Women

Good Morning, Angels

Publicity photo of the cast of the television program Charlie’s Angels. From left: Jaclyn Smith, Farrah Fawcett-Majors, and Kate Jackson. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Remember them? By today’s standards, it was a sweet show, despite being the beginning of “Jiggle Power” on tv, also known as “Jiggle TV.” Funny, the themes and outfits would probably be rated G now, and yet with all the toning, tanning, muscles, and enhancements on the female tv stars you see now, there’s nothing natural enough to jiggle.

Now we have different angels.

victoria’s secret fashion show 2010 (Photo credit: cattias.photos)

Not my definition of angelic, but that’s okay. I don’t have to shop there, and don’t. We’re all grown up women, and can decide for ourselves what type of underwear we’d like to wear. I find dental floss up my ass to be uncomfortable, and don’t see a woman picking her butt as an enticement, but whatever floats your boat, or lifts your boobs, or frames your artfully sculpted hoo ha. God Bless.

But wait. Victoria’s Secret has realized there’s an untapped market waiting for them. That’s right, jail bait. Future pedophile victims. Have I gone too far? Maybe. But certainly victims of a society that doesn’t know how to allow children to be children. Make no mistake, at 10, 11, 12, 13 years old, they’re still children, regardless of when their bodies begin to change.

I would like to hear from the adolescent and child psychology experts who sat on the panel in the Victoria’s Secret meetings, and said this is a good idea. That there’s nothing wrong with teaching little girls to start objectifying themselves early by wearing padded push up bras, panties that say “Call Me” (WTF happened to the ones that said Monday?), and of course, lacy thongs.

What mother who gives a shit about her daughter’s sense of self is buying her this type of underwear? Am I being judgmental, perhaps alienating readers who might buy my books down the road? Yup, and that’s okay. There are some things I feel strongly enough to take a stand on, and this is one of them. Am I uptight when it comes to my children? You betcha. Childhood is short, life is long. But the lessons learned in childhood last a lifetime. I’d like them to gain the tools they need during childhood for long, productive, happy, and healthy adulthoods.

Middle schoolers, tweens, are a mass of hormones and changes. This is the very beginning of independence. By the time a child is 14, you can see the adult they will become–though they aren’t that adult yet. What are they prioritizing, what have we taught them to prioritize? This is the time for young people to develop a sense of self, a sense of conscience, an understanding of their place in the world, and what roles they might step into. This is a time of self doubts and insecurities. If we parents buy them these types of garments we are prioritizing sexuality, and dating (or hooking up), over social justice, respect, community, intelligence, productivity, healthy body images, and healthy relationships. Yanno, to “get” the cute boy, strip down to your skivvies so he can see the message stamped on your butt. Because that’s what he should be paying attention to, right? Of course, with all these messages, stripping, and hoo ha infections caused by these special undies, I understand, there was no need or time to study for your biology test. And now that he/she has broken your heart because he/she has no clue or emotional tools to have a healthy relationship because he/she is also a child, no one wrote that Language Arts paper, either. Because they’re crushed, the very fragile beginnings of self esteem have been stepped on because Mary is cuter, or John is a better dancer.

This isn’t new, really. OK, marketing thongs to 10 year olds is new, but does anyone else remember this?

Nothing Comes Between Me and My Calvins (Photo credit: Evil Erin)

Brooke Shields was fourteen years old when this ad campaign for Calvin Klein jeans came out, implying there was no underwear between her and her super tight, super sexy jeans. That was in 1980. We should have known better. But certainly, we should know better by now. And none of this even begins to touch on the damage done to adult women, who are looking at ads that show models they can’t possibly look like, yet are told they should.

Dating and early acting out of sexuality, by its very nature, is emphasizing exclusivity. How does this make sense for young people who are searching desperately to be included? It might seem like nothing, innocence, “puppy love.” But it isn’t nothing, it sends a message about what is most important. Kids of this age need to find safe ways and places to be included. How about respect? How does that fit into this equation? Certainly, we aren’t teaching respect of self or others when we place value on prepubescent sexuality. How about self esteem? Doesn’t this bring us right back to encourage girls “not to be too smart,” and boys to value their sexuality over other, tangible, long term and contributory accomplishments. How about caring about other human beings, not just cataloguing them? Yes, let’s all cry about America slipping further down in academic standing when compared to other countries. Bottom line, with this type of message, we’re teaching our kids that commitment to self and others doesn’t matter. Because 12 year olds can’t commit to a long term, healthy relationship. Why? Because they haven’t yet learned how to commit to themselves, their future. For the love of all that’s holy, their brains aren’t finished yet, even if their boobs/butts/dangly bits are almost there.

