One day last fall, my ex and I were standing in line at the LCBO and I let him pull out his wallet to pay for all the booze in arms, but instead he pulled out a hempy velcro excuse for a wallet.
"Andrew," I gasped, "what is the story behind that thing?"
He shrugged. "No story. Why do you ask?"
"Because a grown man in his 30s who still carries a velcro wallet had better either have a very good excuse or a very deep shame."
"Oh."
So then Christmas rolled around and I bought him a manly wallet, a leather trifold that I wouldn't be embarrassed to have foot my bar tabs. I felt quite smug about my bettering of poor Andrew until I made it down to the family home for Christmas myself, and ended up unwrapping a new wallet of my own.
My sister's reasoning was that I was the only one in the family who didn't have a proper wallet, by which she meant, a ridiculously expensive one. Which is true. I had my cards and cash stuffed into an oversized coin purse with skulls and crossbones on it. And I know you're thinking that's about as lame as a hemp velcro wallet, but actually, it wasn't lame, it was me expressing my individuality and my unwillingness to submit to the arbitrary requirements of adulthood. Or something like that.
But my sister insisted that I too should belong to the "nice wallet club", which I interpreted as "The rest of the family and I have decided we won't be seen with you in public until you convert to carrying something more reasonable." So for the past few months I've been walking around with a wallet that's too good for me, tucked away inside a purse worth a fraction of its cost and I've felt a great deal of unrest. I knew the moment I unwrapped it that this gift would end up costing me a fortune. Not only would I have to sign up for at least a dozen more credit cards in order to actually fill up all the empty slots, I'd also have to invest in a hand bag that would be worthy of my wallet.
Luckily, I had a savings account that used to be called "Jamie's retirement fund" but which quickly got renamed "Jamie's purse fund." Boxing week sales were still on, so I enlisted the help of my family to find me a purse that would make them proud. It was immediately clear that my "taste", as I erroneously called it, was actually an alarming lack of (good) taste according to everyone else. The first purse I pointed at, a zebra print bag that I honestly loved, was vetoed unanimously and it was decided that I would no longer be part of the selection process as my schizophrenic shopping was just slowing them down.
I never did get a purse and I've continued to use the ones I already owned and loved. One is constantly complimented for its bold purpleness, and another was recently given the Big Purse Award by my colleague. But last weekend, I found a bag that seemed to fit the right criteria: it was absurdly expensive, shiny, and had enough metallic junk on it to let others know that I had just spent about 3 months rent on it. But there was problem: I assumed that since I liked it, it must be wrong. Especially since it was orange. But my mother reassured me that it was in fact a "nice purse" and that it would make the others mad with jealousy. So I dug about 6 credit cards out of my wallet and between them, I bought the damn thing.
And then my mother asked what I would wear it with, and I answered that I thought it would be cool paired with my purple coat.
She cringed, visibly.
My family seems to think I am colour-retarded. They each have a brown purse, and a black one. I have a red one, and a pink one, and a purple one, and now an orange one (clementine, actually), oh, and a tiny clutch that's a very rude shade of yellow. Neutral my ass.
My approach to colour is: if I've seen them together in a box of crayons, it's kosher. I'm not colour-challenged, I'm colour-ballsy. People just can't appreciate me. I mean, it's not like I said I'd wear the clementine with my fuschia coat (no, my coats tend not to be in neutrals either, but I don't wear my red purse with my red coat, or my purple purse with my purple coat. I've never been matchy-matchy.)
I bravely bought a cashmere sweater in the most awesome shade of acid green, and people's first impression is always "Hey, that colour looks great on you!" Of course, half an hour later they're usually like "Whoa, that sweater's still pretty green, eh?" which I take to mean that they are insane with envy. My hair and my toenails tend not to be colours found in nature, either. I gravitate toward anything that can be seen from space. I don't think I clash, exactly, but let's just say that in a sea of people playing it safe, I'm my own little rainbow.
A rainbow with a very cool purse.
Showing posts with label I am Woman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I am Woman. Show all posts
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Sunday, September 07, 2008
I'm not a girl, not yet a wino.
Caro and I were enjoying another one of our "failed" shopping trips (the kind where we stop in at Sephora, bemoan the fact that they still haven't restocked the Apricot Souffle, and then proceed to buy substitute purchases (at other stores, mind you, ones that deserve our business) that we don't particularly need but seem to take home anyway) when we decided to give ourselves a break from toting around our monstrous shopping bags and sit down for a little lunch and nice big drink.
It goes without saying that mine was a martini ("touch of pink", it was called, and it danced on my tongue and was sweet enough to mask the staggering amounts of alcohol mixed into such a pretty little drink) and as we sipped and ate, I amused her with stories of my sisters and I sharing a bathroom growing up, and even now, when we all happen to be visiting at the same time.
Confession: I am a bad, bad girl.
Oh, not the good kind of bad. Not the naughty kind. Well, yeah, that too, but that's not what I'm referring to this time.
I mean the bad kind of bad: inept, dysfunctional, graceless, impaired.
While my sisters (of which I have 3) vie for mirror time to primp and preen, my routine consists more of things like eating cheerios, flossing, and changing my top 18 times. But as for hair? Makeup? Forget it. I suck.
And it pains me to admit this, because my mother was a hairdresser, went to beauty school and everything. When we were little, she'd line us up in the kitchen and she'd pass from one set of bangs to another with her curling iron, making us all look like brunette Farah Fawcett nesting dolls. My sisters have clearly inherited her talents, and developed them, while I have been left in the dust.
So this winter I set myself a goal: make my hair look less retarded. And I've tried, I really have. I can now do things with a curling iron other than give myself scathing ear blisters, which is a marked improvement. And the straightening iron is no longer my sworn enemy (now it's the friend I love to hate), although it still makes me cry when I spend 20 minutes coaxing it to perform miracles only to have my efforts derailed by stupid humidity (and even as I type this, I find myself hoping that humidity really does fuck with hair, and it's not just something my Mom told me in order to make me feel like less of a schmuck).
So Caro, good friend that she is, laughs at me only a little bit when I point to my face with the wrong end of a fork to highlight the fact that I am not wearing makeup, as if she hadn't already noticed.
I don't wear makeup because I can't wear makeup. I mean, ostensibly the stuff can be applied to my face, I just have no idea how to get it there. And not for lack of trying: every so often I'll feel inspired, and I'll buy some of those little pots with the pretty colours in them and I'll take them home and do my best but I'm just never happy with the Tammy Faye lookalike staring back at me when I'm done.
Time has come today.
Caro informs me that this is the day that I finally become a woman (I quickly gulp 2 more martinis in sheer panic).
Becoming a woman, it seems, involves donating a paycheque to a little boutique called MAC cosmetics. I brace myself before we walk in.
I am a blank canvas. The only things I've ever been able to master (well, more like muster) is mascara and lipgloss. The rest of my face is virgin territory (oh stop your snickering, I can refer to myself as a virgin with any spontaneous combustion...I'm pretty sure).
