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Dear Men in my Life

So, Facebook dragged up a post from 7 years ago.

Oh how very little things change and Oh for crying out loud... once a man-baby, always a man-baby! ❤︎

Dear "The Three Men in my Life",

The three of you are well aware that there is a right and a wrong way to load the dishwasher.  The right way results in sparkling, squeaky clean dishes.  The wrong way results in residue-y, speck-y, dried chunks of food-y, gross, nasty dishes.  Now... 12 and 20-year-old men in my life, I have coached and coached you again on this topic, monitored, corrected and praised.  47-year-old man in my life... *sigh*  I'm not sure why I would even have to coach and explain, but I have (such is life).  

Today, upon unloading the dishwasher, I saw immediately that all rules were (once again) broken. Instead of yelling for a do-over, and scrubbing away the yuck, I have decided, quite simply, that tonight I will be making and serving dinner on these nasty dishes.  You're welcome and enjoy, my sweet men... 

Love, You Know Who...

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I could totally dig being a Handmaid…

...
But wait! Life, according to Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale would likely be way too constrictive for a sort such as I.

But, let's pretend for a moment...

While I watch the show (which I have done many times because I deem it as absolutely fantastic!), I think, DAAAAAANG, what beautiful gardens the Handmaids have to hover about within, and what beautiful homes they have to float through (Especially Ofwarren), and OHMYGOODNESS, what simple BLACK & WHITE rules they have to follow!!

Handmaids wear the kewlest hooded, flowing cloaks and I simply LOVE their frumpy, hardy, Ugg-style brown boots. They do not have to style their hair, nope, they only need to pull on the simple, white, conservative cap and call it good. No makeup (allowed) and no fashion sense to prove. Nope. Just follow the law.

Additionally, those pampered Handmaids do not have to cook, only do some simple shopping while they keep their bodies aired and healthy,  and they are not required to do housework. They only HAVE to have sex once a month, you know, during the "fertile time." They do not have a choice, this is what they have been chosen to do for they are scientifically and biologically equipped to reproduce. THEREFORE, THEY MUST.

However, really, enduring the act once a month with a big-wig bloke of the new, dystopic society? Not so bad... I suppose. I mean, there are rules and certain expectations so there would not be any unexpected surprises of intimacy. I could shut myself off for that period of time, no problem. Bare children and hand them over to the bloke and his barren wife to raise while being held around to nurse the baby and grow it strong with the fruits of my body? Sure thing! The child would be cared for and treated well, this I would know, especially if it conformed to the many dystopic rules of society. A safe life it would be for the babies I produced...

Sure, me as a Handmaid, I would be denied love and friendship, at least on a soulful level. I would walk with my partner Handmaid during shopping outings and I would socialize superficially with the Martha of the house (while I watched her bake the bread and prepare my breakfast, or fetch my monthly napkins...), and I would answer and agree to all that the Wife and the Commander asked of me. Simple. Black & White. So clear. Like accounting or math.

Perhaps the family would have a dog or cat that I could bond with, I could dig that!

Who needs love? I wouldn't need romance or fulfillment of desires or camaraderie. I would be just fine! Especially if I were to be a Handmaid in my current frame of mind... all mature and shit, right?

Perhaps the family would have a dog or cat that I could bond with, I do not believe that there are rules against Handmaids bonding with animals. I could dig that! I always love me a canine and feline to pet and talk to!

And the luxurious baths on Ceremony days? Oh yes! Soaking and shaving! Imagine having a bath like that be mandatory? Yes. I could soak, relax, and read...

Errrrrrrrrrrtttttt! *rolls eyes*

Silly me. Handmaids are not allowed to read, nor are Marthas or Wives. Females are NOT ALLOWED TO READ. They are not allowed to write. If they are caught doing so, off with a finger or something that will not interfere with their assigned duties. Off with it! No more reading or writing for you, you inept female!

Ohmygoodness! Imagine a world without reading or writing? Especially for the likes of me? In my day, I was fertile, I would have grown many babies but only if the Commander TOO was fertile. Ohmygoodness! Most of the Commanders are sterile in the Handmaid's dystopic world, but who is blamed, punished and sent to the Colonies for the non-production of babies?

That's right.

The Handmaid.

Daaaaang.

