If the shoe fits

I got the above ad from a friend. It came just a day after I went (dun dun duuuuuuun) jeans shopping. Oh, jeans shopping. I am a woman with hips, a fairly large ass for my frame, and I am only 5'1" standing with perfect posture. That's short, in case you didn't know. If you are a woman of any size other than zero, you can feel my pain. Clothes are not made for short women. All of the "petite" jeans tried on at Nordstrom were a full 4 inches too long. "What gives?" I thought. I am in the middle of the petite size guide...everything should fit. Then, after seeing this ad, I put two and two together...I am expected to wear four inch heels with these jeans. Puhleeeeez! First of all, I have a very small foot to match my very small stature. I couldn't walk in four inch heels if I wanted to. And, I know you'll be shocked to hear, I don't want to. I don't do sexy. I don't do hot. If anyone has ever referred to me as "hot", it would be because I was sweating and literally hot. I dress in a typical "mom uniform". Cold weather uniform is a sweater, usually plain, jeans, and some sensible brown shoes or running shoes. Hot weather uniform, shorts (long) and a polo shirt or just a tee shirt and running shoes. If I had to give it a name, it would be frumpy house frau.

Why do women wear those ridiculously high heels? Well, obviously, it's to look sexually appealing to men, and to garner jealously from women. I get that. They do make your legs look longer, and they flex your calf muscle to give a nice shape. But beyond that. Beyond the fuck me heels that you, ahem, leave on... What about the women who wear these daily? Who, no kidding, show up to volunteer at the school library wearing high heels? Who wear these to work every day? For whom are they dressing? Themselves? Maybe. I'm sure that's what they would tell you. "I like them!" Why? Because they make you look like you're on stilts...because they are painful? Because you like to look hot in the school library or for your boss?

Really high heels make you weak. You can't walk easily, and you certainly couldn't run. They are painful, and they cause all kinds of health problems with your back, feet, and legs. They turn otherwise sensible and smart women into creatures who can't fend for themselves. Come to your senses, ladies! You are paying good money to be tortured. If you want to wear those things, fine; but don't be surprised when your feet up and leave you. Right after they bitch slap you to the floor, and say with relief, "I. quit. you."

Wide Awake in the Twilight

I read the Twilight book series this summer...chain smoked them one after another. It was fast reading, as these books are geared to teens. Teens who have trouble with big words, apparently. I read them out of base curiosity. I wanted to see if they could possibly live up to the hype. They didn't. After about 200 pages of the first book, I was bored. More than that, I was baffled. I can see why teen girls love them, but I have friends who have let their young daughters read these books, and the more I read, the more shocked I became. What would possibly lead these women to think that there is anything appropriate in these books for a girl of any age really, but especially one who is younger than 15? There is at least one girl who read the first two books in the third grade.

These books are a vehicle for teenaged sexual tension. Vampire boy, human girl, hopelessly in love and violently attracted to each other. However, the vampire "boy" only has a boy body--he's over 100 years old. Hmmm. He's interested in her at first because of her scent. She is interested in him because he's beautiful. His physical attributes are tediously mentioned on every page. Okay, I get it. By the third book, she's begging him to have sex with her. He thinks they should be married. (they don't have sex until book four--yes, it takes four books to finally get to it) What does a nine year old get from reading this? The mother in question claims that all of the "sex stuff" goes right over their heads, like in Grease. She sees it as a "love story". HUH?! The sexual language is heavily veiled. I'll give them that. Nothing is throbbing. There is some tingling and panting, and there are some detailed descriptions of kissing. ALL not appropriate for any girl under 14 for sure.

As appalled as I am at the fact that these books are really just too much about sex for young girls, I couldn't get why I was so pissed about these books. After all, I was a horny teenager for many years. There's nothing wrong with sex. These books explore sexual restraint more than release for three long books. Something was in my craw about them, and it's still there. I figured out what it is. These books are anti feminist bullshit. The messages for girls here, whether seen or unseen, are downright dangerous. Here are a few:
1.it's okay to have a boyfriend so obsessed with you that he spends every night watching you sleep (in your bed with you while your Dad is downstairs asleep)
2. it's okay to give up your soul for love.
3. it's okay to give up your friends and family for love.
4. violent sex is good sex (human girl wakes up day after wedding night in a state of bliss--then she realizes that she's covered in bruises from the violence of the act--but it's "okay")
5. when you lose "real" love, you completely and utterly fall apart and wish for death.

There are so many more bad messages in there, I can't list them all; but the five things above are prevalent throughout the books. These are not messages for girls who have minds of their own. Full disclosure: I would have LOVED these books as a teenager. All of that sexual tension, beautiful, protective boy, etc. I would've missed the bigger message. The subversive message. The one that is so entrenched that even the author can't see it in there. This message: Girls are weak, and they need guidance and protection from men. Bella (human girl) eventually becomes a vampire, and her special power is that she's a protector. Big surprise. Even her supercharged vampire power is that of a traditional woman/mother. Snooze.

