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 Tornado E.  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.

Hate Speech

Just a thought before I relieve Tornado S 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.

Raising Boys

Since I have two boys, I really can’t compare them to girls.  But I have a heard time believing a little girl would try to get you to sniff her butt.  Again, maybe they do, and I just don’t know because right now I am raising boys.  Yet they seem to be just a little different.  I’m not talking about high energy levels or potty humor because I’ve seen hyperactive girls and I watched kindergarten girls laugh at fart jokes.  But there is something so manly as trying to force a burp or a fart.

Evan has been trying to force himself to burp for months.  Months.  If you have read the other posts, you know he can’t quite get it.  He just does a pretend burp, and in case I missed the “burp,” he proudly exclaims that he just burped.  Growing up with brothers, boy cousins, and all their boy friends, I have learned that it is a proud achievement to burp your name, vowels, or ultimately the alphabet.  While I am sure my husband enjoys these boyish antics, I have never caught him teaching or complementing Evan on his fine burping skills.  Leaving me to believe, that this must be a natural trait, like running, jumping, or gossiping.  I only wonder what evolutionary value force burping has other than crude entertainment.  Not one to force a change on nature if it is harmless, I just make Evan excuse himself after every burp, hoping secretly it becomes too tedious to do both and give up his pretend burping.  Like I have a chance.

A couple of weeks ago, Evan put his hand down his underwear to scratch his butt.  For some reason, he sniffed his finger.  A discovery!  “Mommy, do you want to smell my finger?”  Are you kidding?  No.  But somehow my face betrayed the horror I felt as I calmly said “No, we don’t smell other people’s fingers” because he became insistent.  Great.  The other day he was naked and climbed up my back, trying to put his butt in my face, saying “smell it, Mommy, smell it.”  What?  I remember my brothers trying to fart on each other’s heads or just to clear a room.  When did my cute, sweet son become a little ape like his uncles?  Again I wish I could point my finger at my husband, after all he too is a boy, but I know he hasn’t played any boyish antics like this.  Wait, let me check.  Just like I thought a no with a weird look of “why would I teach him that?”  It was worth a shot to find out where this behavior came from. (Not my brothers either because this behavior would have occurred right after our family visit, not weeks afterwards.)

The only thing I can blame my husband for is Evan’s colorful language.  Evan has learned the word “scumbag.”  Watch last weeks Sand Diego/Denver game, and you would know how Evan picked up the language.  (Stupid football.)  At least Evan was napping through most of the colorful language.  While my husband chuckled, thinking it could be worse, I pointed out that Evan WILL use it in public and I hope my husband is around when people give us looks.  I curbed my language, and I need my husband to curb hi or he’ll have to watch the game at a bar.  (I know what a horrible punishment.  Watching a football game while drinking a beer surrounded by other football fans.)  I’m not raising a little hoodlum.

So somehow I got stuck raising boys, which should have been a foregone conclusion because of the all the boys in the families.  Now I have to pray that one day they will grow up to be civilized.  I know this is just the tip of the iceberg; we have elementary and high school yet to got.  It’s going to be a whole lot worse before it gets better.  I just am shocked how certain behaviors are innate.  God help me.

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.

Feminism and Motherhood

“Don’t call yourself a feminist.  I hate feminists,” said my college friend with disgusted horror.  A boy at the table said, “Yeah, call yourself an equalist, someone who stands for the rights of everyone.”  I was confused; did I not work my ass off for four years get scholarships and an entrance into an university?  And I find people like this here?  I looked over at my best friend, who shrugged and started bobbing his head to music only he could hear.  By the rhythm, I guessed it was Spice Girls and realized he was not going to come to my aid, not because he agreed with the other two people at the table but because he didn’t want to waste his time on petty arguments when he could think of something happy.  (Please don’t confuse this with stupidity.  My friend is wickedly smart, an environmental scientist, who could solve math equations that took three pages to solve.  He just finds political talk boring, except with me.)