I let Caro and the girl at the store (whom I will call Miss MAC because if she wore a nametag, my heart palpitations were too severe to notice it) work their magic. I merely sat there in the unforgiving lighting, shedding tears for each and every pore, and looked up when they told me to, puckered when I must, and tried not to look completely flummoxed when they showed me the results in the Little Hand Mirror of Death.
The crash course in girliciousness was a bit overwhelming, and I neglected to take notes. I retained, however, that only morons think that one eye shadow is sufficient. Your eyelid, apparently, is a tiny palette on which you are to shove as many colours (complementary ones, whatever the fuck that means) as possible and then blend them like mad (and using 78 different brushes) until you either look sexy or you poke an eye out. The first one they both agreed on was called Naked Lunch.
"You must have Naked Lunch; everyone has Naked Lunch" they told me, and I grinned like the idiot that I am, because I do not have Naked Lunch, unless you count the book, of which I do have a copy, or the clothes-less midday meal which I may have partaken in a time or two. But Naked Lunch is just what goes on underneath the colour you actually intend to use. Naked Lunch is just a base coat which requires a primer underneath it and lots of accent colours on top. It's exhausting, and since I would never devote that much attention to a wall, what hope in hell does my face have?
Mascara comes after the colour and I finally felt confident enough to proclaim that "I had mascara under control."
"Then why aren't you wearing any?" Miss MAC asked.
"Um. I am" I said, because I was. Or I thought I was.
"Clear?" she asked, unable or unwilling to hide her disgust.
"No" I admitted, blowing her mind.
The thing about mascara is this: it's glop that short-lashed ladies use to make their lashes appear longer, and fuller. As Miss MAC pointed out, my lashes are stupid-long, but this does not get me off the hook. Even when you already naturally have what mascara hopes to achieve, you must always strive to be longer and thicker (whoa does that sound dirty) and thus the vicious cycle never ends. So Miss MAC is laying a few coats on me and Caro is exclaiming over her interesting barrel-roll method (which I, being the girl who obviously needs the tutorial, could not see because my eyes were closed because SOMEONE WAS POKING AT THEM WITH A WAND COVERED IN GOOP).
So yes. Eventually I had a small mountain of magic pots containing things like concealers and powders and shadows and blushes and lions and tigers and bears, oh my! And Caro stands beside me at the cash whispering "You know you're about to spend a small fortune, right?" and it's fine because I'm getting my girl on, but still, you'd think a fortune would require a bag bigger than a Nutrigrain bar, right?
Anyhow, when we finally exited I must have been looking pretty punch-drunk, because Caro used our escalator time to quickly go over the steps, and their proper order. She even showed me which finger to use (there's a right finger? there's a wrong finger?) in order to be kindest to the skin underneath my eyes.
Oh holy lord, all these years I've been scrubbing and poking at that skin just as whole-heartedly as all the rest and it has taken me all these years to learn that I have been committing the ugliest of all womanly sins.
At home, later that night, getting ready to go out and do some damage, I line up all my purchases and go a little weak in the knees. I can stand in front of a near-stranger of the opposite sex in nothing but knee-high white leather motorcycle boots and not miss a beat, but put me in front of a vanity mirror and suddenly my palms could water the community garden.
But you know what? I think I did okay. I patted gently and used feathery strokes and even remembered the little wrist tap that gives you beauty instead of bozo. But then, I've always looked in the mirror without fearing that my face may cause violent traffic accidents so maybe I'm not the greatest judge. Maybe I need Paula Abdul to sit in my bathroom and break it to me gently. The real proof is in the pudding, and lacking pudding, a club full of cute boys will do nicely. Right?
Not so much. It turns out, boys aren't really checking out my eye makeup. They are, however, responding to SOMETHING, and I've made my peace with that, with some extra Naked Lunch winks for good measure.
It goes without saying that mine was a martini ("touch of pink", it was called, and it danced on my tongue and was sweet enough to mask the staggering amounts of alcohol mixed into such a pretty little drink) and as we sipped and ate, I amused her with stories of my sisters and I sharing a bathroom growing up, and even now, when we all happen to be visiting at the same time.
Confession: I am a bad, bad girl.
Oh, not the good kind of bad. Not the naughty kind. Well, yeah, that too, but that's not what I'm referring to this time.
I mean the bad kind of bad: inept, dysfunctional, graceless, impaired.
While my sisters (of which I have 3) vie for mirror time to primp and preen, my routine consists more of things like eating cheerios, flossing, and changing my top 18 times. But as for hair? Makeup? Forget it. I suck.
And it pains me to admit this, because my mother was a hairdresser, went to beauty school and everything. When we were little, she'd line us up in the kitchen and she'd pass from one set of bangs to another with her curling iron, making us all look like brunette Farah Fawcett nesting dolls. My sisters have clearly inherited her talents, and developed them, while I have been left in the dust.
So this winter I set myself a goal: make my hair look less retarded. And I've tried, I really have. I can now do things with a curling iron other than give myself scathing ear blisters, which is a marked improvement. And the straightening iron is no longer my sworn enemy (now it's the friend I love to hate), although it still makes me cry when I spend 20 minutes coaxing it to perform miracles only to have my efforts derailed by stupid humidity (and even as I type this, I find myself hoping that humidity really does fuck with hair, and it's not just something my Mom told me in order to make me feel like less of a schmuck).
So Caro, good friend that she is, laughs at me only a little bit when I point to my face with the wrong end of a fork to highlight the fact that I am not wearing makeup, as if she hadn't already noticed.
I don't wear makeup because I can't wear makeup. I mean, ostensibly the stuff can be applied to my face, I just have no idea how to get it there. And not for lack of trying: every so often I'll feel inspired, and I'll buy some of those little pots with the pretty colours in them and I'll take them home and do my best but I'm just never happy with the Tammy Faye lookalike staring back at me when I'm done.
Time has come today.
Caro informs me that this is the day that I finally become a woman (I quickly gulp 2 more martinis in sheer panic).
Becoming a woman, it seems, involves donating a paycheque to a little boutique called MAC cosmetics. I brace myself before we walk in.
I am a blank canvas. The only things I've ever been able to master (well, more like muster) is mascara and lipgloss. The rest of my face is virgin territory (oh stop your snickering, I can refer to myself as a virgin with any spontaneous combustion...I'm pretty sure).
I let Caro and the girl at the store (whom I will call Miss MAC because if she wore a nametag, my heart palpitations were too severe to notice it) work their magic. I merely sat there in the unforgiving lighting, shedding tears for each and every pore, and looked up when they told me to, puckered when I must, and tried not to look completely flummoxed when they showed me the results in the Little Hand Mirror of Death.
The crash course in girliciousness was a bit overwhelming, and I neglected to take notes. I retained, however, that only morons think that one eye shadow is sufficient. Your eyelid, apparently, is a tiny palette on which you are to shove as many colours (complementary ones, whatever the fuck that means) as possible and then blend them like mad (and using 78 different brushes) until you either look sexy or you poke an eye out. The first one they both agreed on was called Naked Lunch.
