Hey is that a soap box?: Sugar Babies and Daddies

Are you kidding me?

 

Did any one watch Good Morning America and the sugar daddies?  I wanted to write on their board, but I had just too much to say and I get a little PG-13 when I note the difference between sex and love making.

 

First off, we women need to make a pact.  If he’s married, we’re not interested.  Women are too competitive with each other, too leery of each other, to worry about some chick is going to take our man, even if we don’t want him.  Now if my husband found a cute little thing that makes him happy.  Fine.  Give me the divorce, half your stuff, and the kids and go have a nice life.  Spend as much money on her as you want, but don’t you dare think you can get away spending the family money to buy access to some nineteen-year-old’s twin bed.

 

Second, let’s be honest, little sugar babies.  You’re whores.  You are.  If you want a guy “to take care of you” and you fuck him (yes, fuck because it ain’t love making) to thank him or because you feel obligated, then you are a prostitute.  Now don’t feel too bad.  I know lots of girls who felt obligated to fuck a guy because he bought them a nice dinner or gave them something.  Granted, I was taught just to pay for the next meal, but I can see where you might get confused.  The difference between sugar babies and the ordinary girl is the ordinary girl isn’t looking for a guy “to take care of her.”  And if this is the road you girls choose, diamonds aren’t your best friends.  They don’t resell as well as you think.  Take a cue from your foremothers; the best courtesans received property and houses deeded to them.

 

 

Third, any woman, who had a good dad, would never ever call a guy a “Daddy” or a “Sugar Daddy.”  It turns my stomach just to think of it as I remember all the times I called my Dad, Daddy before I was cool enough and old enough to shorten it.  Once my husband joked about it after I had left my job to raise Evan.  The moment the word “daddy” left his mouth, his face contorted, and he said that it was a poor joke and one never to be mentioned again.  I looked over at the baby who would one day call my husband Daddy and quickly agreed with him.

 

Fourth, you girls who fuck as a thank you, you sugar babies, you all are making the rest of us look bad.  Most of us can’t be bought, not for a lobster dinner, not for a diamond ring, not for a vacation to the Bahamas.  But this will perpetuate the myth that all a girl wants is a guy’s wallet, and really, some guys aren’t even worth that.

 

And I promise I will make sure my boys aren’t the fools, who pay for love, that they aren’t the idiots who believe they can have it both ways, that aren’t the jerks who take advantage of the situation because that’s one of the many jobs of a mom, to raise the good guys.

The Perfect Purse

I’m in search for the perfect purse.  I have come to realize that I don’t like any of the twenty-odd some purses that line the shelves of the master closet.  (Apparently the wife of the house before was a bit of a shoe horse.)  I’ll admit it.  It’s my one fashion weakness (aside from the fairy shirts, which are really a sad addiction).  I just like purses.  I know I have more than shoes, and the devastation of having one stolen or loss just cuts to the core of my being.  But this obsession is probably not what you think.  None of them are Gucci or Coach.  They’re all completely different, and I absolutely wish my photo program would talk to Vista so I could show you.

 

I think it must have started with my first purse.  My first adult purse given to me when the women of my family were desperate to teach me to embroider, but I preferred to play football with my brothers and cousins instead.  My great-aunts gave me a vintage 1940s handbag that belonged to my grandmother to keep my embroidery materials.  I fell in love with the purse that my brothers affectionately called “the bowling bag.”  Yup, it looked like a slightly smaller bowling bag with plaid material.  Without tiny little bags inside, I would loose coins, pens, lip balm deep in its bowls, just like Mary Poppins.  But it could carry everything I needed as well as the book I was reading.  My dad’s mother did everything she could to get me to part with it.  I have several purses that I have given to my mom or donated to charity.  Unfortunately I had to retire it because the wear and tear was starting to show, and I would like to keep it as an heirloom.  If only I could fix it . . . .

 

Then came the Happy Meal boxes of my senior high school year.  But as those deteriorated quite quickly, I moved on to a Little Twins tin box, which was big enough for my wallet (also Little Twin Stars), pens, and some lip palm.  Of course I upgraded to the larger tin as well as bought a tiny pink vinyl bag just in case.  Then came the plastic Little Twins box.  Seeing a theme?  Yes, by this time I was in college, and everyone knew me by my boxes.

