Sturm und Mom

The Storm & Stress (& Joy) of Motherhood

Archive for the tag “women”

Dear Chauvinist Pigs: Please Come Back and Help Me

Today, I had three little kids in the SUV, a low tire pressure warning on the dashboard, and the complete inability to read the PSI recommendation written on the sidewall of my tire.  Oh, I know it was there somewhere.  It’s just with pouring rain and all the road dust it was a little obscured.  I was also wearing a fashionable spring jacket that looked nice, but came with a completely impractical hood that made me look that that Darth Sidious guy from Star Wars when he was in evil disguise.  Plus, the air pump at the gas station was positioned right beside the freeway that the drive-through to the coffee shop located inside the gas station store.  (As in aside, I will never be comfortable buying “fresh” food from a place that specializes in motor oil, propylene glycol, and other extremely volatile fluids.)  So, eveytime I had to walk around the truck with my little metal stick to check the pressure, I took my life into my hands as some caffeine deprived driver finally noticed me at the last possible moment.  Which brings me to the big question of my morning:

Why couldn’t one of those drivers be some old-fashioned chauvinist pig who gets his ego boost out of helping females in distress?

Hey, I won’t complain — and I don’t.  When the mover jumped off the back of the truck to take a box headed to my trunk out of my arms and into his, I said “Thanks.”  When some youngster Rig Pig wanted to pull me out of a snow bank with his 3/4 ton truck, I said, “Tell me when to hit the gas.”  You got jumper cables?  Hook ’em up.  Wanna push my flats onto the cart at Ikea?  Knock yourself out.  When the older gentleman asked if he could carry my vacuum cleaner down the escalator at The Bay, I couldn’t offload it fast enough.  Hell, I married a guy who won’t let me operate his lawn mower!

You know, when I was in my teens, I would have been horrified.  I (mistakenly) thought that this meant that I was proving that women were the weaker sex.  It was as if with every door held open, we somehow morally surrendered power to men.  What we needed were sensitive men who just let us muddle through everything like equals.

Except the last thing I needed this wet, cold, frustrating morning was Phil Donahue telling me he knows how June Cleaver stereotypes must make me feel.   I needed some knucklehead who feels he knows everything about tires, and it’s his duty to come and save me.

‘Cuz ladies, after bearing down on six kids, I don’t feel I need to prove anything anymore.  But I could sure borrow some of that up body strength every so often.

Please come back chauvinist pigs.  We won’t yell anymore, and I really need some help with my car.

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Remind Me Again How I’m the Loser

Reading this article left me the most disturbed I’ve been all week (h/t Kathy Shaidle.)  (The second most disturbed was when my little kids came out of the bathroom with a Dixie cup exclaiming “We made you tea — with cream in it!”  But I digress…)

The author of this column, Liz Jones, seems to be one of those women newspapers employ because they write bizarre, unbalanced and salacious stuff, and generate a lot of “controversy,” and therefore lots of readers (1000+ comments on this story alone.)  The gist of her tale is that she was desperate in her late 30’s to have a baby, and resorted to all sorts of nefarious plots to try to unknowingly entrap her boyfriends/husbands into impregnating her.  She then claims that many of her middle-aged female friends are doing the same thing.  It ends with the warning to men about these shifty gals:

If there are any men out there even contemplating getting close to a woman in her late 30s or early 40s, I suggest you tread very carefully.

She might be the woman for you; she might be totally honest if she says she doesn’t want to rush into motherhood.  But she might also be a duplicitous creature willing to go to any lengths to fulfil her dreams of having a family.

When I was in my 20’s in the 1990’s, and hopped-up on feminist-gender theory, I would have considered a married mother of six (i.e. myself in 2011,) as being an oppressed baby-factory, her true dreams and aspirations suppressed by religious fundamentalism, no more than a domestic servant that you don’t have to pay.  The “traditional gender role” for women, everyone knew, meant spending your life begging your husband for money, at least until he abandons you to a lonely existence with your cat, hoping against hope a man will call.  Everyone knew, there was no dignity in being a housewife.  No dignity at all.

Funny how all the “dignity” that these social progressives keep promising us, doesn’t seem so dignified when you actually have to live it.  Take euthanasia, for example.  Two days I ago, while waiting for my appointment, I over heard the older Doctor warn his much younger employee to get married, or when she was older, no one would take care of her.  “They’re bringing in euthanasia now,”  he told her.  “You better watch out.”

While she laughed it off, he wasn’t smiling. Death with dignity, or death because people get tired of footing the bill for your nursing home?

Raising 6 kids may not be the most dignified job (heck, I’ll be the first to admit that,) but I’ve never, ever, even considered doing something as humiliating as retrieving a used prophylactic from some guy I could barely tolerate, with the hope of having a baby.  Or listened to different men tell me that they had too many “sexual offers” to continue seeing me.   Or decided that I should abort one of my children’s siblings, because funds were tight this month.  Or strap my kids into their car seats at 5:30 am on the way to daycare, while later that day my spouse goes out boat shopping.  And while my husband could try to withhold money from me, he might have a problem with all the joint bank accounts, credit cards, mortgage, and the titles to the vehicles and house.  Not to mention he hates to pay bills and budget.

However, I guess they got me with the “lonely old lady with her cat” future that awaits me.  Oh, hold on….

I still have days now when I wished the sperm-theft had worked; that I had a daughter or son my husband felt compelled to visit.

Not, I’m ashamed to say, because I think I’d be a particularly good mum, but because our relationship would not have been a complete waste of time, with nothing to show for it but bad memories and a shared cat.

Yeah, sometimes winning seems a lot like losing.  Count me as a happy “Loser.”

 

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