"You must have Naked Lunch; everyone has Naked Lunch" they told me, and I grinned like the idiot that I am, because I do not have Naked Lunch, unless you count the book, of which I do have a copy, or the clothes-less midday meal which I may have partaken in a time or two. But Naked Lunch is just what goes on underneath the colour you actually intend to use. Naked Lunch is just a base coat which requires a primer underneath it and lots of accent colours on top. It's exhausting, and since I would never devote that much attention to a wall, what hope in hell does my face have?
Mascara comes after the colour and I finally felt confident enough to proclaim that "I had mascara under control."
"Then why aren't you wearing any?" Miss MAC asked.
"Um. I am" I said, because I was. Or I thought I was.
"Clear?" she asked, unable or unwilling to hide her disgust.
"No" I admitted, blowing her mind.
The thing about mascara is this: it's glop that short-lashed ladies use to make their lashes appear longer, and fuller. As Miss MAC pointed out, my lashes are stupid-long, but this does not get me off the hook. Even when you already naturally have what mascara hopes to achieve, you must always strive to be longer and thicker (whoa does that sound dirty) and thus the vicious cycle never ends. So Miss MAC is laying a few coats on me and Caro is exclaiming over her interesting barrel-roll method (which I, being the girl who obviously needs the tutorial, could not see because my eyes were closed because SOMEONE WAS POKING AT THEM WITH A WAND COVERED IN GOOP).
So yes. Eventually I had a small mountain of magic pots containing things like concealers and powders and shadows and blushes and lions and tigers and bears, oh my! And Caro stands beside me at the cash whispering "You know you're about to spend a small fortune, right?" and it's fine because I'm getting my girl on, but still, you'd think a fortune would require a bag bigger than a Nutrigrain bar, right?
Anyhow, when we finally exited I must have been looking pretty punch-drunk, because Caro used our escalator time to quickly go over the steps, and their proper order. She even showed me which finger to use (there's a right finger? there's a wrong finger?) in order to be kindest to the skin underneath my eyes.
Oh holy lord, all these years I've been scrubbing and poking at that skin just as whole-heartedly as all the rest and it has taken me all these years to learn that I have been committing the ugliest of all womanly sins.
At home, later that night, getting ready to go out and do some damage, I line up all my purchases and go a little weak in the knees. I can stand in front of a near-stranger of the opposite sex in nothing but knee-high white leather motorcycle boots and not miss a beat, but put me in front of a vanity mirror and suddenly my palms could water the community garden.
But you know what? I think I did okay. I patted gently and used feathery strokes and even remembered the little wrist tap that gives you beauty instead of bozo. But then, I've always looked in the mirror without fearing that my face may cause violent traffic accidents so maybe I'm not the greatest judge. Maybe I need Paula Abdul to sit in my bathroom and break it to me gently. The real proof is in the pudding, and lacking pudding, a club full of cute boys will do nicely. Right?
Not so much. It turns out, boys aren't really checking out my eye makeup. They are, however, responding to SOMETHING, and I've made my peace with that, with some extra Naked Lunch winks for good measure.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
I never saw a vagina do THAT before!
As some of you may have noticed, I was expecting a sweet little package to arrive today. But since it came via birth canal and not Canada Post, it was actually early....or should I say she was early!
Yes, it was a baby we were expecting, just not mine, although I don't think I could have been any more nervous or excited had she been growing in my belly these past nine months.
When Katie first told me she was pregnant, I was shocked. Katie is single, and plans on staying that way. She had sex with a guy in her office (they are "just friends") exactly once, but as they tell you in health class, that's all it takes.
She told the father but he's not "into that" right now, which is fine by her. However, this meant that the position of father was open and to my astonishment, she had already cast me in the role.
Fast-forward three months and I'm listening to the rapid heart beat of a tiny human being while holding Katie's sweaty hand. I have spent months rubbing balm on her stretch marks, washing her hair, making 18 loaves worth of peanut butter sandwiches, but it wasn't until a couple of weeks ago when I was happily grooming her twat that I realized our friendship had entered a whole different level.
I have had 8 months to prepare for this day, and I can tell you now that I was soooo not prepared. I mean, we went to those child-birthing classes at the hospital where they teach you lamaze...and all it did was make my cheeks hurt. Not so much from the breathing, but from laughing out our blue-haired instructor who I'm pretty sure was one of those perpetual virgins who frowned on my being there but insisted on calling me the Father anyway. And we read books. Boy did we read books, and they all had phrases like "Birth is beautiful", which is not at all helpful, and painted tablets of rosy-cheeked young women lounging on their hospital beds, which turned out to be so far from truth I could just barf in outrage. Luckily, Kim pointed us in the direction of perhaps the one book we hadn't read. Just yesterday morning I was reading passages to Katie aloud and she'd be all like "Ew...mucous plug" and in a matter of hours, there it was. Mucous plug.
Anyway, rewind past mucous plug.
We were lounging about on her living room floor, reading through this book when she abruptly sent me home. "I'm going to take a nap," she said "so you go home and have sex with your husband, and then meet me back here at noon."
It was a good plan, in theory. But when I got home, Jason was sitting in the car in the driveway, headlights pointed toward the road. It was Time.
He wanted to drive us to the hospital, of course, but we had planned to labour at her house for the first little while. I clipped her toenails, gave her a massage, ran her a bath which she then refused to get into, then cried about refusing it, then as soon as I'd drained it, wanted in again, so we refilled, and I washed her back.
We still got to the hospital in plenty of time, so we paced the halls of the hospital in the matching hideous pink slippers I'd bought as a joke, but she insisted on wearing. It was apparently 11 hours from arriving at the hospital to the baby's arrival, but they flew by. I have no idea where they went. I mean, there was a lot of screaming, a lot of breathing, and a lot of tears (most of them mine).
It was amazing. I remember when the nurse was first hooking her up to one of the monitoring machines, I was like "Holy crap, your belly moves with each contraction!" and Katie looked down and was like "Holy crap!" and the nurse smirked at us like we were idiots because we hadn't spent our lives witnessing births 5 days a week. I don't know if it was the same nurse I kept having a problem with, but boy did I have a problem. When the nurse caught me giving sips to Katie out of a can of vanilla cherry diet Dr. Pepper, she scowled and said "Only ice chips!" and in my infinite wisdom, I yelled "Fuck you, she's thirsty."
Around stirrup time, things got messy. They got wet, wetter than I could have imagined, and chunkier than I had anticipated (thank god I was only wearing the ugly slippers). The doctor was up to her elbows in my friend's kooch, but I doubt if Katie even noticed because she insisted on being entertained over and over with my excellent rendition of the Carlton dance which I normally never do until I've had 3 bottles of tequila, but boy did this woman know how to take advantage of giving birth. She had me wiping the sweat from under her breasts, checking periodically if she'd accidentally pooped (this was a grave concern of hers...until she completely forgot about it halfway through because she had more important things to obsess about).