 

To top of my purses/boxes, my favorite was a metal Jaws lunch box.  I love it.  If I didn’t need both hands free, I still would be carrying it around.  This was yet another trade mark fashion trend by me, and again, every one knew it was my Jaws lunch box.  My husband loves it, and it was my purse off and on until I had Evan; hence, the need for both hands.

 

In between the boxes were cute little purses.  I have a little girls purse that is hologram, costing me $2.50 at Big Lots.  I used it on one of the first time I met my husband’s circle of friends, and he was completely intrigued by the purse.  Once he knew the price, he was blown away because he had bought his last girlfriend a $250 purse.  I have an M&M shaped purse that I got at M&M World, and a small little plastic bucket I used for some beach-themed outfits.  My most respectable purse is a cute black one that my brother bought me for Christmas one year, and I use it strictly for adult functions.

 

I have three purses shaped like Chinese take-out boxes.  One is a cheap one covered by read embroidered material.  I have a black one with embroidered butterflies and a silver handle.  But my favorite take-out box is vinyl and painted to look like an actual take-out box. 

 

Four of my purses are smallish and have tons of pockets.  One is my denim “ultra-organized” purse, used in my most stressful times because it has a place for EVERYTHING and I know I won’t loose anything important in it.  I recently acquired another purse like that only without so many pockets and made with a Hawaiian print.  The one I use the most lately is green with a few little pockets that are perfect for pacifiers, but I’m getting tired of it.  The last one is of a sea cartoon print that was on sale at Wal-Mart.  It’s fun, but it just doesn’t have as many pockets as I would like it to have.

 

To complete the collection are several miscellaneous purse.  Two are big without packets but are in outrageous patterns and wooden handles, and they were both purchased by my husband hoping for forgiveness (oh, and don’t worry, he also bought jewelry.).  Of course I have a couple of small make-up boxes, one has sparkly stars.  My mom, after finally resigning to the fact that this is her daughter’s fashion taste and that it irks her mother-in-law, bought me a Care Bear round metal tin for my last birthday.  It is so adorable, but I haven’t found an occasion to use it.  Then there are two metal lunch pails.  One has bright pink flowers painted all over it.  The other is from Costco when they were selling the s’more kit.  It has marshmallow people bar-b-quing and eating s’mores, which seems to me to have cannibal implications.

 

So now I’m looking for a small to medium bag with lots of pockets and unique patterns.  Something that can take the wear and tear of a mom on the go and two little kids.  Not too large because I would just put junk in it, and if I wanted to schlep around junk, I would carry the diaper bag, which remains in the car unless we’re going to be too far away from it.  With large handle, it has to be something I could throw over my arm to have my hands free, but nothing that looks like my mom’s (shudder).  I wonder if those little back packs are back in style . . . .

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Flanagan vs working moms and housewives

The problem with Caitlin Flanagan’s The Hell with All That: Loving and Loathing your Inner Housewife is Flanagan demonizes both working and stay-at-home mothers.  She wants to be considered fulfilled and important by being a working mother, but she also wants to create a home atmosphere where she stays to cook dinners and be there for her family.  There’s nothing wrong with wanting to have it all.  The problem lies that she holds working mothers in contempt because they miss that close bond with their children and believes stay-at-home moms are selfishly demanding me-time from their families, not caring to do the housework or even the mother work.  She believes in a simpler time when housewives were competent, content women who knew how to make a house a home.  This time never existed.

 

Her first look at the culture of marriage is through the bridal magazines, and she sees a world of inflated dreams crushing the very union of marriage.  She’s right.  But she tends to blame feminism for killing the wedding ceremony, leaving the American culture without any understanding of what the ceremony actually means.  Feminism did not kill weddings.  Materialism did.  Watch just one episode of Bridezilla, and you’ll understand that there is something very wrong with the institute of marriage.  Flip through a bridal magazine, and it will whisper of elegant dresses, extravagant dishes, and exotic locals.  The wedding industry cajoles, seduces, pushes weddings to be ever bigger because that is their business, to make weddings a significant occasion with a very significant price tag.  It is the savvy marketing that appeals to the very selfish, self-centered, greedy part of our society.  It is the dream that every girl is a princess, and every bride should have her dream.  Flanagan is right is laughable to see these women walk down the aisle in white dresses, forgetting that this is to symbolize virginity, but Flanagan forgets the white wedding dress only came to popularity with Queen Victoria’s wedding, when before any beautiful dress would do.  We are losing our bridal rituals, but we aren’t losing it to feminism.