Will there be a separate fashion show for the prepubescent line? Will it be photographed, filmed, televised? What’s that? You think that might be icky, uncomfortably close to child pornography? You should be thinking that, because it is. These garments are designed to be looked at, encourage fantasies so they will be purchased. There is no reason for these sweet whispers of lace and cotton to exist outside of sexual ones. I’m saying no thanks, I’m saying fuck you Victoria’s Secret.

Hey, you, adult woman! You don’t get to complain about men objectifying you, not taking you seriously, not giving you equal pay for equal work, and not holding up their end of child rearing if you’re feeding into this crap, and teaching another generation that these priorities are okay.

Perhaps we should bring corsets back. You know, the ones that literally warped the rib cage and cut off oxygen. Obviously our girls don’t need those brain cells anyway, since we’re teaching them to put their sexuality above other aspects of their development, or sense of self.

English: Corsets (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

English: FIG. 15.—The effect of bending forward, when seated, with and without corsets. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Hear That?

It’s the sound of Mrs Fringe having a quiet day.

Black Sand Beach, Maui (Photo credit: szeke)

In my mind, the scene above is where I am today. And man, do I need it. This neverending winter has felt torturous.

But, Spring Break started for Flower Child at 2:35 yesterday afternoon, and Nerd Child is home for another week, so it counts as Spring Break for me, too. In the spirit of the day, Big Senile Dog decided to start us off right by peeing all over the apartment last night. In case you were wondering, I don’t call him Senile for no reason. Occasionally, these days, he forgets the protocol for when and how to void his bladder. He isn’t the biggest dog, but he is sizable, and has a bladder appropriate for an elephant.

A busy week this week. I did a fair amount of work on the WIP, submitted eek!!! two short stories, picked up a mountain’s worth of dog poop, all the usual Mama stuff, and had a conversation with the puzzle doctor without crying, pretended I’m moving to New Hampshire and saw some fabulous real estate porn, managed to keep my brain inside my skull despite the ongoing jackhammering on my corner. Great success. To reward myself, I made an extra pot of French Press this morning, and spent the last two hours reading.

Reading (Photo credit: – Annetta -)

Just reading. No research, no Facebooking, no crushing myself with literature I’ll never measure up to, just a nice read. What else would one do lying on an empty beach?

At some point this week, I read about Michelle Shocked’s rant in California. I liked her back in the day. Didn’t love her, but I had a couple of cassettes with her music. I wasn’t shocked that she’s now found religion, and embraced a different outlook along with it–to put it mildly. She isn’t the first, won’t be the last. There’s a difference though, between someone who changes their views, actions, or even their beliefs, with age, time, and their personal experiences and someone who can’t commit to who they are now or admit who they were way back when. It made me wonder, who are/where are the young women we can look at and admire now? Odd, isn’t it, the things that can trigger sadness for lost youth, commitment, and passion?

Gawd, I’m maudlin today.

Imma go put some Patti Smith on the iPod. I would dance along, but I’m afraid to get Big Senile Dog excited, since I’ve only got three paper towels left.

Admitting Defeat

Checkmate (The Prisoner) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s true, much as I hate to admit it, I’m never going to be King. Not Virginia Woolf, not Laura Ingalls Wilder. Not even a princess. And really, that’s just fine. A quiet life is appealing. But a silent one?

When I first began thinking of putting a blog together, my original idea was to have a collaborative blog, women of somewhat varying ages and perspectives, focusing on the differences between what we thought our adult lives would be, and what they are. That idea never got beyond early planning stages, and eventually I started Mrs Fringe.

But due to some recent happenings in the lives of friends, and the never ending brain crunching non-happenings in my own life, I’m thinking about those early ideas again. Specifically, the life I’m living and the Grand Canyon that separates it from the life I thought I would have. While I won’t deny I have a vivid imagination, not all of my scenarios involved a crown and scepter. I never actually thought I would become rich, never thought I would live in a palace, never thought I would lie on a bed of thornless roses. Of course, I’m allergic to roses, so that one might not be fair.

