Crouching Tiger, Hidden Vagina

Once upon a time it seemed that Ted Cruz was ruling the pack in the election.   I had thoughts that maybe I should go to Canada if that happened.   I also thought that perhaps as an act of good will for this emigration I should maybe get a bikini wax in the shape of a maple leaf just in case the TSA got a little crazy in their scans they could clearly see I was on their side.  I can’t stand either presidential nominee so there’s still a chance that I’m moving eh?

Women do all kinds of things to make their, shall we say…flowers, more attractive for men.  Now, I’m no expert but I kind of thought that as long as said flower was offered it was bad form to critique it barring hygienic type issues. 

There’s vajazzling which is the decoration of a woman’s nether regions with glitter or sparkles or crystals.  Because I need Swarovski on my hoo-ha said every woman ever.

There are a plethora of options for waxing.  There’s a Brazilian which is basically intolerable cruelty as far as I’m concerned.  There’s a full bikini wax which allows one the option of how much or how little they would like removed.  Here is the magic provision for this, butt strip.  It’s a thing.  I actually called up places to ask.  There’s the just make it not look like a thicket wax which basically tidies up the area.  Lastly there is the Hollywood wax which bares all.  Sorry but this is just creeptastic.  I’m not sure who this appeals to but all I can say is….gross.

ew gif

Apparently the new veejayjay rage is steaming.  Yes that’s right, steaming.  Because up until this point the most awkward thing we faced was our annual ob/gyn appointment and the dread words, “Scoot down to the edge of the table and relax.”  Yes, that six-foot long speculum will certainly insure my limber and mellow lady parts.  Thanks Doc, I feel better now, please do proceed with making me wish I’d been tossed off a cliff earlier this morning.  Back in my youth, we used to have those insidious and awful commercials in which a daughter confessed to her mother that sometimes she felt “less than fresh”.  I don’t know about you, but I NEVER had that conversation with my Mum.  Ever.  Not even under threat of dismemberment would I have the conversation with anyone; mother, lover, doctor.  Screw yourself.  I will keep that shit to myself.  We have progressed since these good old days.  Now we have steaming.  Some report it makes them feel clean and fresh and ready to take on the world.  Ummmm, do I call you a slut for that?  I’m not sure what to do.   This is awkward…please stop talking about steaming your girlie goodies.  You steam vegetables.  I hate you pretentious celebrity who tries to tell the rest of us how we’re living our lives wrong.  I somehow hope that mystically your vajazzled girl parts that I’m sure are so much prettier than ours steam up and produce popcorn or rice or a baked potato or some other gluten based byproduct that utterly fucks up your low carb life style. 

  

Now because I have more than one screw loose, I have a hard time not thinking about what this entails and not making a totally inappropriate floor cleaner and/or crock pot joke.  Since doctors have mostly ruled that douching is a no no then I think I can safely assume that steaming should be out as well; and if a clean vagina makes one ready to take on the world….

I’m just gonna leave that right there.

And here we are almost at my point.

All of these things that we do to make ourselves more attractive for men…what do we get in return?

Genital wagging.

Stop, please, I beg of you.  Most women I know don’t care.  We think it looks silly.  When men come out of the shower and decide to waggle their wobblies…it’s like a hula we don’t want to watch.

Why?  Must you?  I repeat, why?

I had company not long ago and I decided since we had emissaries from the gay side of things, I decided to publicly pose the question.  Why?

Apparently it’s something to do with the aerodynamics of things, or the wind beneath your wings or reenacting the Titanic hitting an iceberg.  I don’t frigging know; but I was assured that there’s a certain amount of freedom involved and dressing immediately just killed the vibe.

Women tend to shower, dry off, dress, and move on to the 9,000 things on their daily to do list.  We don’t necessarily have the time to drip dry and waggle some bits in the process.  We dry off once, air out a bit as we grab our clothes and then usually have to dry again under the boobs and butt before dressing.  It’s a girl rule that is required before undies and bras are put on.  We get demerits if we don’t do this.  It’s girl code.  It has nothing to do with repression, it has everything to do with time management. Not romantic?  When trying to get kids to school or yourself to work…think we care?