 

While I have already discussed Flanagan’s views on the sexless marriage, I will just touch on them briefly.  Flanagan believes women are refusing sex in a passive aggressive way because they are doing all the work.  Because it’s the women’s fault for doing all the work, it is her problem to fix and mend.  I don’t agree at all. I think it’s a two person problem; therefore, it should be fixed by two people.  Another problem with this chapter is her first mention that if men started doing the housework like we women would like (cleaning up the crumbs after the dishes, putting notes in with the kid’s lunches, ironing curtains), men would be demasculinized in our eyes.  Ha.  I know plenty of men that help out with the housework, and they are still very much men.  I would almost bet they are getting more sex than the men I know who don’t help around the house.  Not only can we not keep our men satisfies, we apparently can’t keep a clean, orderly house either.

 

While Flanagan assumed stay-at-home moms could satisfy their men more than working mothers, she believes both women fail miserably when it comes to making a house a home.  Working mothers just pass on these chores to cleaning women, and so does the average stay-at-home mom.  Well, that was news to me.  I can’t even think of another stay-at-home mom that hired a cleaning person (well, except me, for three months after Evan’s birth at the insistence of my husband and his administrative assistant.  I fired her as soon as I could figure out how to run the household with a baby).  It is here that I realized the Flanagan is not an average stay-at-home mom, but that she had the means to do more and that she didn’t actually understand the plight of ordinary women.  According the Flanagan, stay-at-home moms go to the movies, the spa, to book clubs, leaving the house work to others, not even knowing the price of milk.  I am certain that most women, especially those who stay at home, do their own house cleaning, do the shopping with a budget, mend shirts, and all the other day to day things that Flanagan loves but never does.  She doesn’t understand the tedium of housework because she never did it.  She NEVER did it.  At this point, Flanagan should be fired as a sage for housewives.

 

Then Flanagan moves on to discussing child rearing.  After a chapter discussing the use of nannies in Victorian England, she then has a chapter about her nanny hired to take care of her sons because all the other stay-at-home moms have one.  Really?  Another interesting fact.  From the look of the blogs out there, most of us can’t find a decent sitter for a measly night out with or without a husband much less another set of hands to take care of the children five days a week.  In this chapter she talks about how inadequate she feels with her babies, and thank god her nanny is so good.  The rest of us mothers out there have felt our moments of inadequacy deep to the soul, and we dealt with it and moved on.  We were the ones that took care of the sick child, changing the sheets, bathing the child, calming the child, not someone else.  Flanagan also mentions how she wanted someone in the house to make it loving and warm, like her mother used to do.  That’s your job now, Mrs. Housewife.  We all miss our mothers taking care of us.  We make the bed so that we can return to it feeling warm and clean.  We cook cookies to eat the dough and have the smell run through the house because it reminds us of home.  Flanagan does not understand the desperate act of mothering. 

 

 

Flanagan is looking for a reason why she feels incompetent.  She finds it in the fact the feminism robbed women of home ec and the knowledge that we would be homemakers, important and loved.  She sees that mothers run after their children, taking them to every activity that can be crammed into their children’s lives, paying homage to the domestic goddess of Martha Stewart, and becoming addicted to organizing and decluttering.  Again I see these as symptoms of materialism and advertising.  Nothing can sell a parent better than the threat that their children may not be using their full potential; hence why many kids have several activities on their plate.  But this has been happening for some time.  My brothers and I were in scouts, volleyball, basketball, softball or baseball, swimming lessons.  If we could have afforded it we would have had music lessons.  My father and his siblings all took various music lessons and did various sports.  The fact that Americans have raised this to a new level of fanaticism is just yet another marketing scheme, trying to take money from parents who are trying to make prodigies or at least make them well-rounded enough to get into a good college.  As long as these activities are done to moderation, then why not schlep a kid around because we are yearning for a better life for that child. 

