Tag Archives: women

2012: The Year I’m (Almost) Not Always Right.

11 Jan

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This past weekend marked the twentieth time I have locked myself out of my own vehicle.

Admittedly, that’s a rough estimate.  But it’s probably not all that rough.

I was going running (sixth week of Couch to 5K, by the way, thankyouverymuch), and decided that I would tuck the key to my car in a tiny zippered compartment right above my jiggly bum.  This tiny contraption is courtesy of the super awesome pants that Dave bought me for Christmas.    But since it’s so tiny and located directly above my rearend, I thought it best to cut down on bulk and take only the key to the ignition and not the little button pad that locks and unlocks the doors.

Mark: this was a conscious choice.

You know that fleeting moment when you wonder if something will pose a problem for you and that you might want to pursue it to ensure that you are wrong but you convince yourself that you’re being illogical and choose to ignore it?  I think it’s called laziness.  Or apathy.  At any rate, for a moment I wondered whether or not I needed the button thingamajig to get back in my car but told myself that was silly and that ignition keys always open doors as well.  I locked the button whats-it in my car, tucked the ignition key into the secret ass pocket, and took off. I ran, I succeeded, I got back to the car, and the key failed.

Failed hard.

It’s unfortunate because I was hot off the victory of my week 6 run and excited to get back in the car and go take a much-needed shower.  I’m not a natural-born exerciser.  You know, one of those dames who can fun 5 miles and have a soft, beautiful glisten? I was bred to sit on couches and play video games and eat potato chips.  When I perform a task any more strenuous than brushing my teeth, I immediately break out in a coating of sweat not unlike the look of a sloppily glazed donut. I needed that shower.  Instead, I was outside my car fumbling around at the keyholes in the cold.  I decided to conquer the situation with my mind.  I deemed it a logical impossibility that my ignition key would not also lock and unlock the doors, and prayed to sweet baby Jesus to please do some sort of automobile miracle for me on this 28 degree day.

That also failed.

I was visiting my hometown and only knew one person in the area that I still kept in touch with on a regular basis and was within walking distance.  Unfortunately, I hadn’t seen her in about a year and didn’t want her first impression of me to be fresh off a 2-mile, just-out-of-bed-and-now-a-glazed-human run. But I had no choice: I needed someone with AAA and someone in her house had to have it. I didn’t know that for a fact.  I just knew her family, and her family was chock full of folks who would really need something like AAA.

The sister was my winner.  In fact, I cashed in on her third and final lock out call of the year.  Score. 

I finally got in the car and got to my cell phone to call Dave and tell him about how incredibly stupid I am, which I am apt to do on an almost-weekly basis.  I like to remind him that I need him around because when without, I can’t really function easily like other human beings.  Without his assistance, I’d be wandering the streets of the city barefoot and coat-less with only a kittens and slices of leftover pizza in a knapsack to accompany me.

Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad.

As it turns out, David had told me only one month ago that my key pad was absolutely required to open the car and I said that was no problem and why would I ever not just use the key pad.  Though I pretended not to remember this conversation, I had a movie scene flashback to my exact location at the time of its happening.  I was flippant.  And I had just paid the price.

Sometimes I just don’t listen to Dave because I don’t feel like it.  I tell him I won’t take a coat outside because I don’t need it and then I ask to borrow his only a few hours after.  I tell him I don’t  need to wear sneakers because sneakers look stupid with my sweater and then I ask him to stop somewhere to buy flats because my feet look like they were attacked by badgers. 

And I also tell him to stop rambling on about using the key pad and then lock myself out of the car because I forget that I need it.

Therefore, I have deemed 2012 the year that Dave is always right.  I’m boldly going where no woman has gone before.  I’ve dedicated 2012 to blindly following wherever Dave will lead me.  I have a good feeling it will involve more jackets, better shoe choices, and fewer lockouts.  It’s a win-win.  Either I find he’s not right and I can carry on henceforth not heeding his advice, or I’ll find that he’s almost always right and become a more efficient, more put-together human being.

Here’s hoping the latter also means less lockouts. 

A Rant from the Feminine Abyss

2 Dec

I’m think God gave women periods so that the times that they aren’t miserable, volatile, sour beings they actually seem to be quite lovely.

Or is that just me?