I sigh and turn to the boy.  “You don’t believe in equal rights, so don’t get cocky.  You don’t believe in gay marriage or any gay rights because they’re ‘special rights’ (Yes I did use my fingers for the quotes).  You’re homophobic and suppressing issues.  We all know it.”  With that said, I turned to my girl friend.  “I guess you’re right, feminists are pretty scary.  They’re women who think for themselves.  But isn’t it nice to go to college and have a career?  Isn’t great that we can have our own bank accounts and houses?  Gee, it’s swell that our husbands don’t have the right to beat us?  And I love wearing shorts and jeans, don’t you?  (yes, she was wearing jeans.)   So you might not like feminists for some crazy belief that they hate men or are dikes, but without them, we would not be here.  I gotta get to class.” 

I was reminded of this conversation as I read some blogs were women wrote that they didn’t consider themselves feminists but Sarah Palin motivates them.  Well, I’m glad they found some woman to motivate them.  Lucky for them, none of the liberals are going to be pissed off that Palin is a working mom, or that she had a child so late in life or that her teenage daughter is wrong to be pregnant and even keep the kid, or that Palin is a faminatzi.  Because that’s feminists have fought for those choices.  They keep fighting for choices for both men and women.  And also lucky for the newly realizing conservative feminists, no one is going to call them men-haters because they like a female politician.

But back to motherhood.  My mom was a feminist and her mom and her mom.  Actually, there hasn’t been a weak-willed woman in my mom’s side in living memory.  And my dad, well, he did marry my mom, but he was a feminist too.  And the stories I hear of my great-grandma, well, she was steal and silk.  My mom made sure us kids understood the value of choice and that we couldn’t judge anyone.  It wasn’t our job.  She raised us to love justice, hate injustice.  She was like every other mom out there, wanting her kids to be better than she and her husband.

As for me, I’m a mom of two boys (so far).  I, who taught her favorite babysitting charge that boys were bad.  I, who wouldn’t date in high school because “boys are like apes.”  I who claimed the only uses for a guy were killing spiders and sex.  What do I teach my boys of feminism?  Well, first I’ve got to stop making all those jokes about men.  But I grew up with brothers, so I know their inner workings.  Second, I have to show them what is expected of them as men.

I have to show them that it’s ok for guys to do work in the kitchen and go to dance class.  I have to show them that you can watch football and take care of children.  I have to show them that we respect people’s feelings and opinions.  I have to show them that it’s ok to cry, it’s ok to be strong. it’s ok to kick someone’s ass who’s being an asshole (when the need arises).  I have to be a strong woman, illustrating that women can fix a sink and dinner, wear make-up, or choose not to shave her legs.  I have to teach them to include everyone and not to make fun of someone who is different, whether she’s a girl or he’s a different religion.  I have to teach them that relationships are important and your partner’s feelings are just as important as theirs.  And finally, I plan to scare them with the thought of teenage marriage if they get a girl knocked up and she decided to keep the baby.  I have to teach them there is nothing they can’t do.  Every night I pray that they will be smart, strong, sweet, and the good guys.

I stay-at-home with them, and that is my choice.  One day I’ll probably go back to work, which most stay-at-home moms have to work at some point or another.  That will be my choice too.  That’s what feminism is really about: choice.  It’s working so everyone has a choice in their own lives, just like democracy. 

In the end, we’re all trying to make sure that our kids are better than we are.  My boys have dozens of various balls and a kitchen.  They have arrows and swords and baby dolls and stuff animals.  They play with my make-up brushes and my purses.  They were their father’s shoes and hats.  Granted Evan will climb into any heels he finds laying around.  They play with fairies, King Fu Panda, and cars.  We read them books about girls and boys.  So I think they’ll be pretty well rounded.  But if they think they’ll become sexist pigs, they learn they’re never too old for their mother to discipline them.

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.