Then the doctor told her it was time to push. I yelled "Already!?!?" at the very same time that Katie yelled "Finally!!". I placed her knee ever so gently up around her ear, and covered her face with kisses. I breathed, she breathed, the nurse told her to "pretend you're taking a really big dump" and Katie's private parts turned inside out. Well, maybe not literally. But they sure looked that way, and judging by the grunting, it felt that way too. It was more pink and less bloody than I'd thought. And then, there was hair. Lots and lots of hair. I could have sworn she was giving birth to Ernie. But then the hair suddenly had a face; the most angelic face I've ever seen and I was hypnotized by it. It was all pinched and smeared, but it was beautiful...and big. And that's when I remembered that this baby was being squeezed through my best friend's vagina (poor Katie, she used to think tampons were uncomfortable) and that I would have a lifetime for getting to know baby Ernie, but this moment was still about Katie.
I was holding a mirror between her legs and was rocking out to Switchfoot when the baby finally popped out - I mean, hours of work, and then baby just flung itself out with this weird plopping noise, and then there were cries in the air, and relief, and a weird smell, and a lot of sweat. Katie was lying there, exhausted, naked except for the SpongeBob socks on her feet and the newborn baby squirming on her empty tummy, and she somehow managed to look happy, just infinitely happy.
Baby weighs in at 8 pounds, 6 ounces, 19 inches, with a shock of almost-black hair and these perfect tiny finger nails that make me cry. Her name is Janie Lee, after me (Katie calls me Janie because Jason's cursive is so bad, he always spells my name Janie...actually, he spells it Fanie because he can't make a cursive J either, but Janie is a much better name, I'm sure you agree). Already Janie is the luckiest little girl alive because her Mommy cares so much for her - Katie is so enthralled she asked me to put off calling her parents so she can enjoy some more alone time.
So that's where I've left them, three floors above me as I write this shakily in the hospital cafeteria (why do hospitals always serve cream soups? does anyone eat them?). I still can't wrap my mind around what I just saw, and I'm sure I haven't described it very adequately, but for once, words just completely fail me.
Janie, you made an awesome entrance.
Yes, it was a baby we were expecting, just not mine, although I don't think I could have been any more nervous or excited had she been growing in my belly these past nine months.
When Katie first told me she was pregnant, I was shocked. Katie is single, and plans on staying that way. She had sex with a guy in her office (they are "just friends") exactly once, but as they tell you in health class, that's all it takes.
She told the father but he's not "into that" right now, which is fine by her. However, this meant that the position of father was open and to my astonishment, she had already cast me in the role.
Fast-forward three months and I'm listening to the rapid heart beat of a tiny human being while holding Katie's sweaty hand. I have spent months rubbing balm on her stretch marks, washing her hair, making 18 loaves worth of peanut butter sandwiches, but it wasn't until a couple of weeks ago when I was happily grooming her twat that I realized our friendship had entered a whole different level.
I have had 8 months to prepare for this day, and I can tell you now that I was soooo not prepared. I mean, we went to those child-birthing classes at the hospital where they teach you lamaze...and all it did was make my cheeks hurt. Not so much from the breathing, but from laughing out our blue-haired instructor who I'm pretty sure was one of those perpetual virgins who frowned on my being there but insisted on calling me the Father anyway. And we read books. Boy did we read books, and they all had phrases like "Birth is beautiful", which is not at all helpful, and painted tablets of rosy-cheeked young women lounging on their hospital beds, which turned out to be so far from truth I could just barf in outrage. Luckily, Kim pointed us in the direction of perhaps the one book we hadn't read. Just yesterday morning I was reading passages to Katie aloud and she'd be all like "Ew...mucous plug" and in a matter of hours, there it was. Mucous plug.
Anyway, rewind past mucous plug.
We were lounging about on her living room floor, reading through this book when she abruptly sent me home. "I'm going to take a nap," she said "so you go home and have sex with your husband, and then meet me back here at noon."
It was a good plan, in theory. But when I got home, Jason was sitting in the car in the driveway, headlights pointed toward the road. It was Time.
He wanted to drive us to the hospital, of course, but we had planned to labour at her house for the first little while. I clipped her toenails, gave her a massage, ran her a bath which she then refused to get into, then cried about refusing it, then as soon as I'd drained it, wanted in again, so we refilled, and I washed her back.
We still got to the hospital in plenty of time, so we paced the halls of the hospital in the matching hideous pink slippers I'd bought as a joke, but she insisted on wearing. It was apparently 11 hours from arriving at the hospital to the baby's arrival, but they flew by. I have no idea where they went. I mean, there was a lot of screaming, a lot of breathing, and a lot of tears (most of them mine).
It was amazing. I remember when the nurse was first hooking her up to one of the monitoring machines, I was like "Holy crap, your belly moves with each contraction!" and Katie looked down and was like "Holy crap!" and the nurse smirked at us like we were idiots because we hadn't spent our lives witnessing births 5 days a week. I don't know if it was the same nurse I kept having a problem with, but boy did I have a problem. When the nurse caught me giving sips to Katie out of a can of vanilla cherry diet Dr. Pepper, she scowled and said "Only ice chips!" and in my infinite wisdom, I yelled "Fuck you, she's thirsty."
Around stirrup time, things got messy. They got wet, wetter than I could have imagined, and chunkier than I had anticipated (thank god I was only wearing the ugly slippers). The doctor was up to her elbows in my friend's kooch, but I doubt if Katie even noticed because she insisted on being entertained over and over with my excellent rendition of the Carlton dance which I normally never do until I've had 3 bottles of tequila, but boy did this woman know how to take advantage of giving birth. She had me wiping the sweat from under her breasts, checking periodically if she'd accidentally pooped (this was a grave concern of hers...until she completely forgot about it halfway through because she had more important things to obsess about).
Then the doctor told her it was time to push. I yelled "Already!?!?" at the very same time that Katie yelled "Finally!!". I placed her knee ever so gently up around her ear, and covered her face with kisses. I breathed, she breathed, the nurse told her to "pretend you're taking a really big dump" and Katie's private parts turned inside out. Well, maybe not literally. But they sure looked that way, and judging by the grunting, it felt that way too. It was more pink and less bloody than I'd thought. And then, there was hair. Lots and lots of hair. I could have sworn she was giving birth to Ernie. But then the hair suddenly had a face; the most angelic face I've ever seen and I was hypnotized by it. It was all pinched and smeared, but it was beautiful...and big. And that's when I remembered that this baby was being squeezed through my best friend's vagina (poor Katie, she used to think tampons were uncomfortable) and that I would have a lifetime for getting to know baby Ernie, but this moment was still about Katie.