While out to dinner with Sugar Britches this evening, in the midst of laughing ourselves frigging silly, I confirmed this sneaking suspicion that we really are all alike.  I used to think I was weird (SILENCE), but now I know.  Okay, I am weird.  I’ll grant that much.  But I know I’m not alone in the spartan, get shit done mindset.

I realize men are from Mars and women are from anwhere else but Mars, but I don’t think this is something we’ll ever see eye to eye on.  Then again, someone, somewhere sold us a bill of goods or goodies that apparently we need steam cleaning.  So all bets are off.  I’m not sure which gender is sillier.

I say screw it, let’s all have a good laugh.  

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Imma Be Me

I don’t consider myself to be a flashy dresser.  I have a fairly simple dress code.  I’m not rolling into the office in poodle skirts or tartan pants with suspenders.  I’m more the boring navy blue trousers and penny loafers kind of gal.  It’s safe to say that I have a rather British sensibility in my fashion endeavors.  One of my colleagues has a running commentary on my attire and what amuses me about it is that they can never remember the name of the celebrity they’re trying to compare me to, so I need to guess.

You know what you look like?  A gladiator……….in a prom dress

You know what you look like?  A hippie in tailored clothes, who isn’t stoned

You know what you look like?  Audrey Hepburn except growling

You know what you look like? Katherine Hepburn except girlier

You know what you look like?  A geisha doll except punk rock

You know what you look like?  Molly Ringwald, Elizabeth Perkins, Hilary Swank, Meg Ryan (HUH?), Kristy McNichol, Tatum O’Neill….

I know damn well I’m not the only one that goes through this nonsense, but my pet peeve is when people perceive that I’m somehow a replica of someone else.  I can promise you this, no one is like me.  There may be some similarities, but no one I personally know is completely like me.  I’ve already shown my abundant disdain for celebrity.  I have no intention of dressing like, smelling like, cooking like, writing like, looking like someone other than….me.  So when I hear that estimation that I look like anyone other than myself…..

If I happen to own something; it’s for no other reason than…I like it.  I want it.  I have it.

I appreciate simplicity and authenticity.

I will gladly accept the following instead.  You are pretty.  You are smart.  You are funny.  You are kind.   You are great with children.  You treat your parents like royalty.  You are a devoted wife.  The content of your character shows in the way you treat children, the elderly and your friends and animals.  I’m down with that.  Less is more as far as I’m concerned.  I don’t need to look like someone else to feel flattered.  I don’t want to look like anyone else.  I want to be me, body, mind and soul.

I often wonder what the crime of individuality is.  Why are we so content to become homogenized in every way?  We should never short change in indelible mark of individuality each of us leaves.

Is the need to fit in overruling sense of self?  When we were younger we ascribed to something known as peer pressure.  We all did; in some way or form at one time or another.  But we are supposed to be adults now.  We all have to have a Louis Vuitton purse to find fulfillment no?  We all need to wear the same thing to find that ever elusive acceptance no?  I’ve seen some of my neighbors…I assure you, I don’t want to fit in.  I am a strong individual and tend to attract strong individuals.  My friends all are opinionated and passionate and unique and I treasure the variation they bring to my life.  But not one of them is run of the mill.

I’ve even noticed a trend towards piercing and tattooing which has now become the norm.  What was once a complete rebellion of convention has now become convention.  I know, I sound like an old codger.  You whippersnappers…..

Says she who has three and is brainstorming the fourth…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tuber or Not Tuber

My husband flushed half a parmesan crusted baked potato down the toilet.

I’m not kidding.

No really.

I had made a kick ass dinner.  Meatloaf with parmesan crusted baked potatoes and dilled carrots.  It was comfort food extraordinaire.  It was a “crushed it” kind of evening.

fat amy crushed it

I was proud and happy and all was well with my world.  Until…..

Half.  A.  Potato.  Down.  The.  Toilet.  Now I don’t know how big your toilet is but mine are standard normal sized toilets.  No Paul Bunyon gargantuan toilets have we.  I guess he figured by eyeballing it that the potato would safely fit in the pipes?  I dunno.  I’m a girl.  If you ask me to measure something by sight by my reckoning a single room could potentially be an acre long instead of 10×13.