So there I'd be, soaking in my luxury bath on Ceremony Day, with no bubbles, candles, wine, or books. I would be soaking and contemplating my future and eventual death because it is likely that my Commander is sterile. The wife would soon be angry that I had not yet conceived and would usher me off to the Colonies for toxic and poisonous servitude until I died.

Ok, NO, I couldn't really dig being a Handmaid.

Maybe if I were allowed to read, or blog, or be guaranteed that the female children I produced would be allowed the same and would NEVER be in danger of losing an appendage for committing an atrocity (like reading or speaking her mind)... maybe then I would enjoy the simplicity of dystopic law, the beautiful gardens, and homes of my sterile Commander and his barren, pious wife... And the dog or cat... hopefully, there would be that, too. I might be able to be a Handmaid then until I died in the Colonies because realistically?

At this point in the game, I am Martha material. Ugh. I would be doomed to cook and clean until I died, but only after being shipped to the Colonies for sucking at cooking.

Oh modern society, let's not go dystopic.

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Honoring the Dead: Tell the truth.

This topic has been hanging out in my "to do blogs" for a while.

So tonight I will begin my rant.

Several years ago I went to a funeral. No, no, it wasn't my first and has not since been my last. However, it was the funeral that brought me to terms with my take on the subject matter of this post. 

I have lived long enough to understand that there is more than one way to cope. Be it coping with stress, trauma, sleeplessness, or death, people deal in tune to who they are. That means, of course, in regards to this post, that some people hold funerals, closed or open caskets, for their departed loved ones. Some people honor their deceased with a memorial service or by sitting shiva for 7 days. While others hold vigils or rituals while dancing and offering sacrifices. Human coping is colorful and judgment should be withheld while humans honor their dead; let them cope, man, let them cope.

That being said, however, since I'm a huge fan of respecting human differences, colors, and tunes, I'm going to gripe about how humans (quite often) forget about WHO HAS ACTUALLY DIED. What I mean is... for some mourners it seems that death erases human imperfection and replaces the human version of their loved one with an angel, or martyr, or some form of noble perfection. Like, suddenly, tah-dah, the departed was never guilty of jealousy, greed, hatred, exclusion, or deceit.

This is coping. I know this. The pain of loss is tremendous and many seek release from the grips of such profound emptiness by any means possible. I get it, I get it, I get it, in fact, I am not exempt or beyond coping (oh lawds, not by any means!!).

But.

Because this is my place, I can say what I want to.

Martyring and shrining is not realistic! And not real, in certain terms, bothers me!

So I feel like this:

When I die, first of all, do not bury me. Please no. Donate whatever is viable, perform an autopsy to learn something (if applicable), and cremate me. Please. I do not want to be viewed in my coffin with clay on my face and formaldehyde in my plumbing. I don't want my children or grandchildren or ANYONE to be haunted by the image of dead me or the dead smell of me. No, no. Let the alive me resonate and haunt them. And besides, depending on how and when I leave this world, there may not be much left of me to view? Right? How awesome it would be if there was a someone who could benefit from my retinas (hopefully they will not have my classic, extreme myopic eye-ball), or my skin, or kidneys, or even my arteries for those poor folk who suffer from CAD. Yes! Maybe a few pieces of my heart or lungs or liver could supply a benefit to some form of humanity...

Selfishly, though, I want to live to be old. I want to witness the changing of times, the accomplishments and aging of my loved-ones.  Hell. If there's a zombie apocalypse, I want to see it! I want to witness mankind transition from shit to sunshine; I want to be old enough to start smoking cigarettes again, eat whatever my old body can deal with and drink whiskey without worry! Yes! Aging is an honor, and I will be honored to make it to an old, wrinkly, and crazier version of myself.

Anyway.

What will be, will be. Whatever and whenever it is my time, I hope that parts of me will help parts of others.

Ok, ok, but, I have to spew forth more.