 

As for Martha Stewart and organization, I feel that Flanagan is right to believe this is a call for a simpler time.  Martha Stewart shows off peace and beauty as unattainable as that is in a house full of kids.  We yearn for a more organized home that runs efficiently leaving us time to redecorate, bake, or just plain relax.  It just makes sense that a busy mother would want this.  But I doubt that every household in those bygone days looked like the Cleaver’s or the Nelson’s.  Kids back then were much like kids today, tornadoes.  I think we set the bar too high to expect a perfectly manicured house while raising sweet, smart, clean kids.  Even my grandma didn’t believe in keeping an immaculate house unless company demands it.  Really Flanagan is living in a different world than what the rest of us live in, one with hired help.

 

The vary essence of this book is Caitlin Flanagan not realizing that housewives back then felt the same way as stay-at-home mothers today.  She even quotes Erma Bombeck as saying she went to see Betty Friedan just to get out of the day’s house work, but Flanagan fails to realize what Bombeck said.  To get out of the house work.  In Flanagan’s mind those fifties and sixties were a time where women were competent and confident in their roles of housewife, not minding the tediousness of the chores that had to be done and redone every day.  Flanagan is looking to understand why she isn’t like that, and because she lost her mother before her boys were older than five, Flanagan never had the same talks that I had with my mom, where my mom admits to being just as confused and anxious as I am.  Flanagan wants to be like her mom but fails because she doesn’t understand her “inner housewife.”  Maybe she doesn’t understand it because she’s never done it.  She instead vilifies all women in what they are trying to do, encouraging them to give up on their dreams of having it all and sending their children to private universities.  I guess Susan Jane Gilman is right.  We’re all the fashion police.

 

Hate Speech

Just a thought before I relieve Sean of crib duty, I was looking at the fastest rising blogs on WordPress, trying to figure out what makes them so popular.  Good writing?  Knowing people?  Better tags?  What?  And I came across “American Women Suck,” the third fastest rising blog.  I prefer that you don’t seek this guy out because he just wants attention, which he’s getting.  He’s whole blog was hate speech toward women.  Just nasty, cruel pictures and writing, making women look just like monsters.  Nothing made sense, pulling statistics and facts out of his ass.  And on one hand it’s really sad because obviously this guy has been hurt many times by “women.” (I have quotation marks because I know guys who swear they lost a job to a woman but have no proof.)  I mean this guy must have had a horrible mother and a horrible wife, but get over it and realize most women aren’t like that.  On the other hand, it really pisses me off that people have a place to spew their hatred.  What if my kid came across that?  Why would anyone want to read that garbage?  I really think that WordPress should make hate speech blogs private.  What a jerk.

Men’s chores: A Conversation

I bet you think it will be between my husband and I, and you would be wrong.  During my daily conversation with my mom, I mentioned how I asked my husband to fill up my SUV that he was borrowing.  Amazingly enough he didn’t forget, and I was very glad.  (Which in a way is kind of pathetic that I get excited that my husband does something I asked)  Any ways, the conversation:

Me: . . . So he actually filled the tank.

Mom: You know, Pauline’s (a friend of my mom’s) husband always fills up her tank. 

Me: I know, Mom.  (Can we feel a lecture coming on?)

Mom: And your dad fills up the Mustang about 95% of the time.

(And here I thought he did that just to get away and be on his own for a little bit.  My dad’s a lone wolf.)

Me: I know, Mom.  It’s just I feel that who ever is driving the car, when it hits an eighth of a tank, can go fill it up or at least replace the gas they use.  My problem is he has left the car on empty when I’ve had the kids.  So it’s nice that he filled up the tank.

Mom: Well, we just think it’s a husband’s chore.  (silence)  What are you thinking?  (Is it that obvious?)

Me: I was thinking that you raised me to believe that there were no men’s chores or women’s chores.  They were just chores that needed to be done.  If the dishes needed to be done, then someone would do it.  If the garbage needs to be taken out, someone will have to do it.  You taught me to do “guy” chores.

Mom: (pause) I was a good mother, wasn’t I?

Me: Yes.

Laundry day

What an awesome title right? 

So laundry is the complete divide that separates the genders in my household.  Laundry day is fraught with political and sexual tension, and none of it is the good kind, as I try not to smother any one with a pillow.  (anyone = husband)  As I live in Southern California, I have to divide my laundry up to do at night so that I don’t send my electric bill sky rocketing and spend a small nation’s budget.  Friday night is the grownup laundry night.  And the same argument that has been going on for years will pick up again.  At least, we’re getting better at making fun of each other.