And speaking of girl rules; I don’t recall a couple of things:

First, the girl sit down in school where they told us that one day we would tackle great odds…like competing for power positions like POTUS or Roto-Rooting vegetation out of our toilets.  Actually we were quietly instructed to keep our expectations reasonable so never in my wildest imagings did I think…

Second, ever learning proper etiquette at moments such as this.  Is it bad form to tell your husband this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever seen?  Is it rude to point out his heritage and there’s now verifiable proof why there are so many jokes about said heritage?  I didn’t get this page in the marriage memo.  What do I do?

My response was, I think we can safely say, non PC.  We were having company that weekend, fifteen people, five of which were age seven and under.   I reject your potato down the toilet.  Fix that shit ASAP.  So he did what he always does; he ignored me and did what he wanted to do.  He tinkered around in the bathroom for about 20 minutes and lulled me into a false sense of security that our toilet was fixed and my hissy fit was effective.

Lies.  Patent lies.  My sweet, sweet Magilla lied to my face.  “Yeah babe, of course it’s fixed”.  That was a Thursday night.  Friday he went fishing.  My parents were over Friday night and someone inevitably had to tinkle.  The toilet wouldn’t flush and also threatened to overflow; which I deem as a hostile; therefore I go into fight or flight mode (sidebar – I don’t possess the flight mode).

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Sometimes with Magilla you have to be direct and use small words and non threatening gestures and by that I mean hide behind a door when you’re flipping him off and making pantomime strangling gestures.  We had already had the plumber argument on Thursday.  Twice.  He wasn’t having any of it.  Apparently, and I did not know this until I met him, it is an affront to one’s manhood to call in a plumber. No really, someone’s peepee might shrink an inch.  It’s awful stuff.

So I did the next best thing.  I recruited my daughter’s boyfriend who is a plumber’s apprentice to intervene on my behalf.  I had been plunging the toilet for probably about twenty minutes in the attempt to dislodge the tuber from hell.  I had depleted my considerable repertoire of cuss words and was repeating them.  My father, bless his heart, had tried to help as well but he’s 78 soooo; I resumed.  In my mind’s eye I remembered Little House on the Prairie.  I think we read in it in 3rd or 4th grade and a woman came into my school dressed in a pioneer ensemble and taught us to churn butter.  It took forever.  So did dislodging my toilet.  Similar motion.  You get the gist and even if you don’t, just pretend at this point.

So there is my daughter’s boyfriend,  Cthulhu Jones or CJ as I like to call him, beside me when suddenly there was a sound of movement; kind of like suction had taken hold.  Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t have to explain to our guests that my husband has psychopathic tendencies towards vegetables.  There was a thump and then a whoosh.

I turned to CJ and asked, “Is that the sound of a potato clearing the pipe?”

He turned to me and said in all sincerity, “Is there any training in the world that would equip me to answer that question?”

I replied, “No.  But I’m willing to accept a lie at this point.”

And with that…Magilla rolled up into our house, all smiles and platitudes.  He was only being nice so I wouldn’t throw a pot at his head.  Let’s be real.  We do a real quick recap of activities which include me mentioning his lack of judgement.  He turns to CJ and says, “You busy?”  Yeah, we all know how that goes.

So the two of them schlep off to Home Depot to buy a snake or a gopher or whatever the hell it is men use to clear a pipe, which I think we’ve firmly established…is not a potato.  They come home with a 9 foot pipe that looks like it has a fan on the end.  I’m suspicious of this instrument but I’m desperate at this point.  My only question was whether it was purchased or rented.  It was purchased.

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Look, I’m not proud.  God only knows what he’ll do around Thanksgiving.  And Christmas is right around the corner from that.  I cook yams y’all.  I mean where does it end?  A ham?  Turkey?  Potatoes could be the gateway flush, you don’t know and you have to be prepared in this world.

Oh yes, hand off ladies……….he’s miiiiiiiiiiiiiine.

 

 

 

 

I’m Not Responsible

for your happiness and well-being.  I refuse to accept that burden for anyone other than myself.  I’m responsible for my choices and actions and not yours.

There I said it.

This morning I was driving to my office to take care of a couple of things.  I also had a haircut appointment in that area so I decided that I’d kill two birds with one stone.  It turns out I almost killed an idiot on a bicycle.