If one is to speak at my memorial service (because remember, there will be no viewing of my dead body and no wasting money and ground space on a coffin with burial accessories), I want them to honor and remember the REAL ME. The ME that they knew, complete with imperfections, flaws, and perpetual ill-fitting scrubs (too long, too tight, too big, too many holes). The jaded-me, the bossy-me, the throwing-my-cell-phone temper-tantrum-me, the potty-mouth-me, the bitch-at-my-husband-all-the-time-me, the too-lazy-to-take-a-shower-me, the not-visit-my-mother-and-father-enough-me, the cry-at-TV-animal-death-but-not-TV-human-death-me, the I'll-pretend-nothing-is-wrong-me, the TWO-faced-me (we all have a second face... you know this), the I-haven't-changed-my-bed-sheets-in-a-month-me, the I-love-whiskey-sours-every-night-me, the unsocial-me, the oh-hell-yes-I-will-pick-my-undies-out-of-my-butt-me, the Facebook-stalker-me, the rolling-my-mind's-eye-a-million-times-a-day-me, the I-don't-like-you-but-you-will-never-know-that-me, the I-know-your-game-me (but I won't tell... I'll keep it secret for my own reasons), the damn-at-least-my-ass-doesn't-look-like-that-me, the I-hate-managing-money-so-therefore-I-suck-at-it-me, the I-pick-at-my-fingers-when-I-am-under-stress-me, the THANK-GAWDS-for-my-Prozac-me...

Yes. Remember the real me. The ME that is guilty of sneaking away from the crowd to toot, the ME that doesn't care and toots in the crowd and lets others assume the blame, the ME that talks too loud when I get riled, the ME that is grateful that you cannot read my mind as you freak out about the needle I'm about to stick in your arm, the ME that laughs at the dipshit who spins out in the snowy median while driving like a douche-bag (This! How often do we see justice served? It's sweet and I savor it!), the ME that plays stupid, the ME that pulled my sisters hair when I was a teenager, the ME that forgot to pick a kid up from school, the ME that (shamefully) smoked cigarettes while pregnant, the ME that doesn't shave her legs for several weeks at a time during the winter, the ME that is tired of maintaining her chubby "bikini" zone, the ME that loves rain and snow storms and cloudy days, the ME... the ME that is flawed beyond repair, aged beyond innocence, experienced beyond ignorance, exhausted beyond inadequacy, fed-up beyond  game-play, and humbled beyond conceit. Repeatedly.

...the ME that forgot to pick a kid up from school...

Yes... that ME. The ME that has an endless list of flaws, most harmless and some that need serious attention. The ME that identifies the good, of course, however, the good that wouldn't be notable if it weren't for my endless stream of flaws.

The ME that is mostly happy to have reached a point in life where I am OK with admitting my weaknesses and not feeling "less than" for doing so. I think it takes something to do that... not to brag. 😉

But mostly, for crying out loud, if you stand up to speak at my memorial service and you can not think of what to say, say the truth! If I bossed you around while we played Barbies as kids, say it! If it was me that told you Santa is not real, THEN SAY IT. If I stuffed my snot tissues under YOUR pillow during camping trips, reveal it! If I smacked the rump of a horse that you were riding bareback and laughed as it took off all barn-happy with you clinging for dear life, SHARE IT! If I got mad at you because you were skinnier and got cold faster while swimming, call my dead-ass out!

Please, please, please, world, keep it real.

Don't martyr-fy. Or shrine-ify.

Done.

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My remaining ovary has gone rogue.

Oh… how sad it is. I hang my head in grief and humiliation.

Seriously, I am not THAT old, but things are happening, the very things that I never imagined would apply to me.

Not such a big deal, now that I am here… I still feel valuable and valued and I am managing to swallow the lump in my throat… you know, that lump of realization that youth and outward beauty has decreased... Yeah, THAT lump. Regardless, I am handling this all better than I thought I would.

Do not get me wrong, it is not altogether pleasant, by any means.

So here I sit with this aging body. I know that I must approach certain things differently than I once used to. For example, stooping and/or deep bending at the knees. Shockingly, as of lately, I notice that once I am down, I cannot get back up in reverse; my knees have lost their torque. I find myself, embarrassingly, scrambling in such a way that only a chubby, middle-aged woman would do, to regain full height. Granted, I am certain that I could remedy this problem with simple weight loss and strength training, but… I will procrastinate until after I finish my nursing program. That is my new thing and my list is growing.

Anyway.