I am insulted by these books. We can do better for our girls. There was a revolution for women about 50 years ago. That work is being squandered on drivel like the "Twilight" series. Why are women accepting this? I don't. The lion may sleep tonight, but this lioness is wide awake.

The Cold War

I am coordinating a clothing and household items drive for some Burmese refugees who have been resettled to my city. It's through my parish Church. It's basically a truck at the church to pick up donations. So I sent off the typical blast email to pretty much everyone I know. Lots of good responses. Then it comes. You know the one: "For those of us who work, the time for the drop off isn't convenient. When else is there?" For those of us who work. Oh, no she di'n't! Couldn't she at least have said, "For those of us with an early schedule.", or "For those of us needing to be at work early." But to act like she works and I don't? Talk to the hand.

Now I don't toil all day in an apron, but I work plenty. My volunteer time from the classroom to the soccer fields totals to a pretty hefty part time job each week. I haven't gotten defensive about my stay at home mom status in awhile, but this got me going a little.

All moms know that there's a cold war between the stay at homes and the working moms. The part time working moms have the advantage of siding with whichever type is sitting next to them. Neither side is trouble free. The working moms have a built-in get out of jail free card to play to get out of helping at school, etc. The stay at homes have the martyr card to play. (and boy, do we play it) But both sets of moms have another card to play, and it's the one I hate the most: the pity card. For me, it plays like this:

Working mom: What do you do?
Me: I'm at home full time. (I won't say "homemaker")
Working mom: (add head tilt) Good for you!

Sometimes this is acccompanied with the dreaded, "I'd go crazy at home with the kids all day, I'd be bored out of my mind!" Then, the stay at home mom plays her pity card with, "I couldn't bear to have strangers raising my kids!" Ladies and Gentlemen, trust me, it gets ugly!

The pity card is played on the stay at home moms by pretty much everyone; men and women alike. Now if you've been reading some of these posts, you know I'm pretty much a smart ass. I have found a foolproof response that not only answers the question of what I do, but it also takes the pity card out of play.

Working Mom, or just not a stay at home mom: What do you do?
Me: (deadpan) I'm a full time Trophy Wife.

Working Moms give me the eyebrow raise and lip purse, kind of a pissed off smirky look for being a smart ass and cutting off their pity card; and men usually give an enthusiastic grin or even a guffaw. A stay at home mom will usually snort and laugh hysterically. Then she'll ask if she can use that line without paying a royalty. That's after she wipes up the cocktail that just came out of her nose.

Fact is, there's no right or wrong way to do it. I chose this way because it works for my family. 'Chose' being the operative word here. I am a feminist. Every mom needs to make room for other types of moms. And if you are a working mom, don't say, "For those of us who work..." At least not to my face. In return, I promise not to pity you, either.

User's Manual

I am a person who follows the directions. I read the book that comes with the hairdryer, the mower, toys, etc. I love the ridiculous warnings: Don't use the hairdryer in the shower, Never use while sleeping. I mostly just want to how to use whatever it is properly. I got an iPhone on Saturday. Never before have I felt so strongly that this thing in my hand is soooo not my generation. It came with a manual. A very small "getting started" kind of manual. It assumes that you will go online and learn it all there, if, of course, you are such an imbecile that you would not already know how to use it.

When I was pregnant with my first, the test stick wasn't even dry before I had subscriptions to every "Mom" magazine. I also bought the baby user manuals. Many, many books. I read them all. I even put post-it notes in them for the sections my husband should read. He didn't, but that's another post. You know these books. You also know the magazines. The screaming headlines: "How to know if your baby is autistic!" "Get your baby to sleep in three easy steps!" The headlines that you can read between the lines are: "What you are doing wrong!" "Your baby is the only one who cries all night", and "Feel guilty because you're doing it wrong!"

Today, I got a commercial in the mail for "Cookie" magazine. It claims that it is the only magazine that brings together both of your worlds: the "mom" part and the "woman" part. Do we really need to keep these separate? Are they separate, and I just don't know it? How does being a mom make you forget you're a woman? Isn't being a "woman" just a euphamism for "sexual"? Being a father doesn't make a man less sexually appealling. It makes him more appealing in my own eyes. Maybe it's because the dads rarely have (someone else's) boogers on their boobs and dried spit-up down their backs. Maybe it's my genetic programming. I guess that I get it. I just don't feel the need to separate out my life into the various roles that I play. And I really don't need a heap of printed commercials telling me that I'm doing it wrong. No matter what that it might be.

Paging Dr. Freud

Since I mentioned Dr. Freud in my last post, it seems that the universe has stacked itself against me, and now Freudian things are happening to me. These two websites have made their way into my lexicon: www.thingsthatlooklikecocknballs.com and www.wehavebananas.blogspot.com
Boner, please! I get it! I don't need to be slapped in the face with it every time I turn around. Consider this my official surrender.