I was holding a mirror between her legs and was rocking out to Switchfoot when the baby finally popped out - I mean, hours of work, and then baby just flung itself out with this weird plopping noise, and then there were cries in the air, and relief, and a weird smell, and a lot of sweat. Katie was lying there, exhausted, naked except for the SpongeBob socks on her feet and the newborn baby squirming on her empty tummy, and she somehow managed to look happy, just infinitely happy.
Baby weighs in at 8 pounds, 6 ounces, 19 inches, with a shock of almost-black hair and these perfect tiny finger nails that make me cry. Her name is Janie Lee, after me (Katie calls me Janie because Jason's cursive is so bad, he always spells my name Janie...actually, he spells it Fanie because he can't make a cursive J either, but Janie is a much better name, I'm sure you agree). Already Janie is the luckiest little girl alive because her Mommy cares so much for her - Katie is so enthralled she asked me to put off calling her parents so she can enjoy some more alone time.
So that's where I've left them, three floors above me as I write this shakily in the hospital cafeteria (why do hospitals always serve cream soups? does anyone eat them?). I still can't wrap my mind around what I just saw, and I'm sure I haven't described it very adequately, but for once, words just completely fail me.
Janie, you made an awesome entrance.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
The Difference Between Men and Women
toiletries
My shaving cream comes out in a pink gel. It contains things like essential oils, vitamin E, tea tree oils, chamomile, cucumber and melon extracts, allontin, aloe vera, and eucalyptus. It costs $7 a can.
Jason's shaving cream comes out as straight shaving cream, and it contains, well, shaving cream. It costs $2 a can and appears to do the exact same thing.
Shaving cream is one of 4 necessary toiletries for a man, along with razor, toothbrush, and a bar of soap. Women can have hundreds or thousands of toiletries, and actually use them all.
Laundry
When I notice the hamper is nearing its capacity, I sort the clothes, pre-treat any stains, divide them into proper wash cycles, set the dial to the appropriate setting and temperature, stick around to throw in fabric softener during the rinse, hang up sweaters, hand wash delicates, and iron the wrinkles out of anything that needs it.
When Jason wants laundry done, he yells "Wife! I have no clean underwear!' and then magically, some appear in his drawer, clean and folded. Jason is blissfully unaware that we even have a laundry room.
Drinks
In a bar, men will order beer. They drink it straight from the bottle.
Women will order a pretty drink that comes in a tall, pretty glass rimmed in sugar. The drink will be frosty and pink, sweet to the taste but loaded with hard liquor. It will come decorated with umbrellas and orange slices and a cherry pierced by a tiny little sword. The woman will slip the cherry off its sword to eat it.
The men will pick up the discarded swords and play stupid pirate games for the rest of the night. They'll also pick at your whipped cream topping and ask for sips of yours, and though they may drink them in the privacy of their homes, no self-respecting straight man will ever order one of these:
Adam Sandler
Jason thinks "Hah, he's funny. Stop looking at me, swan."
Jamie thinks "Mmm, I want to have his babies."
Socks
Men have 2 kinds of socks: black, and white, and they seem to wear them indiscriminately. Men often do not bother to match their socks with their clothes, or even with each other. No matter how big the holes get, men will insist that they are "fine".
Women own more pairs of socks than they can ever wear. They have pink socks, knee socks, slipper socks, socks with pompoms, ankle socks, socks with clouds, socks with teddy bears, theme socks for holidays, socks for working out, socks for dressing up, socks that are cute but not warm, socks that are warm but will never be worn, striped socks, flowered socks, toe socks, novelty socks, socks with ruffles. Women have sock drawers fill with balled up or folded socks. Sock selection is an important part of every morning (unless it's sandal season).
Movie nudity
When a woman sheds her clothes in a movie, a woman watching it will roll her eyes, huff a little, and cross her arms. "No one looks like that in real life, you know" she'll say.
"Huh?" her husband will respond, "I didn't hear that, I was too busy staring at her koochie." Women think about how unnecessary it is, or how degrading it must have been, or that she can spot some cellulite on her thighs - hah! Men think about tits.
Movies only have female nudity. Richard Gere occasionally appears nude, which is why all men hate Richard Gere.
Curtains
Women spend a lot of time finding just the right 'window treatments' for their home. Things to be considered include size, colour, sheerness or opaqueness, amount of use, durability, ease of cleaning, pattern, and how well they match with surrounding paint colour and accessories. A woman knows that curtains will make or break the room.
Men have no opinion on curtains. When asked, they are unable to ascertain whether their home even has any curtains, and are baffled that anyone would care.
Garages
Women park their cars in garages, often the lawn mower as well. Women go to the garage to retrieve the car, or to dispose of garbage.
Men like to turn garages into man rooms. They hang license plates on the walls, keep a beer fridge and a small TV, and several milk crates for sitting around and scratching their balls. Men line the walls with tools they'll never use. They build one lop-sided bench and go sit on it when the wife starts talking about curtains.
My shaving cream comes out in a pink gel. It contains things like essential oils, vitamin E, tea tree oils, chamomile, cucumber and melon extracts, allontin, aloe vera, and eucalyptus. It costs $7 a can.
Jason's shaving cream comes out as straight shaving cream, and it contains, well, shaving cream. It costs $2 a can and appears to do the exact same thing.
Shaving cream is one of 4 necessary toiletries for a man, along with razor, toothbrush, and a bar of soap. Women can have hundreds or thousands of toiletries, and actually use them all.
Laundry
When I notice the hamper is nearing its capacity, I sort the clothes, pre-treat any stains, divide them into proper wash cycles, set the dial to the appropriate setting and temperature, stick around to throw in fabric softener during the rinse, hang up sweaters, hand wash delicates, and iron the wrinkles out of anything that needs it.
When Jason wants laundry done, he yells "Wife! I have no clean underwear!' and then magically, some appear in his drawer, clean and folded. Jason is blissfully unaware that we even have a laundry room.
Drinks
In a bar, men will order beer. They drink it straight from the bottle.
Women will order a pretty drink that comes in a tall, pretty glass rimmed in sugar. The drink will be frosty and pink, sweet to the taste but loaded with hard liquor. It will come decorated with umbrellas and orange slices and a cherry pierced by a tiny little sword. The woman will slip the cherry off its sword to eat it.
The men will pick up the discarded swords and play stupid pirate games for the rest of the night. They'll also pick at your whipped cream topping and ask for sips of yours, and though they may drink them in the privacy of their homes, no self-respecting straight man will ever order one of these:
Adam Sandler
Jason thinks "Hah, he's funny. Stop looking at me, swan."
Jamie thinks "Mmm, I want to have his babies."
Socks
Men have 2 kinds of socks: black, and white, and they seem to wear them indiscriminately. Men often do not bother to match their socks with their clothes, or even with each other. No matter how big the holes get, men will insist that they are "fine".
Women own more pairs of socks than they can ever wear. They have pink socks, knee socks, slipper socks, socks with pompoms, ankle socks, socks with clouds, socks with teddy bears, theme socks for holidays, socks for working out, socks for dressing up, socks that are cute but not warm, socks that are warm but will never be worn, striped socks, flowered socks, toe socks, novelty socks, socks with ruffles. Women have sock drawers fill with balled up or folded socks. Sock selection is an important part of every morning (unless it's sandal season).
