Man, I Hate Women

The other day, I came across an article in a local newspaper that had me…stumped. And irritated. First of all, and perhaps most annoying, is that I was told that it was only a rough draft. I have no idea why the news paper made a rough draft available to the critical public (like myself). However, even as a rough draft, the article itself was completely ridiculous.

Unfortunately for you all, I won’t give away anything about the article that could tell anyone exactly where I live. Er, sorry about that. Kind of.

I will tell you the basic premises of said ridiculous article.

Men want to be with strong, intelligent, independent women so that they can let those women occasionally play stupid and ask for help when they don’t need it, thereby making men feel like super heroes.

What?

No, really, WHAT?

I think- and this could be way off the mark because the whole thing was such a contradiction- but I think that what she was getting at is that men, all on their own, are too dim-witted to realize when a woman is purposely playing helpless or dumb, and so it’s ok for us girls to do that to them from time to time. You know, because men need to feel needed.

Of all the bull crap sexist STUPID things to say, she thinks it’s a really great idea for us strong, intelligent, independent women to occasionally ACT like we can’t, say, open a jar all by ourselves. Because it makes a guy feel big and strong and manly if we can’t open a jar all by ourselves.

What bothers me about this…quite aside from the attitude of the writer, that is…

It’s like this woman is saying that women really don’t need men at all. Because men are inferior?

The more I think about that article, the more irritated I get. Because you know what? I need my husband. Yeah, ok, sometimes I need his help to open a damned jar. Sometimes I need his help to lift something heavy.

More than that, I need him because he is my other half, and without him, life feels meaningless.

I didn’t get married just so that I could have someone to put down, someone to treat like a moron, someone to fool into thinking they are necessary in my life when they really aren’t.

I got married because I wanted to spend my life with this man, to be PARTNERS, and EQUALS, and to help EACH OTHER.

And if you were to ask him if he’d feel like a ‘super hero’ if I would just let him do things that I could really do myself, he would laugh in your face.

Back to the article…

If you are a strong, intelligent, independent woman who is with a man who feels like you don’t need him, then there is something missing from your relationship, and it is NOT due to a lack of having him open pickle jars.

If you are truly a strong, intelligent, and independent woman, then you should have the sense to realize that men don’t want to be treated like they’re stupid, and they don’t want you to pretend to need them if you don’t.

On the flip side of this, if the man you’re with is worth anything, he’s not going to let you get by with pretending to be helpless (at least not very often). If you ask me, a man who is truly a ‘super hero’ is one who never fails to help you when you truly need him to, but isn’t afraid to make you try your best to do things all by your big-girl self.

Isn’t that how it should be?

Women like to feel like they are needed, too, don’t they? How angry would we be to find out men have been only pretending that they need us to listen when they’ve had a rough day? How would WE like to have our guy pretend to open up to us, and then find out later he was just full of B.S?

Hmm, yeah. That would go over SO well.

I guess the biggest issue with all this is…why can’t a man and a woman have a relationship without SOMEBODY feeling like they have to play some kind of game? Without one or more people involved thinking it’s acceptable to be SUPERIOR to their spouse/partner/significant other?

And why does it seem to me like more and more often, it is WOMEN playing the most games and WOMEN treating guys like they’re idiots?

 

 

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and…Mommies

I am a lucky, lucky girl. True story. I have the best best friend in the world, and the best mother-in-law in the world, and the best baby and husband and the very best pair of jeans.

The jeans I threw in because I put them on this morning and they make me appear to be quite slim.

At any rate, I’m particularly grateful for those particular (what a word to type….fingers don’t want to spell it) things right now because yesterday, my friend and I got to run away from our homes and children and husbands and have a girl’s day.

It didn’t really go very well.

The plan, as it stood the night before, was as follows:

I was to arrive at M’s house by 9:30 in the morning, which meant I needed to be in the car (my mother-in-law’s car that she graciously allowed me to borrow) by 7:30. I generally wake up at about six anyway, so this wasn’t going to be a problem.

From M’s house, we were to pile into her car and drop her three kiddos off with a grandparent on our way into the nearest tourist/ski town where we would be spending the day. We would be there by ten o’clock, give or take a couple of minutes.