Sometimes I wish guys had to go through something similar.  I really do.  Because I’m sure it seems to some that if you go through something once a month every month for decades, eventually you get over it.  But you don’t.  Maybe other women all over the world do, but I totally don’t.  I don’t get over the feeling of going about my regular business and getting attacked by what feels like little feral mole rats grinding at my innards.  And the stupid commercials that make periods seem like a holiday parade make me want to throw a shoe at the television every time.  Not to mention the fact that we’re more likely to attract sharks.  Sharks.  About one quarter of my life can’t be spent in open waters. That’s serious business.

One time I found a very small hole in my sock while I was walking around the house and was so sad that it took 30 minutes for me to be coaxed out of my deep depression.  

You know what else I find annoying?  The fact that it costs so much to simply endure one week of the month.  Heating pads and drugs and magical cotton wonders of all kinds come at a high cost.  Sure, you can buy generic.  But you’ll regret it.   

Where, exactly, is the inconvenience for guys? There are no boobs to strap up, no heels to don, no cramps to endure… and to make a baby all they have to do have a romp in the hay, while women have to watch their bodies morph into monstrous human incubators – swollen and waddling, waiting for the beast to come forth.  And then when it does, it gets its food from the woman’s body

I’m not seeing where the compromise is here.  Can someone direct me to it?

So here’s my proposal.  I’ll endure the once-a-month.  Or the baby-incubating.  Or the baby-feeding.  Or the boob-containing. Or the menopause.  

But can we please just give one of those to the men?  It only seems fair.

Puppies and Sprinkles,

Obviously Menstrual Jackie 

Look at these. These hearts and butterflies aren't fooling anyone. I wish packaging could just be more straightforward. Maybe I'll start my own tampon line. "Feel gross? Buy these. You're welcome." Yeah. A snarky tampon company - that sounds like a legacy to leave.

Beyonce Makes Me Doubt My Womanhood

11 Nov

I feel like I would be more of a woman if I could gyrate like Beyonce.

We all feel this, right? It’s not just me.

I’ve been watching the Single Ladies video over and over again in awe.  I mean, I’ve seen it before – who hasn’t?  But I saw something or other for a recent video of hers, which inevitably led to Single Ladies sidebar suggestion, which inevitably led to me questioning my womanhood.

Take a moment.  Really, take a moment and just look at this madness.  Remind yourself of your inferiority.  Listen, you don’t have to watch the whole thing.  Watch from 0:51 – 0:58.   7 seconds is really all it takes to start doubting your femininity.  (If you’re a reader of the male equipping, you can just go ahead and enjoy it.)

Honestly, how does she even do that? I’ve seen women who can dance and then I’ve seen this detaching of the pelvis and whipping it around in circles.  It’s amazing.

Dave asked me last night why I was continually watching it and what exactly I was looking for.  Once I spotted the sequence, I shouted excitedly so he could come witness the magic.  He said, “what, the hip thing?”

“David.  That is so much more than ‘a hip thing’.”, I said.   “She’s swinging her pelvis around like it isn’t connected to anything else.  And then she just gets up and keeps whippin’ around.  It’s madness, I say.  MADNESS.”

Perhaps this is the reason he is with me.  He’s unaffected by the pelvic magic. The Beyonces of the world have no hold over him.  Which is a mighty good thing since I’m completely uninclined. In fact, I took a Modern Dance class my sophomore year in college just to challenge myself and smacked my head off the stage floor in the final.

There was an audience.  A fairly large one.

I got an A.  She noted in my final evaluation that I had great stage presence,  which is fantastic because I also had two left feet and an overwhelming inability to sense my surroundings.

I’ll admit that this past week I looked up a few YouTube videos with workouts that mirrored this sort of woman beastiness. I looked pathetic.  Also, the women in the videos are wearing very little so I also did a lot of feeling badly about myself while I jiggled.

So kudos to you, Beyonce – your hips have the power to make women doubt that they’re really women.  That’s a powerful quality indeed.   You keep on keepin’ on.  

I’ve got some weeping and jiggling to do. 

The Burden I Carry

11 Aug

Yesterday I found a banana in my purse.

I know I put it in here some time ago, I just don’t exactly know how long ago that was. 

I have a pretty big purse.  I’ve never wanted to be the kind of person who has a big purse – one that makes my shoulder ache if I’m on foot for any extended period of time. I never wanted to be someone who loses things when they’re actually right on my person all day long – or to find long lost, surprise bananas.