But, really, these two websites are worth the click. (I couldn't figure out how to format them correctly, so you'll have to cut and paste)

Oh, and I had to talk to the AT&T robot yesterday. It's a HE, and he's as creepy as Renee, the Sears robot. His name is Vic, short for Victor, but I just call him Robot.

Freudian Slip

My mower's name is Sheila.  Yes, my lawnmower.  I call her Sheila.  I thought that by naming her, she would be more likely to behave, i.e. run.   Sheila was purchased last year after our old mower died a natural death.  Well, his wheels rusted off, if you call that natural.  He didn't have a name, but that mower was definitely male.  Sheila never did like to start, at least not on the first try, and she's got a key!  I abandoned the key start early in the relationship.  I have changed her oil, air filter, and I even cleaned the carburetor, but she has been nothing but a bitch all season.  Finally, she refused to stay running for more than three minutes at a time.  I had to take her to the Service Center.  Long story longer, she needed several adjustments (after only one season)!  I just brought her home yesterday, and attempted our first mow today.   Before I began, I had a little bargaining session with Sheila.  "Sheila," I said.  "I know that we got off to a rocky start, but now that I know that you had some issues, I'd like to start over." She seemed to agree.  

I fired her up, and she started on the first pull!  "Good girl," I exclaimed.  She plodded along for five minutes, and sputtered out.  This happened two more times.  I went inside, and endured about 30 minutes of Freudian Hell with the SEARS ROBOT.  *cue psycho knife music*

A little backstory:  when I was in college, I took a class that required me to read "The Uncanny" by Sigmund Freud.  (no, smart ass, it wasn't a psychology class)  It basically says that people get the creeps from three things:  Castration (duh, this is FREUD here), the Doppelganger, and Automatons.  This is a gross simplification, but trust me here.  So castration; well, doesn't that freak everyone out?  Doppelganger... I have always been creeped out by twins who dress alike. The Wrigley twins always have those toothy, sinister, eerily identical grins.  I'm still on board. And then there's the automaton.  The robot android person thingy.  I am not creeped out by say, C3PO, but those Japanese "teacher robots" that look just slightly more human than a blowup doll are kinda weird.

So back to the Sears Robot.  You know the one.  That phone robot who talks like she's folks and even hesitates and draws out her words.  The one that you have to TALK TO...   I don't know if Freud had this in mind, but I sure do.  Her name is Renee, but I call her Robot.

Robot:  Welcome to Sears Service Center, what do you need help with?

Me:  My Mower doesn't...

Robot:  (cutting me off)  mmmm Okay, you want store hours?  Is this correct?

Me:  No.

Robot: mmmm I'm sorry, I didn't get that.  Is this correct?

Me: NO!

Robot:  uuuuuh Okay, what can I help you with?

Me:  (cottoning on--I need to talk like Tonto) LAWNMOWER BROKEN!

Robot:  mmm Okay, Lawnmower repair.  Is this correct?

Me:  YES!

Robot:  uuuuh, Let me connect you.

Of course, the last one had a tone to it, like, "was that so hard, bitch?"  I hate that robot.  

She's creepy.  Whoever thought it was good idea to add all of the hemming and hawing is a straight up moron.  It only serves to make me a raving lunatic.   Maybe I need to see Dr. Freud.  

I had to talk to several people and in between I would get transferred back to the robot.  After all that, Sheila seemed to work after I gave her the side eye and threatened her with another trip to the mower doctor.  I've got my fingers crossed.   She's in the shed dreaming of having a voice and maybe legs.

All Clear, except for the thread

I am happy to say that my repeat mammogram got the all clear.  They couldn't find the "mass" again with additional x-rays and ultrasound.  So official diagnosis was "probably a cyst".  They apparently "come and go".  This, I'm guessing, is why they call it "practicing" medicine.  I'm sure all of this is going to cost "lots" of money as well.

However, I have to say that the week of terror leading up to this repeat testing shook me to my very soul.  I was in a state of blind panic, and my vivid imagination had me trying to figure out who would make a good mother figure in my children's lives once I was dead of cancer.  seriously.  By the time I was getting the testing done, I was physically shaking.  It was humbling.  I thought I was made of stronger stuff than that.  It was a relief to know it was all okay, at least for another year.  The better part was telling the friends who were sending me good vibes, and hearing their genuine relief.  

On an unrelated yet related note, a 13 year old boy from a nearby suburb died after a soccer game this weekend.  He asked to leave the game feeling bad, and collapsed.  He was taken to a hospital, transferred to a bigger one, and died of heart failure.  My daughter played in this tournament over the weekend.  We were there.  We didn't know about it or have any indication of this--even at the Sunday game after it happened.  I remember seeing the flags at half mast and wondering why.

We all know that we're hanging by a thread.  It's up there, over our heads, invisible.  I know it's there, but most of the time I forget about it.  It just hangs there unseen and forgotten.  Over the past two weeks, I have seen that thread.  I've held it in my hand.  It's red.  I hate that.