At that point, we could go have lunch together in one of the restaurants down town, and from there proceed to the movie theater, where we would give in to the hype and temptation to watch ‘Magic Mike’. More on that later…

After the movie, we gave ourselves approximately one hour in which to locate the day spa where we had scheduled for ourselves manicures and pedicures for 2:30. According to our information, that would take two hours, and then we would drive back to M’s house so I could hop back into the car and be home with my small child no later than 7 p.m.

It was a good, solid plan.

But then I woke up late.

At 6:40, I stumbled out of bed, to discover that I hadn’t heard my child’s morning chatter OR crying over the noise of the A/C that Clint installed in our bedroom window.

From there, I had to locate Clint’s iPod and his pants, neither of which items I had so much as touched, let alone used, so how should I know where he left them? Why do men insist that their wives have moved things on them in the night? Why would I steal his pants? Especially after the previous night while I was having a shower and Clint took my glasses off the bathroom counter (this was after he barged in to use the bathroom and shut the lights off while I had soap in my eyes).

At 7:15, Clint sent me to the store here to pick up cigarettes.

I managed to brush my teeth around 7:50.

I was putting gas in the car at 8:20.

I drove as fast as legally possible for the first 30 miles, and then was held up by emergency vehicles passing through at random intervals in town.

In the next town, there was road destruction going on, which left me sitting still for 25 minutes.

And then I hit a road that I couldn’t even go the speed limit on most of the time because it’s full of sudden sharp curves and huge hills.

I pulled into M’s driveway at 10:15, only to find out that she had to first take apart a chain saw (only M, I swear…she’s got more mad skillz than anyone I know) and pick up parts and who knows what other little errands for her husband. Or grandpa. Maybe both, I can’t keep track of all the people she helps out.

There was no time for lunch by the time we got into town, so we split the two cheeseburger meal from McDonald’s and ate as we crossed through town and eventually parked in front of the movie theater (a miracle in that area, I assure you) and got our popcorn and drinks and shuffled through the completely dark theater, certain we were probably going to end up sitting on somebody.

As the previews rolled, however, and lit up the room better (why couldn’t that have happened while we were feeling our way into seats?!), we found that we were the only two people in the place.

Weird. But, nobody told us to shut up when we had to discuss parts of the movie.

Ah, the movie. Magic Mike. Yeah, if you haven’t already wasted your money to go see that, good…and don’t. If you MUST watch it, seriously, wait for it to come out on TV. It had no ending! I mean, it obviously ended, but…

The story line was just…how do I explain this without giving away the non-existent plot? Well, that’s not very fair; there WAS a plot, it was just drawn out waaaaay too long for 3/4 of the movie, and then didn’t make any sense for the last 1/4.

And then it was over. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

M and I both were going, “Wait, WHAT?”

When we got back into the car, we realized we’d been very nearly blocked in. Somebody had parked much too close behind us, and there was some kind of utility truck on the corner that had set cones out in a line right up to the front of M’s car. Probably she should have just driven through the cones, but instead the car (I swear to you it did it all on its own) went backwards at a speed of, ohhh, about .00005 mph, right into the front bumper of the stupid car (sorry car, you weren’t stupid, just your owner) behind us.

And some girl walking along the sidewalk said, “Bumper check!”

Probably I should have gotten out and kicked her in the teeth, but I didn’t. Instead, at M’s request, I surveyed the damage- there was none, not so much as a scratch on either car- and tore skin off my elbow on an air vent on my way out.

So, that was good fun.

Fast-forward to the mani/pedi appointment. Valet parking. Relaxation room/client resting area. Lemon ice water and hot tea. Candles burning in the bathroom. Terry cloth hand towels.

I’ll not toy with your patience by describing in detail the entire two hours spent there, but here’s some high-lights:

My manicurist was wearing a black thong, according to M, who was constantly on the wrong side of this lady. Note to ‘professionals’ out there (unless your profession requires you showing your panties): tuck in your shirt, wear higher waisted pants, anything. Really.

M’s manicurist was a young guy, nice enough, but not good. She left the place with as much nail polish on her skin as on her nails.

It’s really not very relaxing to hear random opera singing floating in through the wide open window.

It’s really not very relaxing to have birds thumping into the glass of said window. Anyone ever hear of blinds? Curtains? Yeesh!