Rose & Crown (Photo credit: Sam Howzit)

But I also never imagined having to worry quite this much about finances, when I’m not living a life of extravagance. I never imagined not having a little area for myself for writing (I think I weaned on A Room of One’s Own). I never imagined I’d be living a life at 40,000 years old where I would never, ever, ever have a day off. I never imagined I would be trapped in New York, between finances and familial obligations.

I never imagined a family of five where each of the five would have such totally, completely separate needs. I know, we’re all individuals. I value that fact, Husband and I were never the type of couple that were on the phone 58 times a day when we weren’t together, I’ve tried to raise my children to value their individuality. But I didn’t think, in the twenty first century, with all the societal and personal awareness, that I would lose my own self in the process. Sheesh, I feel like a damned ’70’s cliche just re-reading that sentence. Should I go find myself? In a consciousness raising group sitting on someone’s shag carpet, drinking dandelion wine.

So now what? I write, and that’s good for me. It feels good, and part of me still believes–or at least wants to believe– there’s hope of publication at some point. But I can’t live inside my head all the time. It isn’t productive for any of my roles, and frankly, it isn’t all that fun. I’ve thought about drinking more regularly, but I’m not very good at it. One drink and I’m buzzed, in between one and two and I’m looped, useless; a full two and it’s get-out-of-my-way-I-need-my-bed!

I’m a grown up. I have a family, I have obligations, I have a budget. There is no magic answer, magic solution. But there has to be a way to make something better, at least try.

Virginia Woolf said, “For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.” Is it still true? I don’t think silent lives are truly silent, they’re sirens and songs no one hears.

“Who’s Afraid fo Virginia Woolf?”. 1966 (Photo credit: thefoxling)

Plucked, Tucked, and Fucked

¿Rolling Stones? No, gracias (Photo credit: alvarezperea)

As a no longer young woman who doesn’t travel with the movers and shakers of society, it sometimes takes me a while to hear about trends and movements. Last night, I saw an article on Facebook that horrified me. So much so, I suspected it was a hoax, and googled. Labiaplasty. Not a hoax. A (sur)real cosmetic plastic surgery, available at a doctor’s office near you. Heh.

Just in case you’re as behind the times as I am, labiaplasty is a surgery to trim, or completely remove, a woman’s inner labia. Ready for the kicker? This is a purely optional procedure.

So I ranted with my feminist FB buddies for a bit, and then kept googling. I did find instances of women who said they chose to have the procedure done for more than aesthetic reasons, citing discomfort when running or biking. I read about one woman who said she was tired of her lips falling out of her underwear. Now those are lips. Except when I continued reading, it turns out she was referring to thong underwear. What’s that, dear? Your dental floss isn’t as comfortable as you’d like it to be? Get off my lawn!

old lady feeding pigeons (Photo credit: mvhargan)

Adult women look different from young girls, the body changes in many ways. This surgery seems to be an effort to replicate the appearance of prepubescent girls. As a woman, as a mother, as a sorta kinda feminist, I am appalled. Exactly how does this fit into “first do no harm?” Those labia aren’t like your appendix, serving no function. They are part of your body’s natural defenses, protecting the vagina and urethra, have glands that produce secretions that kill bacteria, and I’m no gynecologist, but I’m pretty sure they help keep your urine from spraying out between the bowl and the seat. As someone who is a designated toilet scrubber, I approve of this function.

I am naturally slim, always was. Somehow, it’s more socially acceptable to admit to surgical body sculpting and radical diets than to say this. We, as women, are supposed to spend our entire lives hating our images, taking ever more extreme measures to look like a continually changing physical ideal. Men seem to be jumping on this bandwagon for themselves, can be found waiting to have their eyebrows threaded, pedicures done, chests waxed, and of course, cosmetic surgeries.

How much more can we hate ourselves? We starve, we shave, pour hot wax and rip it off, send electric shocks through our pores, apply acid to remove layers of skin, vacuum fat, lift, tuck, stick bits of plastic on our eyeballs, we paint, we polish, tattoo, pierce, inject water, silicone, and botulism.

But after I logged off, and kept thinking, that pesky little voice in my head kept whispering. You know the voice, the one that calls you out on your own bullshit and contradictions. Is this really so different than any other plastic surgery done for purely cosmetic reasons? I’ve never had any plastic surgery done, and I’m not likely to, but I can’t say I wouldn’t if an opportunity presented itself. The younger, more militant me hates this.