 

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This was my post on Facebook this morning.  While I realize in my own pithy way, it was received by some as humorous, my hands were still shaking while I wrote it.  I don’t mean I figuratively almost killed someone; I mean locked up brakes, squealing tires and my heart jack-hammering in my throat and somehow by the grace of God I missed her kind of killed someone.  As my hands clenched the wheel I thought over and over, where are the birds?  Two birds, one stone…three bikes, one truck.  Oh God I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it.  And then once I realized she would not be hit by my truck, when I realized something horrible had been averted, the anger started.

As I slowly calmed down, I started thinking about choices.  She clearly held me responsible for her choice to move her bike into oncoming traffic.  She made me the bad guy in this scenario.  And while I seriously contemplated getting out of my truck and tossing her into the ravine on the side of the road, I clearly can’t do that.  That choice is inappropriate.  I usually bury my phone in my purse while driving so texting wasn’t a viable scenario, but what if I had looked down at that moment to change the radio station?  What if I was drinking tea and spilled it?  What if…what if?

We have so many freedoms in this country that I think we sometimes forget our basic responsibilities to conduct ourselves as conscientious adults.

This idiot this morning was screaming at me that she had every right to be on the road.  Of course you do; so do I.  I have the right and with that the responsibility of acting and driving appropriately.  If I was speeding, if I was distracted, if I was texting, if I was sneezing…I could have killed her.  This notion that somehow I’m the bad guy is ridiculous.  I observed every rule.  Every.  Damn.  One.  If anything I was actually driving slower than normal because I was exceedingly mellow this morning.

There has to come a point that we stop being so mortally offended at every frigging thing and all the while society has basically become a bunch of Cartman’s screaming they’ll do what they want.

Cartman

I have the right to fly a Confederate flag on my house.  I have the right to march around my living room in my underwear while singing the Russian national anthem and kissing Putin’s picture.  I have to right to tell people to go screw themselves because I don’t like the color of their shirt or the way they smile.  I have the right to shave my head  and panhandle on the streets.  I have the right to use racial slurs.  I have the right to all of these things.  It doesn’t necessarily make any of these things good choices.  I don’t use or advocate any of these things because I try to live a good life.  I try to be understanding and kind.  I also try to live and let live.

Now here’s the flip side.  Bad things have happened in history.  History teaches us that certain symbols are now interpreted as hateful.  There are memorials and historical sites which have been defaced.  Does this vandalism constitute free speech?   Or do we need to collectively allow the healing and stop blaming.  The past is there as a moral marker.  The day we start rewriting it is the day we begin forgetting our own history; good and bad.  Personally I do believe the Confederate flag represents something painful in our history, but it is history and deserves the acknowledgement of being so.  Over 620,000 died in that part of history.  Don’t tell me it’s not relevent.  Therefore, I believe it belongs in a museum.  It should be preserved so we never ever forget where we came from.  Only then can we know how far we’ve come.

We are living in a world which has advocated the blame game.  We are living in a world in which we can find innocence offensive.  Someone sneezes.  Someone says God Bless You.  Someone insists they’re an atheist and said well wish is offensive.  A child dresses up and walks around their neighborhood for candy for Halloween and someone wants to turn it into a loss of holiness and a cultural embracing of evil ways.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Birthday, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day.

In the scurried need to accept everyone we are alienating each other.  Happy Mother’s Day…but I have two fathers.  Happy Easter…..but I don’t believe in Jesus.  Happy Birthday….how dare you acknowledge I grew another year older.  Have a good weekend….are you accusing me of drinking too much?  We don’t celebrate differences.  We don’t honor diversity.  We shun and scorn and blame.  Any and every one of the above referenced scenarios is fine, but I refuse to accept the looming politically correct Happy Parentage Day unless you’re adopted because some asshat commentator in the Olympics says they don’t count so we need to come up with a separate card for those families all together because they live by a different set of rules right?

It is amazing to me that a glad tiding, an offer of joy can turn to dust as someone rises up on their soapbox.  So I will toss this out from my little ivory tower.

My family has been blended so many times it’s ridiculous.

My brother is actually my half-brother.  My father is his step father.