The receptionist forgot to get M’s car back to us until M ASKED. Not that we have so much experience with valet parking or day spas, but I mean, if you’re going to offer the service, shouldn’t you do it right? Granted, it’s not like we didn’t get the car back at all, we just had to stand around feeling awkward for longer than we wanted to.

That pretty much ended our day. By the time we parted ways, we’d decided we would have had a better time just sitting around M’s house, which we will keep in mind for the next time (five years from now, probably) we get a girl’s day.

 

 

Round 2/That’s Not What I Meant…!

If you saw my last post, you’ll know that my husband and I are pregnant!

…well, he’s not, obviously, but then again, he is, because I am, and if I’m going to suffer, by golly, so is he.

Except that so far, my best friend seems to be having all the sympathy pains/symptoms instead of Clint. Guess we know who loves me more, eh (tee hee)?

At any rate, there ought to be a tiny little bundle of joy arriving in approximately eight to nine months. That’s the important thing.

Also important to note here is that God has answered two of my prayers in the form of giving me a child. Well, make that two children now. The first time, I had been praying for a baby for a few years. I didn’t think I could have kids, though I never confirmed that (apparently) with a doctor or anything. I was just assuming, since I’ve heard that when you’re trying for a baby, if it doesn’t happen after a year, you should get checked out- you and your other half, both.

Imagine my surprise when I finally discovered I was pregnant! Woo-hoo! I cried because I was so happy.

So there was one answered prayer.

Now, you’ll remember (or you won’t, whichever) when I was freaking out back in May about the river rafting/camping trip I was to go on (and did go on, a couple weeks ago). At the time I wrote the post on here, my Number One issue was that I would be accompanied by that monthly visitor that plagues women everywhere and shows up when it’s least convenient.

Who wants to be out in the wilderness, using a metal box with a toilet seat attached, no discreet trash can available, for five days and four nights, when they’re on their period?

…Any takers?

Yeah, I didn’t much care for that prospect myself. And so, in one of those realization/aw, crap/please no sort of moments, a quick and silly prayer ran through my mind- “Oh God, please don’t let me have my period during this trip, that just sounds like embarrassment waiting to happen!”

And I thought no more about it, really.

Weh-heh-hell! (That’s ‘well’ drawn out in a “joke’s on me” sort of tone, if you didn’t catch that…)

I had been worried for nothing, as it turned out. The trip down the river was as much fun for me as for everyone else, and it wasn’t until I got home that I stopped to consider WHY it had gone so smoothly.

Possibility #1 seemed most likely: I was losing weight in a fairly rapid fashion, and so maybe my body was in freak-out mode. Yeah, that sounded logical and plausible. I liked that one.

Possibility #2: God had taken me up on my hasty, barely remembered prayer, and things would get back to normal in a couple of days. Yeah, that could’ve been it.

Possibility # 3: God had taken me up on my hasty, barely remembered prayer, and I was pregnant. Ha ha, effective and all, but really?

And then until last Saturday, I put it all out of my mind. You wouldn’t think that would be as easy as it was, would you? Not knowing for sure? Yeah, well, in Clint’s and my marriage, there’ve been a handful of times we both thought for sure I was pregnant, only to be bummed when we found out I wasn’t. So instead of getting our hopes up, or rather, instead of wasting precious time worrying, we did what we do best with worrisome issues…we ignored it until we couldn’t anymore.

We were spending the weekend at Clint’s grandma’s cabin, with his grandma, and his uncle, and his mom. And our kiddo, of course, and a dog. Friday evening, the three of us women took the munchkin for a walk in his stroller, and as we were heading cabin-ward, which also happened to be uphill, which also happened to be in a still-too-hot part of the day, I started feeling pretty dizzy.

I thought, “Dang, I hate climbing hills. Maybe I just won’t push it so hard. Stupid heat. Stupid bugs. Stupid me, not drinking more water.”

And then I was fine.

The next morning, after coffee and breakfast had been consumed, and the cabin got nice and quiet for the little one’s nap, I sprawled on the couch to doze for a little while. A few minutes after I’d closed my eyes, I felt like I’d been drinking for hours and was having bed-spins and I was pretty sure breakfast was going to come back to haunt me.