I have what I like to think of as probiscis magnificus. Yanno, a nose that qualifies as a shnoz. When I was younger, the opportunity for a nose job presented itself. Did I already hate my nose, wish it didn’t look like a mountain climbing challenge? Yes I did. But I declined the offer, because it was so against my political views, my belief that each of us needs to embrace who we are, including our physical characteristics. In other words, my shnoz is and always was a part of me, and our physical self contributes to who we become, our self image in every way. I’d also had my nose broken twice. It hurts like hell, and I wasn’t in a phase of life where I wanted to volunteer for pain.

At this stage in my life, though, I’m not so young, perky, or firm. I’m in reasonably good shape, but my skin isn’t so tight. I’ve nursed three children. I know who I am, and understand physical changes won’t change the woman I’ve become. So I’ve thought about it, and if I won the lottery, I might have a rhinoplasty done, and a boob lift to get the girls back to the zip code they used to reside in. Is there a difference between these procedures and labiaplasty? I could justify a nose job for medical reasons, the two breaks left me with scar tissue that make my nasal passages permanently stuffy and a snore that rivals an old coal train. No justification other than vanity for a breast lift. I think this means I don’t have the right to judge anyone else’s elective procedures. What’s the line?

Description unavailable (Photo credit: *Bitch Cakes*)

Elegance

Elegance coral 2 (Photo credit: afagen)

No, this isn’t the type of elegance I’m talking about today, but this is one hot coral. I haven’t been having much success with LPS coral in my little tank, so I won’t add it to my wish list just yet. Yeah, I’m pretty weird, thinking about elegance this was what popped to the forefront of my mind. But I chose this particular photo because it has that little asterina star on the glass. Those things seem so cute. But the truth is if you see one in your tank, you’ve likely got dozens, and they breed faster than a bunny on speed. Then you have a nuisance that will irritate pricey and prized corals.

I think that’s me. When it comes to style, I have to make an effort, which I often don’t. Come on, how long should I take to get dressed and do my hair to drop the girl off at school and come home to clean the bathroom, or go out to dogwalk? But sometimes I do. It’s fun and it feels good, nothing says “I can do this” more than a kick ass pair of shoes with the right outfit. So when I do make the effort, sometimes I hit it, and sometimes I don’t, but even when I do, it’s never perfect. There will be one little something that tips the scales from I’m rocking it to oh shit, I’m still carrying my dog walking bag. Which then leads me to notice the dog hair I didn’t get off my skirt, the smudge of mascara under my right eye, the eek! of questioning if I used deodorant under both arms.

Taking Flower Child to school this morning, I saw a young woman running for the bus. Tall, slim, and cute, she was wearing clunky wooden heeled sandals, and a too long nightgown looking brown maxi-dress, with a faux-fur gray sweater on top. Oy. On my way back home, I saw another woman running across the street for a cab. Black suit, ivory turtleneck underneath, and black patent leather stilleto pumps. I was more than impressed by how well she was able to run, though I’m guessing it produced more jiggle than she generally shoots for.

The Patent Leather Kid (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What made one work and the other not? I don’t know. One thing I love about the city is that women never seem to be limited by what’s “in.” Personal style is encouraged, influenced by many factors, and expressed through textures, lengths, fabrics, and accessories. Fun to watch, and a bonus in that it makes coming up with the beginning of a character sketch pretty easy.

I’m not talking about the women who are so stunning it doesn’t matter what they are or are not wearing. It’s the women who have whatever the it factor is that allows them to look like the definition of fabulousity no matter what their age, style or dress size is. The difference between wtf -is-she-wearing and wow-I-wish-I-could-pull-that-off.

Is it studying old episodes of What Not To Wear? Reading fashion magazines? Being the victor when battling for that dress at the annual Barney’s sale?

I don’t think so. I honestly think it comes from within. Part of it being a good eye, knowing what lines will work with your lines, and much of it is confidence.

I have a neighbor who always looks elegant. And when I say always, I mean even when staking a claim for the most efficient dryer in the laundry room. She isn’t young, she isn’t particularly tall, she isn’t slim. But she is always styling.

Lautrec the tattooed woman 1894 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Cuddling With that Late Night Booty Call: Want

Deutsch: Irische Hard Shoes, auch Hornpipe Shoes oder Jig Shoes genannt. Jig Shoes. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*Warning: Defensive post ahead.