Another horror that I have stumbled upon are dark vinyl, pattern-less, sitting chairs. Do you have any idea what this means? It means that upon standing up from chairs such as this, I must check for butt and poot splotch. YEAH. I WENT THERE. My rogue-ass ovary has initiated overheating in my derriere and down-under region and I am pissed about it… Now I must constantly avoid certain sitting arrangements and if I cannot avoid sitting, then I must strategically raise with a butt-sliding motion to wipe the evidence of splotchy, female aging from the seat.

My rogue-ass ovary has initiated overheating in my derriere and down-under region and I am pissed about it…

MORTIFYING, MORTIFYING, MORTIFYING, especially when I forget the maneuver upon rising, OR if the maneuver fails altogether. I mean, how gross is it to see somebody’s butt and poot splotch?!? Who wants to sit there after THAT? *Sigh* And this whole mortification is based on my own witness account… Lemme tell you about it.

One day, long ago, when I was young and rarely humiliated by my youthful body (only by the occasional stomach growl or noisy escape of gas), I was working on a birthing unit as a floor clerk. The nurse’s station was set up galley style, with desks running up and down each side, connected by doctor’s dictation stations at one end, and central, fetal monitoring on the other. The clerk’s station was set up opposite the charge nurse’s desk and often the clerk and charge would push back on their roll-y, dark vinyl covered chairs and bump one another, back to back. Not a big deal, it was a normal occurrence. Well, on this one particular early morning, the floor was hoppin’ and babies were coming out of their mother’s left and right and the charge nurse had to take a patient until the day nurses arrived.

Bless her heart, this charge nurse, the woman of whom I sat back to back to and was in awe of her strength, knowledge, wisdom, and beauty… she was busy running to and fro, up and down from that awful, dark vinyl-covered chair. At one point, she hopped up to assist a patient and her chair slid next to where I was sitting, and that’s when I saw it: Butt and poot splotch. Honestly, I was so busy myself, I did not think anything of it until I heard the nurses to my left twittering and snickering and pointing at the chair. I made eye contact with the twitterers and snickerers and delivered to them an exaggerated cringe while I pushed the chair back to the charge’s station. I went back to my phone call, but I caught random snippets of their conversation and witnessed those nurses sharing the event with other nurses, all of whom acted cringe-y, just as I had. But most sadly? I never looked at the charge nurse the same, ever again. After bearing witness to her butt and poot splotch, I decided that she was the grossest woman EVER. *shakes head*

Pffft. Until now, of course. And DAMN how life comes back full circle and rubs our noses in all that we have once mocked!

And DAMN how life comes back full circle and rubs our noses in all that we have once mocked!

This new phenomenon has nearly destroyed me because I have always been a body perfectionist, especially in regard to cleanliness and female freshness. Like, I religiously wipe front to back, wash the poot daily with mild soap and rinse with a detachable shower head. A detachable shower head is mandatory for proper hygiene practices, I mean, how can a poot get clean and rinsed from a damn stationary shower head? That’s yeast, UTI, and bacterial vaginosis inbound STAT, like, right about the corner.… The oven must be carefully maintained and wrapped only in breathable cotton, not any of that nylon and silk (not even cotton lined!) sexy shit that men think is so great. No way, only the most natural for poot because stinky and itchy is NOT ACCEPTABLE. No excuses! That is how a female must roll. We must roll with clean and fresh butts and poots, always.

But. BUT. All the hygiene in the world will not stop that damn ovary from humiliating me with butt and poot splotch.

*Tears* here, peeps, mortified, shocked, embarrassed *tears*

And how many times has a young mind and body bared witness to my splotch? What must they think of me? What should I do about this, other than ingest herbals to combat overheating?

I feel like I should wear a sign (not really, C'mon, peeps), a sign that calls it out, like, “Hey! Please don’t acknowledge my splotch with disgust and disdain for what you think I MUST be, but instead, acknowledge the splotch for what it is and feel sorry for me. ‘Cause I’m not nasty or dirty… I’m just overheating, and my last ovary is serving endless Karma on a platter!” I like the idea of such directness, but, of course, it’s not so realistic...

I could always sit on a towel, I have seen that done many times by other splotch-suffering women. Or. Maybe they’re protecting themselves from the filth of the seat because they’ve spotted my splotch at some point?!?

I don’t even know what to do!

Perhaps I could start a movement or support group or something. Yes, because the youth with un-embarrassing bodies need to understand that… ultimately, us oldies are mortified, betrayed, embarrassed, and apologetic for the behavior of our bodies.