When the dizziness and nausea didn’t go away after a few more minutes, I gave up on sleep and got up. Still queasy. Roasting. Sweating, in fact, and it wasn’t even all that warm in the cabin. Not dizzy once I stood up, though.

I told Clint about the episode, and he insisted on getting me a pregnancy test as soon as we were back in town the next day.

I assume we all know how that turned out.

Oh, yeah- Note to God: That’s not what I meant! But I trust your judgment. If you think we can survive another kid, we’ll give it a whirl.

 

Hungry, Hungry Babies

I’ve never been real big on discussing personal issues in a public setting, but ever since the moment I found out I was pregnant nearly two years ago, ever since I had my son last winter, and especially here lately after reading some of the blogs I follow and talking to friends, something important, and YES, what I consider to be fairly personal, has been on my mind.

Breast feeding.

Don’t worry, I’m not here to talk about my boobs or any other ‘icky’ things that go along with pregnancy and babies. I just want to share a bit about my experience and hopefully encourage other moms who I know are struggling with feeding their little ones and feeling frustrated or guilty about it.

I wanted to breast feed my child. Throughout my entire pregnancy, that’s what I just assumed I would be doing. It looked, in pictures, like a sweet, tender, EASY thing to do with my baby, and it never occurred to me to look into any kind of support groups or research the subject. Sure, I read a little bit about it in the baby books while I waited for my kiddo to decide it was time to come out and join the world, but nothing I read prepared me for the reality after E was born.

I was unable to begin nursing E until the day after he was born; I had gone through twelve hours of labor, made zero progress, and had a C-section. I was knocked out the instant E was out, and didn’t even hold my newborn until well over an hour later, and (prepare yourself for this) I felt so crappy that I didn’t even WANT to hold him for more than just a minute or two.

I started out my mommy career feeling guilty, and then the breast feeding attempts began to make it worse.

E never really latched on that well. He had moments where he did great, and I felt good about the whole thing, but overall, I HATED the experience.

HATED. IT.

I had great support from Clint, from our family, from one nurse during the four days I spent in the hospital, but none of it mattered in the long run; it didn’t stop me from feeling frustrated at myself for not being a better mother, it didn’t stop me from feeling like E wasn’t getting enough (or even anything) to eat, and it didn’t ease any of the intense pain I felt every time I fed E or pumped.

I tried talking to the nurse a few times after we’d gone home and I was having trouble, and we even made a couple of appointments to see her and get hands-on help from her. During those visits, we were alright; E actually latched on, I actually felt comfortable and hopeful, E actually seemed full and happy.

At home, it was a different story. E wanted to eat every 45 minutes. The lanolin I’d been told to use wasn’t helping. I kept getting clogged ducts no matter what I did. E wasn’t gaining weight very fast, I wasn’t sleeping, and I just could not keep up with my baby’s demands.

Anyone who’s ever breast fed their child knows about the whole “supply and demand” thing- your milk supply will supposedly always match your baby’s demands for it. That’s what I kept hearing, and it made me feel horrible, because I was absolutely NOT able to keep up with E’s demands. We ended up feeding him formula at LEAST half the time, and the fact that he’d drink the whole bottle within just a few minutes and then fall peacefully (mercifully) asleep for the next three hours only confirmed what I already knew; he was HUNGRY, darn it!

At my six-week check-up, I told the doctor that I was finished breast feeding. I hadn’t discussed it with Clint, because I hadn’t decided until the moment the doctor asked me how it was going; Clint was disappointed, I know, but he didn’t say anything and he didn’t give me any grief for it- he’d watched me struggle with it enough to understand.

The thing was, I had begun to resent my baby. I was sore, I was tired, and I was frustrated more often than not, and it scared me that I could feel that way about this child that I had wanted so desperately before he was born. I didn’t feel like we had managed to really bond at all during the entire month and a half that I breast fed him, and I spent a lot of those first weeks regretting having a child at all.

I hated myself for feeling that way, and so I made a snap decision to give up on breast feeding.

We obviously began strictly formula-feeding our son, and I truly can’t describe the relief I felt, regardless of the guilt that accompanied it. E was more calm, and so I was more calm, which made Clint more calm, too. I can honestly say that our lives as a new little family were far better for NOT breast feeding, and over a year later, E is perfectly healthy, and developing just fine.