It started when I moved in with my husband.  (Bad Catholic, shacking up before marriage.  Engagements can fail!)  I had noticed that he only did laundry when he HAD no more clothes, and since his best girl friend owed him a large favor, she had been doing his laundry for a year.  That deal had expired a month or so before I moved in.  Before that, it turns out, his ex-girlfriend was doing his laundry.  Honestly?  (Note: I can’t complain of the sexism because in college I convinced guys to iron for me because I didn’t know how.)  It turns out my husband HATES doing laundry.  I can understand that.  I loath cleaning the floor.  But because we chose to be adults, we have to suck it up.

After a week or so of living with piles of clothes everywhere, everywhere, I said enough.  Which lead us into a huge fight, he then left in an angry huff.  Awesome.  So I was pissed, but I wasn’t going to live like this.  I piled all his clothes which turned into a small hill about five feet tall.  And I did his laundry.  I was oh-so careful.  I actually read the labels.  I used cold, hot, warm.  I separated into actual piles.  Due to my then-single husband asking a friend who was a stay-at-home mom, my husband did own a top of the line washing machine and dryer.  (Note: If by some horrible, twisted chance my marriage does fail, I plan to take them with me and the testicle I won from my husband in a bet.)  It took me three days to do it all and a  crazy high dry cleaning bill.  The last night as I gently folded the gentle cycle load, my husband came by and looked at the shirt I was folding, then preceded to lose his mind.  Apparently it was a hundred dollar shirt that he preferred to by dry cleaned, not washed, even though the tag said gentle wash.  I was still in shock that some one would spend a hundred bucks on a shirt.  I was just out of college where I was poor and starving and had 20 bucks to spend a week after bills and such.  After our tempers cooled, I labeled each of the three laundry hampers (yes, he actually owned three laundry hampers), laundry, dry-cleaning, and gentle.  I made up the new rule whatever is in those baskets will be treated as such and it won’t be my fault.  Yep, we have laundry rules as well as penis rules.

That was the first rule I installed in the household.  The next rules surprisingly were also about laundry.  It seems that my husband was led to believe that laundry included picking up all the dirty clothes, wash them, dry them, fold them, and put them away.  In his understanding of laundry, these tasks are ALL done by the person who does the laundry, the wife.  And that was the beginning of the trouble because I was raised by feminists.  (My dad actually does the laundry . . . and the dishes . . . and the ironing.)  OK, I get that I can do the washing, drying, and folding.  Oh, and in the beginning, I did laundry; while, he did the floors.  (That deal is looong gone now.)  But I am not his servant to pick up after him and put away things after him.  Still do this day we don’t see eye to eye on this.

So laundry rules as follows:

  1. If it isn’t in the hamper, it’s not getting washed.
  2. It is the owner’s responsibility to put the clothing in the right hamper.
  3. It is the owner’s responsibility to put the folded clothes away.
  4. The husband takes in the dry cleaning because he doesn’t have two toddlers to help across the street and out of danger as he carries a hamper of dry cleaning to the dry cleaners.

Things did become complicated when Evan was born.  Before he was born, I could go on strike.  So you had your buddies over for poker and didn’t clean up before or after, fine, the beer bottles will stay there.  Oh, you want to invite your best friend and his family over for dinner but the house is a mess.  Guess, we’ll clean together.  What?  You don’t have any clean underwear left?  I guess you could always pick a dirty pair of the floor, but forget about any bedroom play tonight.  Thst’s just gross.

Then Evan was born, and we couldn’t live in squalor.  Besides it turned out I liked living in a clean house, and that I enjoyed organized mess where I knew what paper was where in a stack.  So after a month or so picking up after my husband, I was ready to kill him (and let’s not forget I was the only one getting up with the baby).  So I bought a plastic basket, put his name in large letters on it, and left it on the hearth.  When I find something of his in the common areas, I throw it into his basket.  If the basket gets overflowing by two feet and we have company, I dump it on his side of the bed.  I just ignore the bedroom, making sure I have a clear path to the bathroom and a clean space for the boys to play as I get ready for the day.

So tonight I’ll do laundry.  As I try not to be a complete bitch, I’ll warn my husband and gather the clothes next to the laundry hamper, believing he just might have thrown them and missed.  Meanwhile, I plan on teaching Evan how to put his clothes and toys away.  Damn if I’ll let this habit be multi-generational.

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