My husband is the step father to my daughter.  He is the step grandfather to my grandson.

Ask him what he is.  He’s been there since the day that little boy was born.  As far as he’s concerned…that’s his grandson.  Do we need to divulge every detail of the origins of our lives or families because someone is uncomfortable with the unknown?  Does everyone need to know exactly how my family came to be a family?  Does it happen by marriage or birth?  Are friends family?   In my case…yes.  They are.  If someone introduces me to their child and they are white but the child is black…does it make that family invalid?  In the name of being “correct”?

There may be some who are offended by my life choices.  I’m fine with them; I’ve made them and owned them.  While they may be unconventional none have been illegal.  I had my daughter when I was twenty.  Does that make me immoral?  Does it make me stupid or a slut?

So here I’ve come round robin to my original question.  No one else has had to live my life.  No one else is responsible for my choices or my happiness nor am I responsible for theirs.

If there’s something that makes one feel entitled, why are they so much more deserving than the rest of us?  Because somewhere someone somewhat done somebody wrong?

Yeah, welcome to the human race.  We can be a heartless lot.  Wrongs done in the past may never be righted.  What we can do is take today…start today and make the choices now that will positively impact tomorrow.

Start making yourself happy and the rest will fall into place.  No one can save the world.  Humanity has been trying since time began.  No one can rob us of our own humanity unless we allow it.  We all have the choice.  Choose wisely.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Need A Coven That Won’t Drive Me Crazy

 

 

coven

noun co·ven \ˈkə-vən also ˈkō-\

Popularity: Bottom 40% of words

Simple Definition of coven

  • : a group of witches

Source: Merriam-Webster’s Learner’s Dictionary
 

Full Definition of coven

  1.  a collection of individuals with similar interests or activities <a coven of intellectuals>

  2.  an assembly or band of usually 13 witches

 

Does anybody watch Outlander?  If you don’t, I would encourage you to start.  It’s got great music courtesy of the staggering talent of Bear McCreary with vocals from the extraordinary Raya Yarbrough, excellent acting, Scotland (if you’ve ever been there, I need not say more), beautiful costumes and power.
It has power.

In the very first episode there is a scene which introduces one of the most important facets of the show.   A culture richly steeped in mysticism.  You can tell by the clothing worn throughout the episode that it is late fall or winter.  Two of the main characters witness an ancient tradition in which women dance among standing stones to welcome in the sun as it rises during the Winter Solstice.  They are draped in cloth and the music swells as you watch the sun dapple the horizon with light in the background and they whirl around each other, holding their lanterns high and moving in complex, rhythmic steps.  The beauty of their dance makes you hold your breath as you watch this obvious display of female power that is done under the cloak of darkness.  It’s secret.  It’s primal and it’s very clear….this should not be common knowledge.