Movie nudity
When a woman sheds her clothes in a movie, a woman watching it will roll her eyes, huff a little, and cross her arms. "No one looks like that in real life, you know" she'll say.
"Huh?" her husband will respond, "I didn't hear that, I was too busy staring at her koochie." Women think about how unnecessary it is, or how degrading it must have been, or that she can spot some cellulite on her thighs - hah! Men think about tits.
Movies only have female nudity. Richard Gere occasionally appears nude, which is why all men hate Richard Gere.
Curtains
Women spend a lot of time finding just the right 'window treatments' for their home. Things to be considered include size, colour, sheerness or opaqueness, amount of use, durability, ease of cleaning, pattern, and how well they match with surrounding paint colour and accessories. A woman knows that curtains will make or break the room.
Men have no opinion on curtains. When asked, they are unable to ascertain whether their home even has any curtains, and are baffled that anyone would care.
Garages
Women park their cars in garages, often the lawn mower as well. Women go to the garage to retrieve the car, or to dispose of garbage.
Men like to turn garages into man rooms. They hang license plates on the walls, keep a beer fridge and a small TV, and several milk crates for sitting around and scratching their balls. Men line the walls with tools they'll never use. They build one lop-sided bench and go sit on it when the wife starts talking about curtains.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
What I Learned From Disney
Cartoons are inherently sexist. If I was a parent, I can tell you positively that most of the Disney collection would be outlawed from my home, and the hugely successful princess line would not be fit to line the cat litter box.
"Hello, my name is Belle. I am beautiful and smart, and yet I managed to fall in love with my abusive kidnapper."
"I'm Ariel, and I learned that in order to land a man, you have to transform yourself physically and never speak up again."
This is what the next generation of women will have grown up learning. Women should lie passively until their prince charming decides to come rescue them. Inspiring, isn't it? And yet, we're lucky to have even these role models, because other than the princesses, it's hard to find a female character. Male characters vastly outnumber the females, and I'm not just talking Disney, I mean every animated film house.
Main characters of the most popular animated films:
Toy Story: Woody, Andy, Buzz Lightyear 0/3
Lion King: Simba, Pumba, Timon, Scar, Mufasa: 0/5
Monsters, Inc: Mike, Sully, Boo, Randall: 1/4
Aladdin: Aladdin, Genie, Jasmine, Jafar, Sultan: 1/5
Shrek: Shrek, Donkey, Princess Fiona, Lord Farquaad:1/4
Ice Age: Manfred, Sid, Diego: 0/3
Winnie The Pooh: Pooh, Piglet, Eeyore, Rabbit, Christopher Robin, Tiger, Gopher, Owl, Kanga, Roo: 1/10
Finding Nemo: Nemo, Dorie, Marlin: 1/3
Grand total: 5 females out of 37 characters ...and I'm not even sure if we should count Fiona or Jasmine since they're princesses!
(Aside: Is anyone else concerned that Winnie the Pooh is basically all male, except for Roo's Mom? Is this the biggest gay orgy ever, cleverly disguised? I have nothing against gay orgies, but I do wonder how exactly this forrest continues to thrive with no females.)
There are a multitude of male characters that get into all kinds of scrapes and adventures: James and the Giant Peach, Hercules, Jimmy Neutron, The Fox and The Hound, The Emperor's New Groove, Tarzan, Robin Hood, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Peter Pan, Dumbo...But females rarely get the title position, and if they do, you bet they're princesses: The Little Mermaid, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella. I want a girl who scrapes her knees and gets her fingernails dirty,who goes on adventures and takes risks. I want to see a girl who reads books and is good at science, a girl who wears shorts and rubber boots instead of dresses and glass slippers. I want to see a girl catch frogs and save the day. But all I see are girls who lie in wait, blushing and tittering.
There are 2 exceptions to the rule, that I can see: Mulan, and Pocahontas, incidentally two movies that I own and cherish. Pocahontas is the disneyfied story of a girl who embraced all people and brought peace to her troubled village through love and acceptance. Mulan is the story of a girl who replaces her ailing father in a Chinese war and ends up being the hero(ine). Finally, movies I would not be ashamed or apprehensive to show my daughters. Even without blonde hair and blue eyes, you can find love and accomplish things. Even as a poor, undereducated woman, you can win the respect of your peers with hard work and perserverance. This sounds more like the kind of thing young girls should be exposed to, and yet these are rarities.
Mulan dressed for battle:
Smart, strong, brave. But make no mistake: Disney doesn't make role models, they make money. Therefore, I shouldn't be surprise when they pimp out Mulan to make her princess-friendly. Make no mistake, these movies are still far from perfect, but I would rather see a woman who 'can paint with all the colours of the wind' than a girl who hopes that 'some day my prince will come.' Sigh.
Girls will only fancy the doll if she's in a dress. Forget the spirit of Mulan, forget who she is and what she stands for, give her heels and blush and fashion accessories, dammit! Make her pink. Girls are all about the pink.
I hang my head in shame. Mulan, I think you had it right: when I grow up, I want to be a boy.
"Hello, my name is Belle. I am beautiful and smart, and yet I managed to fall in love with my abusive kidnapper."
"I'm Ariel, and I learned that in order to land a man, you have to transform yourself physically and never speak up again."
This is what the next generation of women will have grown up learning. Women should lie passively until their prince charming decides to come rescue them. Inspiring, isn't it? And yet, we're lucky to have even these role models, because other than the princesses, it's hard to find a female character. Male characters vastly outnumber the females, and I'm not just talking Disney, I mean every animated film house.
Main characters of the most popular animated films:
Toy Story: Woody, Andy, Buzz Lightyear 0/3
Lion King: Simba, Pumba, Timon, Scar, Mufasa: 0/5
Monsters, Inc: Mike, Sully, Boo, Randall: 1/4
Aladdin: Aladdin, Genie, Jasmine, Jafar, Sultan: 1/5
Shrek: Shrek, Donkey, Princess Fiona, Lord Farquaad:1/4
Ice Age: Manfred, Sid, Diego: 0/3
Winnie The Pooh: Pooh, Piglet, Eeyore, Rabbit, Christopher Robin, Tiger, Gopher, Owl, Kanga, Roo: 1/10
Finding Nemo: Nemo, Dorie, Marlin: 1/3
Grand total: 5 females out of 37 characters ...and I'm not even sure if we should count Fiona or Jasmine since they're princesses!
(Aside: Is anyone else concerned that Winnie the Pooh is basically all male, except for Roo's Mom? Is this the biggest gay orgy ever, cleverly disguised? I have nothing against gay orgies, but I do wonder how exactly this forrest continues to thrive with no females.)