My point is, breast feeding is not for everyone; there are mothers and babies out there who get the hang of it and never have a moment’s struggle, and that’s wonderful. There are mothers who push through the pain and find that they love to nurse their babies after the initial difficulties- that’s wonderful.

But then there are mothers who have a really hard time with it and decide not to do it anymore, and they are made to feel like terrible people for it…and that is NOT wonderful, and it really gets to me that moms like myself are afraid to admit that we didn’t do well/didn’t like/gave up breast feeding.

I feel that the choice I made regarding breast feeding was the right one, and I’m only just now learning that I don’t have to feel guilty about it and that I am a good mother even though I gave my son formula (gasp!). And I want other new mommies who are struggling right now to know that it does get easier, and whether you breast feed or formula feed…

You’re a damn good mother.

A Hair Rant

I don’t want to alarm anybody, but I am having a crisis of epic proportions.

It’s my stupid, stupid hair, you see.

Once upon a time, back when I was oh, about three, I didn’t have this problem. I was pretty much bald until then, actually. This in and of itself was fine, looking back from where I stand now on the subject of hair in general, except that I happen to have a rather large, bulbous noggin, and I lacked the hair to cover it.

Yeah, the days before the ‘fro.

Now I’ve got a full head of thick, ramen-noodle type curly hair, and while it covers up the bulbousness of my noggin, and other people claim to be envious of it, I…hate it. Truth, yo.

To all of you lucky straight-haired girls out there who have ever been jealous of someone with naturally curly hair, please take a moment to consider the following reasons that curly hair is the devil.

1. It breaks off super easy, leaving short fuzzy bits that stick up and out and sideways and require maximum-hold hair spray (or super glue) to tame, and even that doesn’t always work.

2. The least little bit of humidity can cause the afro from hell, unless maximum-hold gel and/or mousse and/or hair spray and/or super glue has been generously applied while hair was still wet.

This totally happens to me. Only, you know, less yellow. It’s cute on trolls, not on girls.

3. Those romantic moments where your sweet heart runs his fingers through your hair and oohs and aahs about how soft it is? None of that for me, thank-you-very-much, because it really flippin’ hurts!

4. Styling products are required. Not sometimes, not just on special occasions, not just when I feel like it- no, if I don’t use styling products each and every time I wash my hair, it looks very much like some kind of rodent’s nest by the time it dries. Gross.

5. If some unfortunate flying bug happens to zoom into my head, and my unfortunate hair happens to be unfortunately down, said bug becomes tangled. How would you like to have one of these trapped in your hair?

These suckers are not nice to extract from your hair.

At this point, due to all of those reasons and more (such as a small child who thinks tearing Mommy’s hair out is good fun), my hair goes up in an ugly, sloppy bun which persistently moves and falls apart throughout the day. It’s too long to do much else with, and I don’t have the time or inclination to get fancy with it.

I wish it was shorter. But when it’s short, it has a tendency to make a very unattractive triangle or mushroom shape atop my shoulders.

When it’s REALLY short, I look fat.

When it’s really long…

Seriously, I am considering just shaving my head and donating my hair to the nearest nest of mice.

Although, I have to admit, when my hair is being good, it’s really good. Too bad that doesn’t happen more often.

My face needs help, but my hair is having a good day, and that’s what counts…

On Bright Ideas and Know-It-Alls

The longer I’m in the mommy business, the more I start to realize that I’m one of those clueless people that are scattered upon this planet. It doesn’t seem to matter that I’ve read the books (What to Expect), because no matter what I feel like I’ve learned, I keep finding out that I know nothing.

For instance, for the last several months, my son has been eating eight ounces of formula (don’t even start with me about nursing and the benefits- that has been tried, and talk about a fiasco!) at every feeding. The full eight ounces, hardly leaving so much as a drop behind. I thought, Wow! What a little piggy! What a good boy!

Over the last week or so, every time I give Baby his eight ounce bottle, he eats a couple of ounces, then plays with it, then has a little more, then turns it upside down and drops it and loses interest…which means, of course, that an hour later, he’s hungry again.

I went through several days trying to coax him into eating more, only to discover that Baby is now proficient at shoving the bottle back at me and squalling as though I’ve just run over his dog (not that we have a dog…3 cats, a baby, and a husband is all I can manage currently and even that’s a bit much).