Yesterday afternoon, I walked past a favorite shoe store, recently renovated so the ambiance matches the price points. In the window was an absolute wantwantwant Pas de Rouge shoe. So much so, I took a picture with a phone, posted it to my personal Facebook wall, and had fun with friends dreaming about $400 shoes. (for some reason I can’t transfer pics from my phone to this blog, sorry) Fun? Yes. Silly? Absolutely. But there’s something about a sole full of awesomeness that some roundheels like myself can’t deny. Resist, sure, but not deny.

But here’s what I’m thinking about today. We’re expected to deny our wants. As women, certainly as women with children, we’re supposed to forget about our pesky little wants, dreams, and desires, at least until all children our grown and gone. I’m not talking about ridiculously expensive shoes, but the other stuff. Like writing, or painting, or photography (except of our children), or going back to school, or a vacation that isn’t educational. Even hobbies are relegated to after the kids are asleep. You know what? After the kids are grown and gone is a long, long time. Add in a special needs child and multiply this by eleventy billion.

A newborn child crying. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It doesn’t seem so long at first, when they’re babies, toddlers, and young children, and your days meld together with feeding and changing, soothing and crooning. Hell, just looking at this photo makes my boobs tingle, preparing for a non existent milk letdown, and it’s been years since I nursed.

My belief that children come first is strong. Most of us deny ourselves a lot of wants, put off needs, because the kids come first. It’s what our biology and our society dictates; in my opinion this is as it should be. I know it isn’t just women who put certain wants off until the kids are grown, most of us, male and female, are on limited budgets, and many of us have to either give up or put dreams aside until the immediate responsibilities are fewer. Being last is okay, as long as I’m still in the race.

But since I began blogging about my newly rediscovered determination to get back to a regular writing and submitting schedule, more than a couple of my female followers have made reference (both on and off the blog) to wanting to do X, and waiting to do X until the kids are gone. Feel free to jump in and tell me you’ve heard otherwise, I’ve never heard a man say he’s waiting to investigate and pursue a hobby until the kids are gone. When I read the stories of writers who have been successful after having children, but before the kids are gone, they’re a little different. Both male and female showed tremendous drive, dedication, and passion. The men talk about coming home from their day jobs, locking themselves in whatever little nook they can carve out for themselves in their home, and writing. Women talk about coming home from their day jobs, supervising homework, making dinner, doing the bedtime thing, and then going to whatever nook they’ve carved out for themselves. Or, if they were SAHMs, writing during naps and loads of laundry. And of course, eating all those bon bons. Who needs sleep, right?

I don’t know about you, but when I sleep and dream, it isn’t about juicy younger men or my formerly perky parts. It’s about space and time for myself that isn’t shrouded in guilt.

English: A photograph of an engraving in The Writings of Charles Dickens volume 4, Oliver Twist, titled “Oliver at Mrs. Maylie’s Door”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think it’s valid, sensible, and important to recognize the difference between wants and needs, and then further breakdown to prioritize these needs and wants. What I don’t get is why this is supposed to equal no wants or dreams. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I recognize that I live in this spoiled American society and I am a spoiled American. I don’t have a McMansion and don’t want one. I also don’t want to live in a hut, with just enough grains of rice to keep me going, foraged Pepsi bottles strapped to my feet with woven grass. I hear those are terrible for dog walking.

Move Over on that Cross, Will ya?

Painting image of Joan of Arc (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Checking my email this morning, I saw one of my favorite discount stores is having a sale. Today. One day only.

I needed gloves. It’s freezing out. I bought a pair last month, and they look fun in an ugly kind of way, but they’re a loose knit, no fingers, not even a thumb. Why did I buy them? They were $6! Sure I saw practical, warm, pretty gloves too, but those were $50. 6 vs 50, on a day when it wasn’t too cold yet, no contest. Sure I’m a lifelong New Yorker, and understood it wasn’t going to stay 50* outside, but 6 dollars!

Once I dropped Flower Child off at school, I walked to the store. This left me standing in the cold for half an hour before they opened. OK it was 25 minutes, I guess the manager felt sorry for me and the other fools waiting for them to unlock the doors. The selection was pitiful, but I was determined to take advantage of the 25% off coupon slipping through my icicle fingers. Found a pair. Not what I really wanted. I was imagining something elegant or funky, interesting color, super warm pair with a touch screen fingertip. I found warmer than what I’ve got, no touch screen fingertip, and I’m not really sure if they’re navy or black.

