When Yoga Pants Are Just Mass Hysteria For Your Ass

When Yoga Pants Are Just Mass Hysteria For Your Ass

Recently my daughter received a gift from a very generous relative. Before I go on, let me clarify that this gift was from what we will call the “Citrus Fruit Store” of yoga gear, because I don’t feel like getting sued for disparaging a beloved brand name. The sizing was wrong, so we took it into the well appointed store for an exchange. Never having set foot in one of these havens for the gullible and wealthy, I was curious. My first impression, and to my surprise, was the fact that you could actually smell privilege and smugness even in the guise of exercise clothing. Huh. I was immediately greeted by a bored looking fat dude who was wearing an on-brand hoody – with the hood up. Literally. He was too cool for his stretchy pants, so as I moved past him toward the cashier, I kept my gaze up so as not to accidentally clap eyes on his Citrus Fruit man pants. Dudes should not wear this brand, not skinny dudes, fat dudes, yoga dudes, none of them. No junk should be forced into that trunk. I explained to the equally bored cashier that I wanted to make an exchange. All was good, but no cash refunds. So my daughter happily took some items into the change room, because at 15 having your first pair of “whatever your Mom would never buy you” brand yoga pants is exciting. I wandered around to see what might be on sale. Nothing. Literally, not one red tag in the place. I looked deeper into the racks for anything I might remotely consider spending a car payment on. Still nothing. Then I started really looking at the price tags, and after a few racks, I noticed that my mouth needed closing before my daughter came out and saw me cheaping out in the worst way. I was horrified to the point of making a scene…. but kept it in my head. My beautiful daughter came bouncing out of the change room with her exchange item on, a pair of yoga pants with that famous big dollar logo on her backside. She chirped, “look at all the pockets!” Then seeing the expression on my face when she said these pants would come pretty close to the exchange we had on credit, she dialed her joy down a little. Like the fact that we wouldn’t have to add to the tally would somehow make spending $120 on some shitty spandex more palatable. Noticing that this tactic held no water with me, and I was still going to be grumpy about it, she reminded me that it wasn’t even my money, it was a gift...
Thanksgiving Weekend – My Guilty Pleasure

Thanksgiving Weekend – My Guilty Pleasure

No, it’s not because it happens to be the “all pleather weekend” in our bedroom… I appreciate  Thanksgiving weekend for a whole other reason. Don’t hate me for this, okay? I love it because I don’t do ANYTHING. Seriously… we have no relatives where we live. So that sad and onerous “who is cooking the bird this year?” conversation NEVER happens at our house. If it did, the answer would be “not me.” As I sit and swish wine around in my glass, I listen to my friends losing their shit over family-pressured weekend arrangements. To explain how this goes down, here is a comparative schedule of a typical thanksgiving long weekend: Thursday: My friends are menu planning and running to get groceries between soccer and dance. I watch Grey’s Anatomy. Friday: My friends are cleaning their homes or packing the kids for the road trip to the Mother-in-Law’s (who is anxiously waiting for them to arrive so she can disapprove of something). My phone will ring a number of times that evening and I will listen to the girls complain about flopped pies or husbands who can’t match two socks in to their overnight bag. As for me, I check the larder and bar shelf to make sure we won’t run out of essentials (i.e. chips and wine). Saturday: By this time, friends who are expected to have the whole family over are now hitting critical overload. The phone is ringing at my house. I don’t  mind chatting, since I am having a  leisurely breakfast in my dirty kitchen, and all I have to accomplish is downloading the movie choices for the weekend. Sunday: My phone is silent, but I know what my friends are doing. The ones out of town visiting are just about done trying to keep the kids quiet at some Aunt’s house while thinking of ways to kill me. The cooking friends, up since five, are up to their elbows in turkey ass. They too are thinking of ways to kill me with the silverware as they polish it. My Sunday feels like a Saturday because I don’t have to go to work on Monday. Ahhh. Stretch, yawn, turnover, repeat . . . Bonus: this night we feed the kids pizza and go see a movie. My friends, on the other hand, are drunk, sweaty, have not enjoyed their meals, and are counting the hours until it is over. Monday: The travelling families begin to make their way home. Their rides are quiet, because . . . well, this: “You just couldn’t keep your mouth shut, did you have to goad uncle Joe, you knew he was already drunk, God I don’t know why we do this every...
If You Are a Mom, You Should Vote