There are a multitude of male characters that get into all kinds of scrapes and adventures: James and the Giant Peach, Hercules, Jimmy Neutron, The Fox and The Hound, The Emperor's New Groove, Tarzan, Robin Hood, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Peter Pan, Dumbo...But females rarely get the title position, and if they do, you bet they're princesses: The Little Mermaid, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella. I want a girl who scrapes her knees and gets her fingernails dirty,who goes on adventures and takes risks. I want to see a girl who reads books and is good at science, a girl who wears shorts and rubber boots instead of dresses and glass slippers. I want to see a girl catch frogs and save the day. But all I see are girls who lie in wait, blushing and tittering.
There are 2 exceptions to the rule, that I can see: Mulan, and Pocahontas, incidentally two movies that I own and cherish. Pocahontas is the disneyfied story of a girl who embraced all people and brought peace to her troubled village through love and acceptance. Mulan is the story of a girl who replaces her ailing father in a Chinese war and ends up being the hero(ine). Finally, movies I would not be ashamed or apprehensive to show my daughters. Even without blonde hair and blue eyes, you can find love and accomplish things. Even as a poor, undereducated woman, you can win the respect of your peers with hard work and perserverance. This sounds more like the kind of thing young girls should be exposed to, and yet these are rarities.
Mulan dressed for battle:
Smart, strong, brave. But make no mistake: Disney doesn't make role models, they make money. Therefore, I shouldn't be surprise when they pimp out Mulan to make her princess-friendly. Make no mistake, these movies are still far from perfect, but I would rather see a woman who 'can paint with all the colours of the wind' than a girl who hopes that 'some day my prince will come.' Sigh.
Girls will only fancy the doll if she's in a dress. Forget the spirit of Mulan, forget who she is and what she stands for, give her heels and blush and fashion accessories, dammit! Make her pink. Girls are all about the pink.
I hang my head in shame. Mulan, I think you had it right: when I grow up, I want to be a boy.
Saturday, November 06, 2004
Finally, a Practical Use for Men
I know, I know, men seem like a good idea in theory, but realistically, when you have one staying in your home semi-permanently, you begin to wonder what you can really do with him. My high school biology teacher, Mrs. Love, used to say that if we would just freeze enough sperm we could do away with men altogether. And in my case, I don't even require any spermcicles (that's sperm popsicles, for you uninitiated) since I don't want children.
Most men when asked for their "use" claim it's to reach the stuff of the top shelf. However, as an intelligent, enlightened woman, I have in fact heard of a nifty little invention called The Step-Stool.
Historically men are around to be the protectors...but that begs the question: protector from what? I have to protect Jason from bees and spiders, and I'm the one who steps up in emergency situations because Jason can't stand the sight of blood.
Some women rely on their men to perform the all-important task of taping Sex and the City for them. Well, that show is actually over with now, but on the off-chance that you've found a new show to obsess over, say Desperate Housewives, for example, there's always the manual. Seriously, I tape my own shows, I can set the clock on the VCR, and when the computer goes on the blink, my random pressing of buttons fixes things about as efficiently as Jason's more rational process.
Some men think we keep them around so we always have someone to blame, but honestly, everyone knows that's what mothers are for. So then, what service are men actually providing? Well, if you have a spare minute and find yourself pondering this very question, you might want to check out this handy site where they will give your man instructions on how to hatch baby chicks in his scrotum.
Now what woman doesn't think little cheeping birdies are not sweet and adorable? And this procedure has the added bonus of rendering your man infertile, so yay! It's not like scrotums are much use to anyone anyway, so they may as well be converted to tiny little incubators. So in a small way, men can know what it feels like to have a "womb" and give birth to small...creatures.
They do offer this word of advice, however:"When the hatched chicks are living within your scrotum they may attempt to burrow upwards into your abdominal cavity. While this may be survivable it is not recommended.
So as long as you keep that in mind, things should turn out fine. And if not, then I guess it's up to men to realize that if we don't NEED them around anymore, then they should work on us WANTING them around. I know I certainly don't need a man around. I also know that I do want Jason around, but because he's my best friend and that's what a woman really needs. As long as you have something in your life to give it passion (work, friends, creativity, pets, hobby, etc), a real woman will be happy no matter what her relationship status is. Right ladies?
Most men when asked for their "use" claim it's to reach the stuff of the top shelf. However, as an intelligent, enlightened woman, I have in fact heard of a nifty little invention called The Step-Stool.
Historically men are around to be the protectors...but that begs the question: protector from what? I have to protect Jason from bees and spiders, and I'm the one who steps up in emergency situations because Jason can't stand the sight of blood.
Some women rely on their men to perform the all-important task of taping Sex and the City for them. Well, that show is actually over with now, but on the off-chance that you've found a new show to obsess over, say Desperate Housewives, for example, there's always the manual. Seriously, I tape my own shows, I can set the clock on the VCR, and when the computer goes on the blink, my random pressing of buttons fixes things about as efficiently as Jason's more rational process.
Some men think we keep them around so we always have someone to blame, but honestly, everyone knows that's what mothers are for. So then, what service are men actually providing? Well, if you have a spare minute and find yourself pondering this very question, you might want to check out this handy site where they will give your man instructions on how to hatch baby chicks in his scrotum.
Now what woman doesn't think little cheeping birdies are not sweet and adorable? And this procedure has the added bonus of rendering your man infertile, so yay! It's not like scrotums are much use to anyone anyway, so they may as well be converted to tiny little incubators. So in a small way, men can know what it feels like to have a "womb" and give birth to small...creatures.
They do offer this word of advice, however:"When the hatched chicks are living within your scrotum they may attempt to burrow upwards into your abdominal cavity. While this may be survivable it is not recommended.
So as long as you keep that in mind, things should turn out fine. And if not, then I guess it's up to men to realize that if we don't NEED them around anymore, then they should work on us WANTING them around. I know I certainly don't need a man around. I also know that I do want Jason around, but because he's my best friend and that's what a woman really needs. As long as you have something in your life to give it passion (work, friends, creativity, pets, hobby, etc), a real woman will be happy no matter what her relationship status is. Right ladies?
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Jason Has A Maiden Name: Get Over It!
When I got engaged, I never seriously considered becoming Mrs. Jason T___. That's a little too archaic for my taste, not to mention sexist. To be honest, I am shocked that any woman this day in age is still blindly doing the name change thing. It would be really easy to become a T___; in fact, it would probably save me from that blank stare that cashiers and such give me when they have to spell E____. But a name is about more than just convenience, it's your identity. I'm not that attached to the name E____ itself, but it was the name I was given at birth, and I certainly won't be trading it in just because of convention.
If I had asked Jason to simply take my last name, I know that he would have. And it's hard for a man to change his name because all of society oppresses it. On the man's side of paperwork, there is never a box for his maiden name. By definition, since Jason was never a maiden (a young, unmarried woman...although the defintion also contains connotations of "servant", "modest", "delicate" and "virginity"), he cannot have a maiden name. However, there is a very strong argument that I was not a maiden either, and I certainly detest the word. But shockingly, there is currently no alternate word for the name you held before you got married. However, I did not ask Jason to take my name. Some people argue that to be a feminist, sometimes we have to endorse ideas that are a little unfair to men to make up for all the iniquities that women have faced. Well, the fact is, I am not a feminist. I have always held myself to be a humanist: I believe that men and women should be equal in all things. So that meant that when we got married, we would either hyphenate or take a whole new name.