I’m in the store where it’s warm, not overly crowded, and agonizing over whether I should buy this pair of gloves, or wait and keep looking until I find the perfect pair at the perfect price on a day when I’ve got money in my pocket. I’m sure you can all now understand why I own a very limited wardrobe. I decide to look around the store. It really is a very good sale, and there are several things I could use. I look at dresses. I found this super cute wine colored knit–with sleeves! (why do they sell sleeveless winter dresses in the Northeast?)–my size, no obvious rule it out defects, for a very reasonable $50. It’s just my kind of dress (though not a color I usually like), nice, practical, fine for a regular day but if I had an appointment for tea with the Queen I could put some beads around my neck with a nicer pair of shoes and look fine.

Portrait of a group of ladies at a tea party, Charters Towers (Photo credit: State Library of Queensland, Australia)

Don’t forget the 25% off coupon! I picked up the dress and carried it all over the store, inspecting everything else I wasn’t going to buy. I looked at coats. I would love to have a warm down coat for everyday use. I spend a lot of time outside walking, and do not enjoy cold weather. At. All.

I have a coat I bought several years ago at another discount store. I hadn’t been coat shopping in a long time prior, and was shocked by the prices. So shocked, I called my mother to rant. She laughed at me, and I bought the cheapest one I could find. Sure it’s down, but apparently it’s only got 3 feathers, because I’m shivering in it the second the temperature drops below 45*. I’ve got a fabulous and fabulously warm shearling I got when my Grandmother died, but I don’t like to wear it. It’s the only really nice coat I’m ever likely to own, and I feel kind of silly when I wear it. Here I’m living this crazy broke-ass life; picking up dog poop in a shearling? I’m like a character from a Depression era movie, “Well, de-ah, I’ve fallen on haahrd times.”

I put the dress back. Bought the boring but reasonably priced and warmer than what I’ve got gloves, and punished myself by walking home, instead of taking the train. Why? I dunno, it’s the martyr instinct. I’ve got it, and so do many of the women I know who aren’t shopaholics. It was perfectly reasonable to put the dress back. I’ve got to buy Christmas gifts for the kiddos, and there isn’t any wiggle room in the budget. I could use a new coat, but I won’t freeze without one, I’m absolutely fine wearing layers. I like my layers. I like the look, and they make me feel shabby chic instead of shabby. I did need a pair of gloves.

So why do I feel guilty for having bought them? Besides the obvious answer that I’m a lunatic. What kind of shopper are you?

Walked past my new favorite lady in the city.

And some perfectly elegant holiday displays.

Once Upon A Time

fairy tale pic (Photo credit: Kjirstin)

In a land in which no one ever expects to reside, there were two little girls, born just days apart. One called The Empress, and one called La Princesa. The two girls didn’t live close to each other, and each was busy with the business of their kingdoms, learning to talk, and eat, pester their respective older brothers, and throw royal panties out the tower window.

One day, the beat in The Empress’s brain began to count out a new and unusual rhythm. Not long after, La Princesa’s brain also began keeping a new rhythm. Suddenly, each kingdom was regularly experiencing strange and terrible lightning storms. Healers were called and many potions were tried, but still, the storms persisted. La Princesa’s mother and The Empress’s mother each sent carrier pigeons with messages for the new world, called The Internet, hoping to find others who had battled these storms and defeated them; or at least knew how to protect their families while the storms raged.

Many Queens formed a Great Alliance, loaning each other shields of understanding and swords of knowledge. Many only stayed for a time, but the most weather beaten grew powerful and remained, through storms and strange beats, through potions that offered relief and those that were poison, helping each other to laugh and dance, when they were rooted, shin deep in muck.

Image of a letter sent by carrier pigeon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Empress’s Queen and La Princesa’s Queen began noticing they were sending out very similar messages. Soon, they began sending messages directly to each other, in addition to the ones they were sending and reading from the other Queens of The Great Internet. La Princesa and The Empress had both begun their lives small but mighty. Years passed, they remained small, but each began having periods of weakness, succumbing to the vapors as if the castle mice were stealing their feasts. Queen Empress and Queen Princesa realized not all of the other Queens with stormy kingdoms had such enchanted mice. They compared tales of storms and threats and events and spells, and the crumbling walls and general disrepair of their castles, moats leaking sewage into their grand halls. Potions and Healers and Seers were exhausting their riches. They whispered prayers carried by the wind. Still, their golden girls’ spirits were powerful.