If You Are a Mom, You Should Vote

Listen up all of you who are the owners of uteruses (even if you haven’t used yours), we have a job to do that goes well beyond diapers and helping our kids with homework. We need to use our Mom voices (you know the one, where you address your child with their full name) and make them heard by the politicians. This post is for Moms in America, and really everywhere, and the message is simple. “Vote: because you can!” In particular, women’s issues in any elections are important and we all need to know what they are. For instance: Which candidate will ensure your girl child has the same rights as your boy? If they think women should be barefoot and pregnant and don’t belong in University or the workplace, write a big “L” on their forehead and move on. Which elected person will steer the bus and keep it moving forward, and who will crash it into a fuel tanker and burn it all to the ground? I think we all know women are better drivers, so think about that. Who will take away rights and freedoms of vulnerable women, or limit their ability to make decisions about their own bodies? If you don’t know which candidates stand where on these issues, don’t ask your pastor or your local white dude who runs the business association, they have agendas. Do the research yourself. Who will pander to the extremists and get mowed down by special interest groups? Don’t know what I am talking about? Think Westboro Baptists and the NRA. As a Mother, knowing the facts and voting accordingly should be all of our concern. We have 50% of the voice in society and this is how we can use it. Your children should see you voting, your country needs you to vote, and if you have not been fooled by the bluster, your vote should count for something. Women for generations fought to have the right to tick the box for their preferred candidate, so it makes you kind of a jackass if you don’t use your voice and make a choice. The whole circus is going to get louder leading up to the Presidential elections. Mothers of the US must step up with megaphones, armed with the facts, and vote like the powerhouses that we are.   This post was originally published on...
Women of Turkey – Pack Your Bags and Come to Canada

Women of Turkey – Pack Your Bags and Come to Canada

(This post contains swear words and feminism, not to mention a shot at politicians, so if you are thin-skinned, move along, there is nothing to see here) Can somebody please do something about these misogynist old crinkle dicks in positions of power? This asshole, Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan, has said women cannot be treated as equal to men. He has accused feminists of rejecting motherhood. “You cannot put women and men on an equal footing,” he told a meeting in Istanbul. “It is against nature.” He also said feminists did not grasp the importance of motherhood in Islam. His Deputy Minister, a gold-plated limp pecker of a man,  Bülent Arınç  said “women should not laugh in public in Turkey” in a speech on moral corruption in the country. He goes on to say: “Where are our girls, who slightly blush, lower their heads and turn their eyes away when we look at their face, becoming the symbol of chastity?” Are you kidding me with this shit? These two jokers run an entire country that (presumably) has women in it. It has girls and teens who are being raised in this land where the most “powerful” people want to take their person-hood away. These abominable man-shits want to send a message to other menfolk that oppression is okay, that a perceived lack of chastity is grounds for abuse. It is 2016. These repugnant swine are so convinced of their antediluvian viewpoint that they feel free to spout this shit on international media. They preach their oppressive doctrine and do not show so much as a dribble of shame. And people actually go along with this shit. Sadly, these two are among a tragic number of similar thinking leaders in many countries. You find these assclowns everywhere. It is like they come oozing out of the same stinking sewer of hate, consumed with vagina-phobia. Our mysterious place threatens them, but really they want in so badly that they must punish us for making them thirst for it so hard. We push babies out of our dark places, so there must be some evil power in that six square inches of real estate. And biology says they can’t have it. In the minds of these fanatics, vaginas must be cast down and shamed to remove their power. The rest of the world’s possessors of soft clams between our legs often feel helpless to fix such an enormous and pervasive problem. But we need to help our sisters. Maybe we should do what the world always does and set up a hashtag in protest. Maybe #realwomanlaughyouasshole or #wearelaughingatyourtinydick. Maybe we could encourage women in oppressed countries to sneak up behind these pontificating blowhards at public rallies to pants them. When...
In Praise of Grandparents