So finally, two days ago, a light bulb came on over my head and I thought, “Hey…maybe he wants REAL food…”

Yes, yes, I know. How thick can you get, right?

So now, he has two ounces of formula to drink with yogurt in the morning, veggies for lunch, and nasty smelling pureed meat for dinner. Plus two full bottles at other times, because he still needs what formula gives him (when he actually drinks it). Cripes! My son was hungry, and here I was, floating along without a clue…

Not that I wasn’t feeding him some solids before (not that baby food appears to be anything close to ‘solid’), just apparently not enough. Oops.

My poor kiddo!

I can’t imagine that I’m the only dummy in the world who has ever done this to their first child, but I’m certain there are those “Super Moms” out there who would love the chance to “educate” me. Well, don’t bother. My number one pet peeve lately is over-bearing mothers who treat me like I know nothing about anything child-related.

Perhaps you’re now thinking that it appears that I really DON’T know anything about children, considering my latest stupid move. Shh, I’m talking now.

I have no interest in being talked down to by some woman who is convinced that she’s got all the answers. I talk down to myself plenty, thank you, I don’t require assistance in that department.

The worst is when people start asking me why I have chosen certain things in regards to my son, and then when I answer, they read me the riot act for my choice. I totally get that some women feel very very strongly about baby-related topics. I get it, I do. Every now and then, I even feel interested in hearing what they have to say, because Lord knows I could use a dose of information from time to time. But for the love of monkeys, what good is it doing ANYBODY for one of those Super Moms to jump my case over MY parenting skills/choices/style?

Like, do people really think that they can win someone over to their point of view by being condescending know-it-alls?

The minute I start to feel like somebody is insulting my intelligence/love for my child is the minute I shut down completely and start thinking about what to cook for dinner, fluffy clouds, lollipops….

I totally drift right out of the conversation. Because, regardless of what anyone else thinks, and regardless of what even I sometimes think, I am a good mom. I have a healthy child, and he’s happy, and he’s developing normally.

I make mistakes, because

A) This is my first child
B) I’m human
C) Sometimes I’m just a big dummy

I fix my mistakes, because

A) I love my child
B) I love my child
C) I didn’t mean to be a big dummy

The thing is, I don’t think that MY idea of what a mistake is, is the same as what a Super Mom’s idea of a mistake is, if you know what I mean.

Case in point: I don’t think it was a mistake for me to stop nursing my son after only a month and a half. It wasn’t working well. More often than not, Baby and I both just ended up feeling frustrated, and I was beginning to actually resent the poor little guy, even though I knew it wasn’t his fault and I was probably not doing something right, despite my very best efforts. I finally just switched to formula, and then I was able to be certain he was getting enough to eat, or rather getting ANYTHING to eat, and just enjoy being the mother of a waaaaaay happier baby.

Super Moms are likely to say that I’m wrong, I should have kept trying, my son will probably just die now that he’s on formula, it shouldn’t have been about how I felt, blah blah blah…

You know what? Stick it in your ear (oh no, I sound like my mother)(wait a second, what does that expression even MEAN?).

I like being a mom, regardless of bad days or stupid mistakes or what anyone else thinks of how I care for my son. In fact, the only people whose opinions even count on this matter are my husband’s, and my son’s, and they both seem to be A-OK with how I’m doing.

…So there.

Women: What Happened?

There’s a little something called “class” that seems to have slowly but surely disappeared. Once upon a time, women didn’t go out in public with their chests and bottoms hanging out of a scrap of material that doesn’t really pass as an actual article of clothing. There used to be a thing called ‘modesty’, a concept that apparently doesn’t have a place in the modern world very often. Women didn’t used to dress like street walkers and behave like wanna-be porn stars and then wonder why their relationships never worked out and men never respected them.

News flash, ladies: If you post pictures all over the internet of your mostly naked body, of you doing body shots at a crazy party, or of you in suggestive poses, it’s highly unlikely that a man is going to have a whole lot of interest in your mind.

Totally weird idea, I know.