Please don’t disvalue us, because one day, if you’re lucky, you will BE us…

 

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… and here I am.

... here I am. Ahhh yes... how smooth it is to have a direct flight but then... something always goes wonky.

First, lemme establish that OF COURSE life can always be worse and that being stuck in an airport is not the most catastrophic of events that could happen. I know this, but I am gonna complain, anyway.

Second, my butt hurts. Even buttocks as colossal as mine cannot withstand the form of a carry-on suitcase for too long.

Third, oh why oh why must it take forever for a pair of Bluetooth headphones to charge? Furthermore, with the advent of such extreme technology, why for won't the headphones play while they are charging?

Fourth of all, I would like for the food shops to deliver food to me. I do not want to stand up and lose my outlet... I have prime seating here behind the trash and recycle bins. I have two outlets and a huge pillar to lean back against! If I am stuck in an airport, I could not ask for a whole lot more...

Fifth, it would be grand to be back in the 80's and still a smoker. I would sit right here while writing this post and smoke a cigarette. I no longer smoke and I won't ever again until I am diagnosed to die, but man now would be a good time to puff on a Marlboro Menthol Light!!

SIXTH and finally. How appropriate that I am currently reading a national bestseller titled Station Eleven, a novel by Emily St. John Mandel.

http://www.emilymandel.com/stationeleven.html

Just read it, if you have time... and maybe you'll get why I find it "ironic" to be stuck in an airport itching to finish this novel. How blessed I am to be waiting for a replacement aircraft to arrive. I actually have time to read for fun!

🙂

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My House Smells Like CAT PISS!

Oh please, powers to be, let me deal!

So I love my cats, oh yes, and even my damn dawg, and I can tolerate the insurmountable globs of animal hair (thanks to Robot and his undying floor cleaning commitment) all over my house. I can deal with daily, early morning, on the dot, operation-feline-starvation-notifications, I can deal with stolen hair-ties and random “gifts” dropped on my side of the bed. 

I can even deal with the dawg escaping to the basement to eat cat poop. I can tolerate picking up dawg poop in the yard. I can deal with dawg pee dead spots in my grass and shredded hostas along the back side of the house. I can deal with taking the stinky dawg to the groomer and wiping her paws off before she comes inside on a rainy day. I can deal with the dawg rolling in a splotch of dead grass (from dawg pee) and demolishing her fresh groom.

Oh yes. I can even deal with sticky tape on door frames, wall corners, furniture edges, and backs of barstools to deter feline claw-markings (leaving wonderful goo-tracks when peeled off, yes, I can even deal with that). I can deal with stepping in cat vomit and promptly calling the dawg to clean up the squished mess (she loves cat vomit, it’s one of her favorites). I can even deal with dawg vomit, of which the cats will not clean up and neither will the dawg.

I can deal with laying out puppy wee-pads for the cat that has a litter aversion, likely due to a flubbed declawing (before we rescued him, many littler experiments before we concluded what his issue was) so that he can go potty. 

I can deal with flea treatments, even the ones that go wrong, ending with a cat slicing open my artery, licking the flea medication, and frothing at the mouth like Cujo and running about possessed for approximately five minutes. I can deal with the cats eating the dawg’s food, promptly booting the dawg out of the way and then promptly puking the food up (win, win, I guess, the dawg still gets her food!). I can deal with never being alone in my bed or the bathroom for the sake of ensuring that the cat is able to monitor the proper use of their bed and shower.

Ohmygawsh. I can deal with so much when it comes to loved ones, especially my furry loved ones because they’re faultless. I can deal with not being able to walk away from my plate of food without it being licked by a cat or snagged by a dawg (the dawg is getting better about this as she matures, her manners are evolving, see Auntie Piper & the Tortilla). I can deal with the dawg being scared of the lollipop-girl on a scooter, the garbage truck, the vacuum, the broom, plastic bags, the pooper scooper, and the swiffer. I can deal with rushing to shut the back or front door before an entitled feline strolls over the threshold to escape among the world of birds, rabbits, squirrels, and scary cat-haters. 

I can even deal with people wrinkling their nose when I tell them I have FIVE cats.