Early on, I lobbied for a new name, using the beginning of my last name melded with the ending of his, short and sweet. But in the end, we decided on E___-T___, in that order for aesthetic purposes. And we are really happy with this name because to me, it is the symbol of how I want our marriage to be. I was a whole person before I got married, and so was Jason. We are still 2 whole people. Traditionally, one whole person, one whole identity, is just lost (the woman, of course), and it's as if she never existed or mattered before her wedding. Lots of people still ask us about it. Some family members still criticize us about it (we expected no less). We were married in 2002, and we'd like to think that the world has made progress, but the truth is, here in North America, 90% of women still lose their last names entirely when they get married, and less than 1% of men change theirs.
Lucy Stone is a name you may or may not be familiar with. She was born in 1818 and lived under her father's rule until the day where she would be transferred to her husband's care. Her education was a non-factor to her father, so she worked as a school marm and did housework for others to earn the money to put herself through college. She graduated with honours, the first woman in Massachusetts to do so, and was asked to write a graduation speech. She refused because as a woman, she would not be allowed to read it aloud at the ceremony; a male classmate would have that honour.
Her first public speech would be on women's rights, and she continued work in the field and in abolitionism despite the fact that people would pelt her with prayer-books while she talked (one of her speeches in 1850 convinced Susan B. Anthony to join the movement). When she met her soulmate in Henry Blackwell (a man 7 years her junior!), the couple renounced marriage law and she became the first woman in the United States to keep her own name after marriage. Of this, Henry stated that he would never "degrade" his wife in that way (Henry's sister Elizabeth became the first female physician in the U.S., so he was indeed a modern man who came from a family with a new way of thinking). The house and property were owned in Lucy's name throughout the marriage, and she often refused to pay her taxes because she did not believe in taxation without representation. In 1878 women in Boston were allowed to vote on the school committee, but Lucy was prohibited from doing so unless she voted under her husband's last name.
Anyway, it's because of women like her that we can keep our own identities today. But you shouldn't keep your name in her honour, or anyone else's. You should keep your name in honour of the great person that you were for the 20 or 30 or 40 years before you got married, and for the same great person you will continue to be after it. By accepting a man's last name, you also accept his inherent right to give it to you.
I am proud to be a family of E___-T___s (and do you know, that we are the only 2 E___e-T____s in the whole entire world!), and I am also proud that after 20 years of being an E____, my mother has reclaimed her name and goes by C____ once again. Neither she nor I are pioneers, but my mother is the matriarch of a group of very strong women, and that is something very important to hold on to. She has made me into the kind of woman who continually challenges the expected male-female stereotypes (I carry my own canoe). And she, in turn, cuts down her own Christmas tree, pumps her own gas, and she has more uses for duct tape than any man I know.
p.s. I am not against women taking their husband's last name, I just think it should be a decision, requiring a thought process and some conversation. Know that there are alternatives. Don't do anything just because it's tradition.
If I had asked Jason to simply take my last name, I know that he would have. And it's hard for a man to change his name because all of society oppresses it. On the man's side of paperwork, there is never a box for his maiden name. By definition, since Jason was never a maiden (a young, unmarried woman...although the defintion also contains connotations of "servant", "modest", "delicate" and "virginity"), he cannot have a maiden name. However, there is a very strong argument that I was not a maiden either, and I certainly detest the word. But shockingly, there is currently no alternate word for the name you held before you got married. However, I did not ask Jason to take my name. Some people argue that to be a feminist, sometimes we have to endorse ideas that are a little unfair to men to make up for all the iniquities that women have faced. Well, the fact is, I am not a feminist. I have always held myself to be a humanist: I believe that men and women should be equal in all things. So that meant that when we got married, we would either hyphenate or take a whole new name.
Early on, I lobbied for a new name, using the beginning of my last name melded with the ending of his, short and sweet. But in the end, we decided on E___-T___, in that order for aesthetic purposes. And we are really happy with this name because to me, it is the symbol of how I want our marriage to be. I was a whole person before I got married, and so was Jason. We are still 2 whole people. Traditionally, one whole person, one whole identity, is just lost (the woman, of course), and it's as if she never existed or mattered before her wedding. Lots of people still ask us about it. Some family members still criticize us about it (we expected no less). We were married in 2002, and we'd like to think that the world has made progress, but the truth is, here in North America, 90% of women still lose their last names entirely when they get married, and less than 1% of men change theirs.
Lucy Stone is a name you may or may not be familiar with. She was born in 1818 and lived under her father's rule until the day where she would be transferred to her husband's care. Her education was a non-factor to her father, so she worked as a school marm and did housework for others to earn the money to put herself through college. She graduated with honours, the first woman in Massachusetts to do so, and was asked to write a graduation speech. She refused because as a woman, she would not be allowed to read it aloud at the ceremony; a male classmate would have that honour.
Her first public speech would be on women's rights, and she continued work in the field and in abolitionism despite the fact that people would pelt her with prayer-books while she talked (one of her speeches in 1850 convinced Susan B. Anthony to join the movement). When she met her soulmate in Henry Blackwell (a man 7 years her junior!), the couple renounced marriage law and she became the first woman in the United States to keep her own name after marriage. Of this, Henry stated that he would never "degrade" his wife in that way (Henry's sister Elizabeth became the first female physician in the U.S., so he was indeed a modern man who came from a family with a new way of thinking). The house and property were owned in Lucy's name throughout the marriage, and she often refused to pay her taxes because she did not believe in taxation without representation. In 1878 women in Boston were allowed to vote on the school committee, but Lucy was prohibited from doing so unless she voted under her husband's last name.
Anyway, it's because of women like her that we can keep our own identities today. But you shouldn't keep your name in her honour, or anyone else's. You should keep your name in honour of the great person that you were for the 20 or 30 or 40 years before you got married, and for the same great person you will continue to be after it. By accepting a man's last name, you also accept his inherent right to give it to you.
I am proud to be a family of E___-T___s (and do you know, that we are the only 2 E___e-T____s in the whole entire world!), and I am also proud that after 20 years of being an E____, my mother has reclaimed her name and goes by C____ once again. Neither she nor I are pioneers, but my mother is the matriarch of a group of very strong women, and that is something very important to hold on to. She has made me into the kind of woman who continually challenges the expected male-female stereotypes (I carry my own canoe). And she, in turn, cuts down her own Christmas tree, pumps her own gas, and she has more uses for duct tape than any man I know.
p.s. I am not against women taking their husband's last name, I just think it should be a decision, requiring a thought process and some conversation. Know that there are alternatives. Don't do anything just because it's tradition.
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