But I need things.  Lots of things.  Ibuprofen, pads, tampons – those are just gimmes because I was born with a woman.  I can’t help those.  They’re necessities until I get out the tail end of menopause, which I’m will come with its own set of supplements and a miniature battery-operated fan.  Then there are cards, keys, necessities of all shapes and sizes.  Allergy pills and asthma medicine to tend to my nerdier qualities.  A mini-umbrella just in case I’m caught in a pickle, a water bottle for health, body spray to freshen when needed.  A journal for sudden, life-haulting blog ideas, a pen, paper, and a paper or two with a list, a to-do, a phone number: whichever scrap of information I choose to carry at my side instead of in my brain.

Apparently, I also pack snacks.  That’s relatively new.

I should probably cut down.  I mean, on a typical day I only access the mini-purse inside and nothing else.   Oh yeah: I forgot to mention there’s a whole other purse in there too.  That’s where I keep the monies.  I should try to lose it all but the clutch, but I know the moment I do I’ll need something from that gloriously large saddle bag. 

Like a banana for instance.

A banana can’t fit in a clutch.  And I’m not about to downgrade to plantains.   What would I do in a sudden bout of cramps or starvation?   Perhaps that’s a chance I’ll have to take.  After all, I can look forward to hauling around a huge basket of belongings when I have kids with wounds to soothe and butts to wipe and band-aids to waste on invisible cuts. Maybe tomorrow I’ll take the plunge. 

…I hope I don’t get hungry. 

If I Were a Dude, Dude.

31 Jan

Being a woman sucks.

Sometimes I think about how awesome it would be to be a dude.  I could leave hair where hair grows, I could use a body wash that is also a shampoo, I could have U.U.S.S. and not have a care in the world.  I could eat as much as I want and keep everything I need in a wallet instead of an enormous hobo bag that gives me back problems.  I could put my car in the garage without calling a mechanic in the family just to make sure I’m not getting ripped off.   And (my favorite) I would never, ever worry about what to wear.

Not to mention, I wouldn’t have to deal with the once-a-month junk.  I wouldn’t even have to  think about it.  In no way would it affect my daily life and I could use the money I save on ibuprofen, pads, and tampons to start my own small business.

Then again if I were a dude, I don’t think I could deal with women.  I’m really not a fan of them and I can’t imagine having to put up with one for life.  If you’d like to know more, you can check it out here, in a blog post written long, long ago in a part of my brain far, far away (disclaimer: back then I was…”more free” with my word choice).

Sometimes I make Dave dinner or give him a foot massage just because I can’t fathom how he puts up with me.   Because as much as I may harbor dude-like tendencies, I am undeniably woman in my aggressive and unpredictable mood swings, my ability to take stress from one category of my life and allow it to bring down the wrath of Hades in another completely unrelated category, and in my inability to stop myself from cooing and giggling at puppies.

In my defense, there is a startling amount of adorable puppies in my neighborhood.

I must also admit that I am deeply disturbed by the idea of owning a penis.  Truly, deeply disturbed.  And I don’t mean because I was born as a woman and would find the sex change unnerving (which I would), but rather that I have no idea what men do with them, where they put them in their day-to-day tasks, and how they manage to not squish them.  I can only imagine the complete sense of imbalance I would have for the entire day once I’ve made my choice to dress to the left or the right.  That seems like a long-term decision to me and the pressure of commitment each morning would be too much for me to bear.

Also, Dave once said penises are “like a tail but in the front.”  and I will forever carry that deeply disturbing thought with the image of my conversion to dude-ism.

So yesterday’s time was wisely invested in the art of couch-sitting.   I call it my “Jabba the Hut” look. Because it was one of those beautiful times in a woman’s life where no amount of preventative maintenance for either my body or my mind could stop me from being a gigantic, painstricken, cranky, leaky mess.  Luckily, the laptop offered a sort of radiating warmth and helped ease the pain of womanhood pulsating through my lower abdomen.  And when I tired of the Interwebz, I replaced its warmth with that of a cat.  Because it’s one of their many uses and a great way to pay me back for all their freeloafing.

So much for my awesome times in my awesome fort while Dave is away.   Blasted ovaries.

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