I think in all women there is still a touch of this mystic power.
Before doctors, there were midwives and medicine women.
Before Beyoncé there was Boudicca.
There was Athena, Aphrodite, Hera, Demeter, Selene
We ruled the harvest, the moon, love, hearth and home, child birth, war.
Women aren’t taking over the world.  This is nothing new.  We’ve always had it in the palm of our hand.  It’s there at our disposal.  We let you think you run it.  Ever seen a mad wife or mother?  Trust me, there’s a reason Billy Shakes spoketh the truth….hell hath no fury……like  a pissed off chick who been doned wrong.
Before there were witches, there were wise women.  If you do research on ancient Celtic history you will find a legacy chock full of powerful, wise, strong female rulers.  They were queens and seers and warriors.
Native Americans had the Corn Mother, who brought healing to the Earth.  Japanese culture had Huichi to whom offerings of fire were made as barter for the energy required to complete the harvest.  Inna is a Nigerian Goddess who rules over the yam harvest and brings abundance to all farmers to give offerings in her name.  Braciaca is the Celtic Goddess who is responsible for the fermentation of grain to alcohol.   Hathor was the Egyptian Goddess who reined over music and dancing.
These Goddesses brought plenty to those who whispered their names.
There were also these…
Badb, the Irish shape shifting Goddess who represents the cycles of life and death.  Annis is the keeper of wisdom.  Baba Yaga is considered the mistress of magic.  Elli is the Norse Goddess of old age who defeated Thor in a wrestling match.  Athena was the Goddess of wisdom, law, strength, and war strategy…to start.
Every ancient culture has references to these powerful, formidable goddess.
My wish is for something closer to dancing on a hilltop during sunrise at solstice.  A group of women who would dare dance with me if for nothing more than the joy of it.  The freedom of dancing as the mists swirl with dawn, the feel of the grass beneath our feet and the smells of water, earth, air and fire.
Before they were considered witches…before we were considered bitches…..we were sisters of the goddess.
We sang to them and praised them and revered their wisdom and drew our considerable strength from them.
This is not a matter of hating men.   The power of a woman is that she doesn’t need to scream from the rooftops.  She doesn’t need to flex her muscles to prove her power.
I don’t wish to compete with a man.  I wish to tell some of them, we know you’re intimidated and you should be.  This also isn’t a chest thumping, you can’t do what I can do thing.  I’m not envious of any body part a man has.  NOT ONE.  Sorry.  Can’t chalk it up to that either.  Boobs make the world go round, honey.  Boobs are round, pregnant bellies are round, the world is round…you keep on thinking that.
As women, we are aware of the other women we know who are powerful without fear or need to prove we’re the Alpha.  Women are strong and wise and we form friendships regardless of status, age, race, religion…we are drawn to the humanity in each other.  There is something powerful in the friendships of women.  We are the truest reflection our friends see of themselves.  We are the gauge which determines if all is well with the world.  Women are raw and sometimes raunchy.  Ever been to a bar with your best girl friends?  Or on their couch?  Or on the phone when they see their 10 year old did not flush the toilet?  I know some of the conversations I’ve had with my own friends. Once a table of guys got up and left looking backwards in fear and awe and I’m just gonna leave that there….
Most women, myself included have nothing they need to prove.  Not to ourselves.  We know what we’re capable of.  When we see men lamenting about their to do lists….
Go ahead Toots, try to do what we do in an hour let alone a day and let’s chat about that shall we?
Our capacity for forgiveness is as vast and open as the sky itself.  If it were not….the world would be sad place indeed.   You can take that subtext any way you need to.
We use the word coven as if it’s a bad thing.  Or that somehow it implies some attraction to darkness.  I’m Presbyterian dude…we don’t do guilt and sin and all that crap.   We’re pretty straight forward.  Do right.  Be kind.  Tell the truth and God will think you’re groovy.  I believe hell is right here on earth.  Don’t believe me?  Watch the news.
We need more covens.  These are women who believe in each other.  I know my immediate coven.  I’d die for any one of them.  No questions asked.
 The beautiful thing is…..I’m always open to additions.
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And as my husband watched in awe, I knelt before the Goddess; praising all she ever was and all she will ever be.  Goddess, Mother, Sister, Daughter, Friend

 

Periods Don’t Kill….But Husbands Buying Tampons…

This is being written for every good man out there who has been in this position.  Mostly this is for my father who is the coolest dude I know.

This is my mother’s favorite story.  It happened when I was fifteen or so in good old hometown Foodtown.  It’s a true story and one that she asks me to recount often, usually upon demand…like I’m a Pomeranian…performing tricks…and I’ll leave that there.

No I’m not bitter.  That wasn’t repressed teen rage coming out.

Jon-Hamm-Head-Nod

Don’t be silly.

Ahem.

My mother threw her back out taking sheets out of the dryer.  She was completely bed-ridden for three weeks (yes – this included bed pans) and then spent an additional seven weeks in rehabilitation.

During her confinement she received a visit from…well let’s just say Miss Scarlett returned to Tara.

Obviously having been infirmed, she could not replenish the stash of feminine hygiene products and I was too young to drive so this burden of responsiblity fell on the broad, strong, resiliant shoulders of my father.

He is a brave man.  He is a big man.  He is a handsome man.

First off; to face any woman in my family with her, umm friend, should require Kevlar and the ability to perform hostage negotiation while bearing gifts of Häagen Dazs en masse preferably with the lid already off and a gold spoon poised and ready for our delicate little mouths to begin consumption between snarling and cursing.  We want what we want when we want it and if you don’t know what we want then clearly you are somehow lacking in the brains department but how dare you assume to know what we want.  Yeah, that’s how we roll.