Each Queen traveled to new seers, seeking answers and resolution. The Empress met a powerful seer, who offered answers, though no resolution. La Princesa’s Queen continues the quest. As the two Queens formed a stronger bond, and their pigeons knew the way to each kingdom without thought, La Princesa and Empress began to recognize the birds from each other’s lands. With their Queens’ help, they began sending messages to each other.

Each girl learned she had much in common with the other. Neither girl was bothered by asking or answering the same questions several times. Neither girl used unkind words about the other. All the kingdoms around were struck by a terrible storm, and the carrier pigeons couldn’t fly. La Princesa worried about The Empress, and The Empress worried about La Princesa.

One day, a special dove brought a great gift for La Princesa. It was a colorful drawing– rendered by The Empress– of the two friends and told the tale of their friendship. This treasure was so special La Princesa couldn’t speak, but her smile…her smile brightened her sleepy eyes and the gloomy day, casting a glow over the Queen’s eyes, making them leak in that way she hated! but she couldn’t see the cracks of the castle walls or the dusty cornices. She saw the pink streaks behind the gray clouds, and the miracle of the bird’s wings against the sky as he soared back towards the land of The Empress.

Fairy Tale … (Photo credit: lapidim)

Maiden, Mother, Crone

The fates like to play with scissors (Photo credit: shellgreenier)

A few weeks ago I read an article that referenced Germaine Greer and crone culture. If you’re unfamiliar with her, Germaine Greer is an academic, a journalist; a feminist and a powerhouse in the women’s movement. I didn’t remember hearing that term before (though I’m sure I must have, perhaps I was busy weaving flowers in my hair while I read The Female Eunich), but I fell in love with it, fascinated, and because I’m ~~certifiable~~ a curious gal, I’ve been doing some research in my free moments. Crone culture. Imagine, an enlightened world that might choose to see older women, post menopausal (gasp) women, not as impotent and invisible beings, but as valued and valuable members of society. Possible? Is it even possible for us to see ourselves in that light?

And what does it mean to be a crone? Is it pure biology? Age? Children’s age? Fatigue? Wear and tear? Cause let me jussay, this vehicle is only middle aged, but its got a lot of mileage. Is 40 really the new 30, and 50 the new 40? Why does it have to be, why can’t it just be fine to be 40 and 50?

For the average first world woman, there’s quite a bit of time, 20-40 years, in between our roles as Mother (Lachesis, if you’re into Greek mythology) and death: the Crone (Atropos) role. Is it possible to embrace that phase and use it as the period of fertility for the mind and soul, instead of spending the first half pining for our prior roles and the second half waiting to die? Is it realistic to think about using this time to deepen connections and understanding, broaden our world when we’re still fully occupied with getting by?

As I think, I’m thinking of women like myself, on the fringe. Women whose adult worth has been not just tied but knotted with wife-ing (whether you stayed a wife or not) and mothering. Women who have jobs–paid or unpaid–but not careers, who don’t have initials after their name to proclaim their continued relevance. I don’t pretend women of privilege don’t face some of the same issues, after all, they’re still women, but I think it’s different; easier to remain relevant for a longer period of time when you’re respected in a field of study, know you still have quite a bit to say that’s worth being heard, can purchase the right clothes, cosmetics, surgeries to present yourself the way you wish to be seen.

Copper-Boiler-for-Distilling-Brandy__15665 (Photo credit: Public Domain Photos)

I make no judgement about that last bit, by the way. If I had the money and freedom, I think I’d have a little tweaking done at this point in my life. Not to attract or please anyone but myself. For me. Can that be distilled, separated from the society I live in which dictates what is or is not attractive? Probably not.

There is a difference in how women of different socioeconomic brackets see themselves and present themselves. When I was at that lit bar the other night, I was chatting with a woman, another friend of the friend I was there to hear. She asked if I was a writer and I said, “Well, I’m a wannabe.” With great confidence, she told me not to say that; if I write, I’m a writer. I’m not so sure. Do I write? Yes. Do I have skill and talent? Maybe, I think so. But I’m a pretty good cook, too. I’ve left restaurants wishing I had stayed home and eaten my own sauce. But I certainly wouldn’t identify myself as a chef. Even as I argue for recognition, I question my validity.