In Praise of Grandparents

Although many of us have dubious relationships with our parental units, once we have children, some of that changes. Not all of it of course and sometimes the worst bits don’t get better, but we gave them grandchildren, so at some level we become golden. The most perfect of all possible human relationships is that of Grandparent and Grandchild. They love each other for merely existing. They accept each other completely in a state of grace that says “you are perfect in all ways and I will indulge your every whim”. Of course those self same Grandparents sometimes spend an inordinate amount of time telling us what flawed parents we are, or that our children aren’t as well raised as we were. They stand there in their polyester pants gazing disapprovingly into our pantries judging the nutrition of “their” grandchildren. They question our choices and generally make us crawl into the nearest liquor store crying for enough liquid to make it stop screeching in our ears… However, the babies, the grandchildren, the perfect little beings live in the light of beauty and tolerance that we have never seen emanate from the parents. From the perspective of the children themselves, the best Grandparent time is any old time, but maybe if that time is spent at the toy store. They wallow in the sunshine of approval and acceptance with no rules to follow and lots of candy to eat. Really the symbiosis is perfect in every way if the Grandparents are good, and part of the children’s lives. It does give all of us Moms a sense of smug satisfaction to see our parents helpless in the grip of the cuteness of our children as they rule their world. At least I would hope that is how it goes. Families can be whole, or fractured. They can be functional, or not at all. I would hope that every child has somebody who is that perfect love in their life, where the rules are elastic, candy is ok before noon, and the hugs are soft and frequent. Oh and do I have plans when I become a Grandmother…   This post ran originally on...
Explaining Menopause to Your Husband Using Cartoons

Explaining Menopause to Your Husband Using Cartoons

Menopause comes for all of us women, some sooner and others later, but the inevitability of this transition can’t be debated. At 46, my own hormones decided to throw a party for my dusty old ovaries. Their idea of a good time involved the usual guests – hot flashes, cramping of everything, surges but no urges and hair… OH MY GOD THE HAIR. Buying a magnifying mirror was like witnessing a train wreck every fricken’ day. And then there are the nights…. I just want to sleep, but this is not to be. The sweats delivered courtesy of the death struggles of my waning fertility are relentless. They arrive like some kind of a hot slime monster crawling all over my sad old body. The nightmare is real. There is so much going on with the menopause shit show, that I felt it was time to explain it all to my husband. I was trying to find a way to get him to understand all of the aspects of menopause in a simple list, but I struggled to figure out how. I wasn’t going to be able to pull off sports analogies because… well… sports. But cartoons might be the magic recipe of comprehension and sympathy I need. Menopause has many faces, and you can explain them all using Peanuts characters. Pig Pen – This dusty and sad character represents the new me. I turn in to him every night and wake up to him in the mirror. I don’t remember having so much damned maintenance to do just to be presentable, do you? I spend time, cash and sweat trying to hold it all together as my dignity falls into the sink along with my hair and skin flakes. Pig Pen also can’t see his legs without glasses to shave them, just like me. Linus – blanket on, blanket off, blanket on half leg, kick blanket off. Damn you Linus, and your blanket Little Red Haired Girl – she represents those women who gently go through menopause without so much as a hot flash or a chin hair, their period prettily and simply stops. Not a bad word escapes her mouth in a hormone driven moment behind a slow driver or dopey store cashier. She has all the chill therefore she is not my friend. Making menopause look effortless is a deal breaker honey. Schroeder – this menopause archetype is focused on his music, just like the gals who enter “the change” and suddenly find a new hobby. They focus on their petite point, watercolours or bedazzling everything with such  vigor that they don’t even notice their chin hairs and bladder leaks. I want to have Schroeder focus on something...