I’ve seen women who are in their 40’s and 50’s hanging out at night clubs that are full of 21-year olds, hoping some hot young stud will pick them up. These women are squeezed into strapless dresses or tiny tank-tops and jeans, their hair is a tribute to the ’80s, and their make-up was probably slathered on with something like a butter knife. And this is how they think they’ll find love. Dressing like total trash, getting drunk, and possibly having a roll in the hay with someone young enough to be their son…or worse, their grandson.

News flash: Something isn’t working. I can’t imagine what the problem is, but obviously you’re doing something wrong…

Actually, I haven’t got a problem with middle-aged women going for younger guys. Really, I don’t. At least, not when the women aren’t being disgusting about it.

I’ve seen teenage girls, probably 16 or 17 years old, wandering through the mall dressed in skirts that barely cover anything, let alone their butts, and tube tops or halter tops, cleavage spilling crazily out all over the place. I’ve actually heard a couple of these girls complain that some old man was being a “perve” and checking them out.

News flash: For one thing, any man who is older than about 20 is “old” to you. For another, if you insist on trying to attract the attention of guys, be prepared to attract the attention of every guy, young or old, gross or gorgeous. Either put some clothes on, or quit bitching about it.

Somebody told me fairly recently that I’m too harsh on my own sex (for a brief moment I felt like Elizabeth Bennet, though I refrained from saying so because I try not to act any weirder than absolutely necessary). Well, maybe I am. Maybe I’m too old fashioned, and maybe I think women would be better off wearing trash bags than the things that pass for “clothes” these days. Maybe I think it would be refreshing to see a young woman behaving like a lady, rather than downing beer with a bunch of guys whose intentions are highly questionable. And maybe it would be a nice change if that young woman actually MINDED that the guys she is with have questionable intentions towards her.

Maybe I’m just tired of hearing women say “Chivalry is dead”, when we’re the ones who killed it.

The Weaker Sex?

I’m so tired of hearing about ‘female empowerment’. From where I sit, it looks an awful lot like a man-hating club, with some really crappy ‘ideals’ thrown in.

I’m not talking about encouraging women to be strong, or be self-sufficient; those are commendable things. Getting an education is commendable. Having a career is great. Managing to support yourself and your kids without the help of a worthless ex-husband is fabulous.

What I mean is all the talk about how all men are worthless jerks, and how absolutely unethical or idiotic things ’empower’ women these days.

As far as I can tell, the things that “empower” women include:

-Getting divorced in order to be with a man (or woman) who will truly make you happy.

-Running out on your family so that you can “follow your heart”.

-Walking all over every man that has the audacity to step into your bubble of feminine greatness.

-Being promiscuous.

-Selling your body.

-Aborting any child that is the result of being promiscuous or selling your body.

-Looking down your nose at the very idea of being a house-wife and mother.

Ok, feminists- how lovely for you that you don’t need a man in order to be happy…but if that’s true, if you’re so happy just the way you are, what with your career and your one-night-stands, then why is it that you’re all so damned cranky?

I’m not normally one for targeting a group of people and bashing them…honestly, I quite prefer to ‘live and let live’. It’s just that I’ve gotten so sick and tired of being looked down on for being perfectly content with my CHOICE (aren’t feminists all about choices and rights and whatnot?) to be a homemaker. Yes, I actually like staying at home and taking care of my husband and son and making our home comfortable.

Why is it that values have gotten so turned around? I choose to be a wife and mother and behave myself and be happy with what I’ve got, and that makes me somehow a second-class citizen, not to mention a moron.

But when a woman goes around making babies with who knows how many different men, then aborts or abandons her children, all while spouting off about her ‘right to choose’ and all that crap, she is considered ’empowered’, intelligent, strong.

How much strength and intelligence does it take to behave like a cat in heat, and then run for the hills when the life you’ve created actually needs you?

How does it make a woman ‘equal’ with men when she goes around using them, throwing them away, and then verbally abusing them to anyone who will listen?

Maybe I’m being unfair; there are times when I hate men, too…though generally, those times are at four in the morning when my husband is elbowing me because I’m snoring too loud. Man, I really hate men when they wake me up.

I guess the main thing that’s bothering me is that so many women complain that we aren’t treated as men’s equals…all the while, stepping on and squashing men in whatever way possible in order to feel better. It’s not good enough to find equality; some women insist on being superior, but every action proves them to just be…well, vile and cranky.