Every woman knows what they like (strictly product speak). We know what fits best, how big or small it should be, how active we plan on being that week or if we will be wearing sweat pants for a week straight.  It’s an innate knowledge.

Use this knowledge carefully ladies.  Please!  I beg of you.  I’ve seen what happens.  Here goes.

We had our list.  We had our mission as it was precisely laid out by my mother.  The list included aisle numbers as if she knew we were going to muck it up.  Clearly she felt that my father and I together were somehow a bad combination and instead of coming home with proper supplies and nutritious food we were going to load the cart up with Twinkies and Coors Light and Pampers and maybe if she was lucky we’d throw in orange juice and raw spinach to make it look good.

We went through the entire list and got everything she requested.  We conferred with store managers and responsible looking women all over the store.  I prayed the guy I was dating was not anywhere to be found near this vicinity.  We looked like derelicts and at fifteen years old I demanded to look cool.  I did not.  In retrospect, it was the 80’s.  I didn’t look cool until I hit thirty.  At some point it dawned on me that both my father and I were very capable cooks.  As a matter of fact, he taught my mother how to cook.  Hey lady, listen, I don’t care if it is Arts and Crafts at Panty Week….wait, you’ll strangle me in my sleep?  Okay, never mind.  That was the scenario I saw playing out in my head.  But I did enrich my father with the knowledge that though my mother was super organized and a fairly good cook and could provide us with a list like none other….we were better cooks AND we were ambulatory and she was not.  This gave us power.  For a moment we were giddy and then we realized that she would yell unless we did it her way, so we did it her way.

Finally, having every other item crossed off the cursed list save two, he faced me.  The expression on his face was grim.  “You know what we’ve gotta do”, he said.  I nodded solemnly.

So we walked, slowly, pushing the cart that had one wheel that wanted to go left when the rest went right.  Yeah.  It was that kind of cart, for the kind of day.  The day of reckoning.  We turned the corner to the feminine hygiene aisle.  I was a mature woman who had been dealing with her own personal Shark Week period hell for four whole long years.  I was an expert.  I knew my stuff.  I felt like somehow I should lead him.  But I was a teenage idiot so the end result of that was me vaguely waving my arm in the direction of tampons and mumbling, “This is the stuff she needs.”

He gripped the list tightly in his hand (which for frame of reference is approximately the size of a baseball glove).  He started at the beginning of the aisle and I walked dutifully about five paces behind him.

He made one pass – silently and then went back to the beginning of the aisle.

On pass two he started making strange huffing noises that reminded me of a deer I’d run into one morning while trying to sneak into the house drunk.  It clearly judged me and the hour and snorted in disgust at my beat up converse sneakers and then ran off.  I think it may have done a hair flip but I had just met Mr. Daniels that night, so I can’t be fully sure.

Pass three….now he’s pissed. I mean pissed.  Now there is a full blown dialogue going on between him and…him.

“Panty liners…what the hell do panty liners do?  It’s not like panties are made of flannel.  Maybe if they were I wouldn’t be dealing with this list.”

“Scented…..that’s a thing?  Is it supposed to smell rain fresh?  I have to believe she doesn’t want scented”

“Wings.  No wings.  Are these supposed to be aerodynamically sound?  Do women go jetting all over the world with their wings?  It’ll save us a ton in airfare.”

“Slender, regular, overnight, long….sweet bleeding Christ!! Are you kidding me?”

“Heavy flow, moderate flow, dry weave, dry weave?  What the hell is dry weave?  What’s woven on there?  Is it embroidered?  No wonder all women are nuts when they have their period.  I’d kill myself.”

At this point a group of women have amassed at the end of the aisle.  They are silent and amazed.  A few are fanning themselves wondering why their husbands won’t purchase these items for them.  Because you married troglodytes honey.

fanning-myself.gif

I look back at them.  I look at my Dad’s back.  Then back at them.  They look hungry and now I fear for his well being.  Either he’s going to end up in some Mercedes trunk and at one of these broad’s houses or his head to will blow up on the fourth pass.  He is not aware they’re there.  I am.  I feel I need to save him.