I can deal with dawg and cat zoomies and cat explorations that result in decor on the floor and in the baby’s mouth. I can deal with the dawg chewing Blankie and when trying to poop, Blankie parts are hanging from her damn dawg butt and hubby has to help by pulling it out (but I’m not sexist! ). I can deal with finding Christmas tree tinsel in the cat poop and hanging my plants where the cats cannot eat them. I can deal with snags in my curtains because young cats assume they are for climbing… and for access to the hanging plant.

I can also deal with endless vacuuming of furniture and rugs, as well as endless washing of throw blankets (which makes for less furniture vacuuming). I can deal with endless dawg stares while I eat ANYTHING and the ghostly and creepy appearance of the old man cat whenever I handle any form of shredded cheese. 

I can deal with the constant feline body forcing its way onto my computer keyboard, textbook, or notebook. Oh, and I can deal with drinking morning coffee and wearing some of it down my front as a result of a feline “pay attention to me” head bump to my mug. I can deal with having to wipe my kitchen counters before using them (because I’m not about to put sticky tape up there, too) and washing the kitchen table off before eating at it (on the rare occasion that we DO eat there). 

Additionally, I can even deal with the humiliation of a late night trip to the bathroom, stooping to pet a kitty, only to discover it’s a slipper or a pile of clothes that are somewhere they shouldn’t be.

Yeah, I can deal with that, even when I flip on the light to discover the mocking stares of the lounging cats of which I thought I might be petting.

Omygawsh, shamefully, I can deal with watching a nurse (that was sent by my insurance company to assess and draw blood before I got approval for a life insurance policy) sit at my kitchen table and leave with old man cat hair on the butt of her black scrub pants (the horror, especially when you consider yourself above the standard cat owner). What’s even worse is that hubby noticed it, too, and neither one of us told her! ?

And… I can deal with my allergies to both cats and dawgs. I can deal, I take a daily allergy tab and keep up on dusting and vacuuming. Good enough *shrugs*

Yeah, yeah, I can deal with all of this. But, if you haven’t already guessed…

…I CANNOT deal with the smell of cat piss in my home. No. Way.

Nope. Not gonna honor that stereotype. Not gonna be that stinky lady in the store or the lady that co-workers secretly unify together in being grossed out over (likely already occurring because that’s right, I have five flipping cats!). Naw. 

Gonna conquer that smell and discover where it is coming from and eliminate it…

**UPDATE**

Totally discovered where the cat piss smell was coming from! In the basement, among scattered stacks of boxes, a secret, pooping and pissing field upon something fabric. Solution? Organize the scattered stacks, ensuring that there are not any hiding-holes left for old man cat to rejoice in contaminating. Also, pick up anything plastic bag or fabric like (except wee-pads). 

Oh, and gobs of scrubbing with bleach, floor cleaner, and vinegar. 

Done. Hopefully stinking cat lady stereotype is averted, for now.

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Am I Spitefully Sexist?

*ugh*

Strangely enough, I asked myself this, just this evening, as I was snuggling myself into sleep.

Now I am awake. I’m not completely sure why tonight (of all nights) I have become “sleepless” over this question.

Am I spiteful? Am I sexist? Are there implications for being so? Especially for a female?

Ouch.

You see, I live among a generation that believes (at least partially) in the supremacy of the male gender, and also believes in the strict honor of female weakness. Additionally, I was raised by a generation that quoted the Bible in terms of women and their value. For example, “Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak… And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home.” 1 Timothy 2:13-15

WTF. ?  Hm.

EARLY RECORDED MAN lived by a standard of which has been detailed in many Bible writings. They lived in a time of great political and religious upheaval, along with violent repression and oppression. The dudes who contributed to the writings of the Holy Book sell short the entirety of a higher power (God) by trying to harness the vastness in terms of writing and /or storytelling. And clearly, some of those guys didn’t like women.

Hm again.

So I’m not buying all parts of the Bible. No, and mostly because the Bible is the word of MAN, not God. God, as I see it, cannot be expressed and comprehended on a human level. Nature is as close as humans can come to understanding the enormity of God and existence. I know, I know… there are many who will argue with me, condemn me, and likely pray for my redemption. There’s no need and please don’t. That’s not what this post is about.

How does any of this have to do with me being sexist? It doesn’t really, all that only establishes my take on the old-fashioned view of women and how society has come to believe the way that they do.

