 

Two years later...

Oh my God, I love Downton Abbey!

And so does the rest of the sentient world, apparently.

What is it about this show that makes me swoon with gender stereotypical rapture? The utter romance of star crossed lovers Mary and Matthew? The tension of the pure and true love between Mr. Bates and Anna. The sweetness of waiting for the big-time come-uppance that must befall Thomas and  O’Brien? Does anyone know where they poop? We haven’t seen that yet, have we. With so much attention to historical detail, you’d think they’d show us the most important room in the house/yard.

Is it the simplicity of living according to strict rules that might be inconvenient, but also make it so much easier to plan one’s day? 

There is something of a social class tourism in it. There is the voyeurism of peeping into the peerage. I think it’s a kind of classy Real Housewives of the Blah Blah Blah, only Downton Abbey is Real Gentry of the British Countryside. Instead of wine thrown in faces, you get cold shoulders, which has a much greater impact, I think. You can’t rinse out disdain.

And the lives of the staff has something appealing about it. Although they work long hours for little recognition, there is a sense of family and loyalty that gives purpose and dignity to their lives, even if those beliefs may or may not be justified.

i just can’t decide who I want to be, Anna or Mary. Mary is strong, yet simpering. Anna is strong and principled, yet doesn’t get to wear those awesome dresses that the “upstairs” gals do.  How to chose, how to chose?

 And who doesn’t love The Dowager Countess (I wonder if Maggie Smith wearies of hearing herself being referred to as “a treasure”?). I even started a needlepoint portrait of Our Favourite Countess of the One Liners. But I made a mistake and used the totally wrong colour for her skin tone and she looks like The Zombie Dowager Countess. 

Hilarious, but not what I had in mind.

Downton Abbey does romanticize the past a fair bit. Things are much better today. I mean, if the son of a Turkish diplomat died in my sex-time bed, I mean, I would be telling EVERYONE.

Yah, fellas, I’m THAT good.

As it is, no one dies in my sex-time bed, although Brian has told me on many occasions that I am making him die inside. Which is kind of the same, right?

It’s my soap opera, and I love it. The only difference is that we have to wait months and months to find out what happens next. Apparently it’s in production now for release in the UK in Sept and then in on PBS in January of 2013. These Brits are like crack dealers. They get us hooked and then they make us wait and beg and cry. And then, after 6 amazing episodes, the show disappears. Why can’t they be like American television where a series is beaten to death and you just want it to stop because it’s like watching a fly spinning on it’s back in a puddle of water. Just die already, CSI. It will be so much easier for everyone.

So wait I shall, like the rest of the world, for the return of our favourite period drama. Not to be confused with the period drama I have on a less and less regular basis, but used to be once a month or so. And British television series, like my own period - well you never know when they’ll show up or how long they’ll last or how many people will get slapped because of it. Long live Anna and Mr. Bates!

Go get a coffee and come sit by me. We’re going to talk about my period!

Hurray!

Now I don’t want to frighten the gentlemen. I know you can get all like little girls, squeely and nose wrinkly, when it comes to period talk. But I want you to know you are among friends. You’re safe here. There is nothing to fear or be grossed out about. It’s just a bleeding crotch. That is all.

I was quite young when I got my first period. December 1, 1977, to be exact. My mom had tried at some point to talk to me about menstruation, but I think I just looked bored and let my eyes roll into the back of my head, feigning choking. So she gave me a book, “A Doctor Talks to Five to Eight Year Olds”.

It explained things with diagrams and whatnot. But I don’t think I really got it, even then. So the day I discovered a war zone in my 1976 Montreal Olympic patterned panties, I was confused and a little scared.

It was dinner time, I remember, and I went to the kitchen where the family was still eating:

Me: Mom… come here.

Mom: No.

Me: Mom, I have to ask you something

Mom: No. You can ask me here.

Me. Mom, please….

Mom: What is it? Just ask me. I’m eating my dinner.

And on this went until finally I got her out of the room to tell her I was probably dying of Crotch Cancer.

She asked me if I didn’t remember that we’d talked about this happening. I must have, but thought it wouldn’t happen til I was 16, like in teen novels and such.

She set me up with a super awesome mattress hooked on to a medieval style plastic belt thing that crackled every time I took a step. It was the crotchal version of a halo brace.

 

I begged mom “Please…don’t…tell….dad!!!”

She promised she wouldn’t but I’m pretty sure she told him within about a nano second 

I was pretty young, eleven, to get my period (although girls are getting younger and younger. Hormones in the water, they say). They would tell you in health class that getting your period meant you were a grownup. All 11 year old girls wanted to be thought of as grown up, so we focused on the “I’m so mature” part as opposed to the “once a month your crotch will be an awful, shameful place” part. All those informational videos and pamphlets had to make it seem like it was a good thing. Judy Bloom made it sound like it was a dangerous elite club you could join but only after you got your "dot".

Feminine protection, then, has been a part of my life for a long time. Thirty-four years of this business. So, after decades of having to manage the monthly misery, women tend to become very particular when it comes to brands of hygienic products. Me, I hate the wings.

The reason I hate the wings is this (men, you might want to skip this part):

By the time you’ve worn said pad with wings for a while, the wings are weighted down so much with all that blue fluid you produce, that the crotch of your panties is hanging a full 2 feet below where your crotchal area is and as far as I know, the vagina is not very good with aiming, so you’re more likely to get blue menstrual fluid on your white pants while horseback riding. Plus the adhesive on the wings always loosens and turns around and the tape gets stuck to my bits

And why is it that pads are so huge these days? Who really needs pads to be “Long”.  Are we menstruating out of our navels?  And if you need a pad that big, you’re probably hemorrhaging and should go immediately to a hospital.

And the quilting business? It does not make a hint of a difference. Just makes it look like you’re wearing  a cushy white  football field in your gotch with all those demarcations. 

What, are we not supposed to colour outside the lines? Stop trying to police my menstruation! It has to be free!

Brian calls my period my “Lady time”.

I call it “Riding the Red Dragon”

At some point in the 70’s, makers of feminine hygiene started to tell us that by using their products, our period did not mean a halt to all normal activities. We could run and jump, go to gym class, go horseback riding, go on dates, even go swimming while Aunt Flo was in town.

I resent this.

I want to stay in and not do anything. I will use any excuse and my period was always a good fall back. I want to sit in my basement in sweat pants and eat chocolate non-stop.

For a week.

 My period says it’s ok to do that. I don’t need some corporate MAN telling me I can be out in the world doing stuff while I’m menstruating. I’m a mess, dammit.

_____________________

I am running out of excuses. For my period is, well, starting to call it a day. 

Walking into the sunset goes my reproductive capability.

I’m sort of happy about it (no pregnancy scares, white pants ALL the time, safely admit my love of miniatures), but not happy about all the other stuff that comes with it (weight gain, wild mood swings, aggressive facial hair growth. None of this is good). But I imagine I’m not the first or only person navigating this transition. I’m especially sad because I have recently discovered that there is a brand of tampons in Europe called “Ellen”, just when I could use the money from a lucrative endorsement deal.

This brings to mind all sorts of opportunities for Prince Charles inspired jokes that would make my mother say “tsk tsk”.

I’m going to go make a flat of brownies. And wait.