“Dad”, I say.

“Not now Shannon.”

“But Dad!”

“Look Babygirl, I am in the fifth ring of hell here.  A little compassion please?”

“Dad, there’s a crowd.  I think they want to kidnap you.”

He looked back and suddenly all of these women seemed to develop an intense interest in the same box of tampons.

Imagine that?

The same one.

For all of them.

In this vast sea of choices.

Curious.

He calmly walked over to the lot of them, his selections in tow and said, “I don’t know how the hell any of you can make a single choice in here.  This shit is ridiculous.”

 

And with that, we left.  With that the man who was already my hero became my superhero.  The older I got the more I realized that my father was a maverick in feminism.

He took a lot of crap from some guys he knew.  I’d like to add that a lot of those guys had crap marriages.  They were also trolls in my humble opinion.  My dad would cook and change diapers and my mom had zero issues helping him landscape the yard and make gardening beds with railroad ties.  Yeah boys……he was whipped alright.  *mouth vomit*

I was never told I couldn’t do something because I was a girl.  Society told me that, not my Dad.  My Dad gave it to me straight.   You want to be a firefighter?  Cool, start bench pressing now.  You’d better be able to dead carry a guy out who weighs 250.  His life depends on it and so does your conscience.

My humor came from him.  My insatiable appetite for learning came from him.  My sense of fair play came from him.

My mother gave me my grace, my long legs, my somewhat reddish hair (before it went silvah), my temper and my ability to be a phenomenal mother and my pack mule ability to carry stress ad infinitum.

I thank them both for the gifts they bestowed upon me and I will never again tell this story at a party.  I’ll just whip out my phone and snarl, “Read this.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Much Love But I Don’t Give A Flea Fart Who You’re Voting For

I am so done.  I am done.  Done done done.  

This election is enough to sap your soul right out through your left ear.  It’s a circus.  It’s smoke and mirrors played to the hilt by the ultimate performers.  

I applaud the passion with which people put forth their beliefs but I also remember a time when the three cardinal don’t speaks ruled.  You didn’t talk abut your salary, your religious beliefs or your politics.  

I realize we’re living in a brave new world;  but screaming your opinion louder and more often doesn’t necessarily make it right.  It just makes it louder and repeated more often and public.  It’s not fair to assume that every other person gets weak in the knees because our President has endorsed someone nor is it fair to assume that wanting a greater stronger America makes you a right wing Fascist.  

I am an extremely political animal.  I just rarely speak about it publicly.  It doesn’t make me right or wrong.  It is what it is.  

I went on a Facebook sabbatical for a few months.  In retrospect, I enjoyed those months greatly.  But in truth, I also missed a lot of the people who I am friends with there.   I’m trying to strike that balance.   But lately, I’m kind of tired of the daily emotional drain of politics.  It turns friends to enemies.  

We are nowhere near close to the end of this election season in hell. We are nowhere close to healing the division in this country.  The day Barack Obama won the election, I sat on my couch and wept.  I wept tears of awe that we had come far enough as a country to elect a black man into office.  Although I didn’t agree with some of his ideas and policies and I considered him at that time to be vastly inexperienced, I was proud.  I was proud that just maybe we had put aside our own bullshit and voted as a country with our hearts.  History and time will tell.  

I view politicians with the utmost disdain.   I’m suspicious of their motives, always.  If the establishment tells me to do one thing I generally refuse. 

The fact that celebrities are being brought in to endorse ANYONE is sickening.  To risk sounding snooty, I could care less what any celebrity thinks of any candidate.  

One of the best lines I’ve ever heard regarding politicians came from a Tom Clancy novel in which a character quipped, “I’m a politician which means when I’m not kissing babies, I’m stealing their lollipops.”

If you want the God’s honest truth, I fear the sitting Senators and Congress more than I do any President elect.  (Read as we need term limits). 

No wall will be built.  Let’s get real.  Congress would never approve it.  College will never be free; because education is a business.   Just like pharmaceuticals will always be expensive.   

It’s a game.  It’s a cyclical…cynical game.   The broad strokes by which we all judge each other and paint each other are growing daily.

I hate it as much as anyone else. 

But I still could give a flea fart who anyone is voting for.