Imagine a crone culture. A culture that valued women as they age; saw experience, caregiving, and connectedness as valid alternatives to degrees earned for 30 year old, forgotten lessons. What if those experiences could be used for opportunities?

Maybe, though. Maybe. Maybe in my imaginary world where crones are empowered. Instead of being reduced we are a reduction–as in cooking. Thickened and intensified, adding richness and bringing the individual components of the dish together.

Hecate’s Wheel, the symbol used by Hecatines, Dianics and Aquarians. It is a representation of the Goddess and of her three aspects: the maiden, the mother and the crone. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

And, Have an Orgasm!

Atomic Housewife. 19/52 (Photo credit: Sarahnaut)

Does anyone else know/remember that old joke, poking fun at Women’s Lib? Something like this: Before women’s lib, a woman would get up, make coffee and breakfast for husband and children, make lunches for them to take with them, iron, see them off, clean the house, do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, supervise homework, feed everyone dinner, kids off to bed, sex with husband. After women’s lib, a woman has to get up, make coffee and breakfast for husband and children, make lunches for them to take with them, iron, see them off, go out to work, come home and clean the house, do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, supervise homework, feed everyone dinner, kids off to bed, sex with husband, AND have an orgasm.

Mmm hmm, very liberating indeed.

Is life better for the average woman than it used to be? I think so. There are more choices, more acknowledgement of compromises–hey, I can now be a feminist and still shave my underarms.

Underarm Hair (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There are women who choose not to have children, women who choose to have children and stay home, women who choose not to define themselves by their marital or maternal status at all. Still far from true social justice, because these choices aren’t accepted without question, but analyzed, judged, and whispered about. Being a woman who is a mom, I’m going to focus on that choice.

I don’t know who first coined the term Supermom, or exactly how long it’s been around, but I think it’s fair to say easily 20 years. Conservatively, 20 years. Twenty years of cartoons, jokes, analyzing, and disclaimers. We know better. Supermom is bullshit. Every bit the work of fiction that Superman is. So how come we’re still weighing ourselves against this curvy little lie?

No one human being can fill all roles, be all things to all people. Not even the little people we bring into our lives, or the one person we vow to stay with forever (whether or not forever ends after 7 years or 37). We all wear many hats, juggle different roles and obligations–true for men as well as women. But somehow, we women expect and are often expected to do just that. Especially those of us who have limited budgets, so hiring others to take care of some of those roles isn’t an option.

Even little things. Like unexpected company. I am not a fabulous housekeeper. I’d like to be, but ultimately, once we get beyond the basics of a reasonably clean bathroom and kitchen, it just isn’t that high on my list of priorities. We’re in a small space. There just isn’t a place for everything. But, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to do some extra cleaning and organizing if company is coming. I don’t like surprise guests for this reason. What does this have to do with feminism and supermoms? Well, let’s face it, no one is going to leave my messy apartment and whisper to her girlfriend, “Wow, that Husband is a pig. When was the last time he dusted?” No, the judgement would be more like, “Ugh, did you see that laundry hamper? I wonder when Mrs Fringe last found her way to the laundry room.”

If a mother works outside the home, somehow she’s still magically supposed to take care of all the hearth and home stuff, and be awake, alert, competent, and presentable on the job. And her kids are never supposed to get sick, or have any other needs that would involve taking time off. If a mother is a SAHM, she isn’t supposed to just take care of hearth and home, she had better be Supermom squared, to compensate for her lack of brain cells…err…value…err…income. She’s supposed to do it all perfectly, naturally, organic dinners that are gastronomic delights to children and adults alike, sandwiches on bread baked that morning, tastefully decorated home, never a stray sock left behind on laundry day, homemade and prizewinning Halloween costumes, and of course, oodles of time to volunteer at the children’s schools. Because, yanno, if you’re a SAHM, what do you do all day? You must be bored. *Do not confuse intellectual boredom with free time* Only, if you are bored, don’t ever say it out loud, because well, you could get a job and really do something. Never mind the mind numbing fatigue, and the fact you spend every single day being looked down upon and devalued, and there’s no such thing as a day off or quitting time.

So no, I’m not Supermom, and I don’t know one woman who is. Those who come closest are those whose annual income allows for quality, long term nannies/babysitters, full time housekeepers, and spouses who are also big earners and highly educated–socially progressive. We all know this, all make fun of the term, we judge ourselves and judge each other–but we all still beat ourselves up for not being this fictional character.