I don’t see what the big deal is about needing a man, anyway. I need my husband; he balances out my overly-emotional, head-stuck-in-the-clouds, slightly-off-the-wall personality quite nicely (in spite of the vicious early-morning “stop snoring!” jabs).

I rather enjoy being taken care of, and in turn, taking care of my husband. That is equality; working together, neither one of us more important in the marriage than the other.

If that makes me weak or stupid, so be it.

Be A Lady

From as far back as I can remember, I’ve had it pounded into my head that I should “be a lady”. Having been born a girl, and being a girl to this day (in this day and age, I feel that this is actually something of an achievement), I never really could wrap my mind around why it was necessary for my mother and grandmother to so persistently demand that I be something that I was fairly certain I already was.

You know, a lady. A girl. A girly-girl, at that.

As a child, I was told frequently that things like farting and burping were disgusting, unlady-like habits (I’m not sure at all that bodily functions should be considered as ‘habits’- and I’m even less sure that they can be avoided at all times, particularly when broccoli or beans or soda has been consumed). “If you must…’poot’…” my mother would tell me, “then you ought to do it in the bathroom. And try to be quiet about it.”

This alone caused me more grief during my school years than I care to dredge up in my memory bank. Just imagine the morning after having been fed a casserole containing broccoli and cauliflower and huge amounts of cheese, and trying to sit still in the first class of the day while the entire room is in utter silence, students bent over the papers on their desks, answering difficult questions on a pop quiz. Furthermore, imagine that the teacher of that class, who has so kindly sprung a test upon you at an ungodly hour of the morning, is as difficult to get a hall pass out of as it was for anyone but Arthur to pull the sword from the stone.

But no matter; I lived to tell the tale, and to recall plenty of other “lady lessons”.

Apart from the unhealthy suppressing of natural bodily functions, I was also constantly instructed on how to dress properly.

Apparently, a lady should not wear her bathing suit and a pair of jeans to take a walk with her friends.

Nor is it appropriate for her to wear shirts with holes all through them, socks that don’t match, pants with grass stains (I have yet to figure out if it is the fact that the pants are dirty, or if it is the way the grass stains were obtained that is objectionable), or hair accessories that clash with the rest of the outfit.

As far as my lessons have taught me, women are supposed to wear women’s clothes, unless said woman is dating a man who owns a fantastically comfortable jacket or shirt, in which case, it would be considered strange if the woman did not at least make an attempt to abscond with said items of men’s apparel.

A real lady bathes often and wears a bath robe (and not a short silky one either, but a thick, fuzzy, preferably pink one that covers the ankles) when traveling between bathroom and bedroom, and if there is nothing beneath the robe, under NO circumstances should a lady interact with another human being, even if the only other human in the house is her husband.

Or maybe particularly then.

A lady doesn’t swear, and she doesn’t spit, and she should not be witness to men performing these tricks either. In fact, if a man swears or spits in front of her, she ought to become extremely embarrassed and offended and remove herself from the vicinity immediately.

Because cussing and spitting is contageous, obviously.

A lady doesn’t complain- she bears burdens and annoyances and bad weather and roudy children and pushy in-laws with the utmost grace; she is allowed only brief moments of letting off steam when she is on the phone with a sister or friend, and even then, she must end her ranting and raving with something like, “It’s really not all that bad, I suppose. It could be worse.”

And then she puts the cap back on the bottle of frustration and gets a little overly aggressive while kneading dough or stirring whatever is on the stove.

A lady never gets so drunk she can’t remember her own name.

Unless she’s drinking wine.

Having put into practice the lessons I’ve learned over my lifetime, I’ve found two things to be true:

1. Men absolutely do notice when a girl behaves in a lady-like fashion.
2. Behaving in a lady-like fashion is completely unfashionable.

I don’t follow all those “rules” all the time the way perhaps my grandmother had hoped I would. I’m not as prim and proper as sometimes I think I’d like to be, and I have no qualms about swearing if I stub my toe or spill my coffee or wreck the car. If I ever have a daughter, I doubt I’ll foist so many restrictions on her, but it certainly will come in handy to at least know a few things about being lady-like if ever I have a reason to teach someone else.

I might not be as much of a ‘lady’ as my mother, and she probably not as much so as her mother before her, but I’d like to think I’m not a complete disappointment to them.