Moving on.

Long ago, when I was a wee, bratty, chubby, little one, I noticed one thing in particular and inquired to my grandmother:

“Grandma, why are the girl birds not as pretty as the boy birds?”

At that point, in my youthful, Wonder Woman obsessed little life, I had only witnessed the real world on television. The Dukes of Hazard, with sexy Daisy, Wonder Woman with the amazing Linda Carter and her fabulous boots, and Gilligan’s Island, with the powerful, glamorous Ginger. Women were meant to be beautiful and captivating, right?

Oh, but my slim, red-headed grandma responded to my question with truth and love, she said:

“Tweetie Bird, the girl bird lays the eggs and watches over them. If she has bright colors like her husband, she will be found while sitting on the eggs by other birds that want to steal her eggs. She must stay in disguise to protect them. The husband-bird will go out and gather food or nest materials. However, he is working just the same and the more beautiful he is, the more other boy birds will fear him and all that is his.”

Her explanation made sense to me, even scientifically, at the time. However, I felt sad that a female bird worked so hard to lay eggs, care for the eggs, and then care for the babies and for what? She doesn’t even get to look pretty.

I don’t feel sad about that anymore, of course. I see it now for what it is. It’s nature and the momma bird could care less about her dull feathers. People do, though.

People harshly judge others that have dull feathers. 

So why am I wondering, in the middle of the night, if I am sexist?

When I am angry at my husband, I will tell him I think that he is sexist. I believe this because his ideas often default to the female doing the typical retro-wife-thing: looking beautiful all day long while I scrub the damn house, cooking and baking the damn food, running asses off after kids (in high heels, probably), and dreaming of ways to be a better damn wife (my words, of course, not his). Additionally, when I am angry at him, I believe that he would prefer that I am mindless, kinda like a Stepford Wives-type scenario. He denies that, of course. But think about it, who wouldn’t want every whim and need to be met without question? At least for a little while?

Am I spitefully sexist??

I don’t know, but I do have some complaints. However, many of these points span across both genders, so please note, this post is not directed at any ONE MALE (no whining):

  • Most men think women cannot drive  (“What are you waiting for?” or “Geeeessseee, on your way to a fire?” or “Geeeeesseee, you missed a bump back there, wanna go back and get it?”)
  • Most men cannot acknowledge their own bad behavior or faults; they consider themselves blameless (“I cheated because she got fat and bitchy” or “I cheated because she cheated first.”)
  • Most men are suckers and easily manipulated by beauty and will totally throw their sig other under the bus to continue receiving attention from beauty (“What was I supposed to do, throw her off my lap?”)
  • Most men cannot load a dishwasher properly (“Oh, the spatula wasn’t in the way of the arm when I started it.”)
  • Most men snore, keeping their significant other awake for large portions of the night (“Geeeeeesssse… all I asked was where’s the milk and you have to get all hyper and bitchy for no reason.”)
  • Most men cannot find the milk in the fridge to save their life.

And mostly:

  • Most men expect sex from their significant other like it’s their right (“You used to want to have sex all the time, now you don’t. You must have somebody else.” or “You’ve taken sex away from me, what will you take next?”)

Hm.

But really, I wish for the world to accept that men and women are two halves of a whole, and no one is any better than the other. What most men cannot do, most women can. What most women cannot do, most men can.

No, I don’t think that men are idiots just because they’re men. I guess if I did think that, THAT would qualify me as sexist. I believe people, including men, choose their behavior.

No, I don’t believe that men should hold doors for women, however, I DO feel that people should hold doors for people.

No, I don’t believe that ONLY men should be police officers or firemen. However, I WILL say that I believe men, on the average, are physically stronger than women. Of course, there are exceptions, as always, and I have actually seen some bad-ass women cops. Regardless, men, in general, are physically stronger than women and usually taller, too.

And on and on I could go,  but it’s time to publish this post as it unexpectedly got too deep.

In short, I don’t think that it is necessarily sexist that I am, but more so a realist and equalist. Yeah, and humble-ist. I have no problem owning what I can and cannot do, at least not so much anymore. I have pride, of course, but I also do not have too much of it (anymore) and have become fluent in admitting defeat.

Ok. Good. So I’m likely not sexist. But I am spiteful, sometimes.