50 Shades of...

If there is one thing that can strike fear in the heart of any woman, anywhere in the world, it is grey hair.

You only have to take a wander through the colour section at any store to see what a booming business it is to cover up any sign of that shade.

Genetically speaking, it was destined to happen.  My earliest memories of our older generation was a collection of dignified white and grey-haired ladies and gents. Not too many of the blue-rinse set. And not a single purple dye job to be seen. Not in our family any way.

My mother, the proud owner of classic titian tresses, was just one of the clan with a colour so rich it could never be reproduced by a bottle.

Red heads have been identified since around 1510 in their various forms: auburn, copper, strawberry blonde, ginger...and comes with a collection of nicknames, of varying shades of compliments too: Carrot top, Ranga, Ginger Ninja, and in Australia colloquially called "Blue". As we do.

Aside from being the rarest form of natural hair colour in the world, red heads have a lot of other interesting features: studies have supposedly shown that they are more tolerant of pain and require more anaesthetic to knock 'em out in the surgical theatre; the pale skin that comes with it makes them more susceptible to sunburn and skin cancer, yet gives them fewer wrinkles in their old age as a result; red heads are also traditionally known to have a temper to match their fiery tops, but there's no evidence to support this- unless you count the passionate temperaments of the people most often linked to that particular hair colour- the Celts.

Which brings me back to our clan. The recessive redheaded gene crops up at least every generation, and those of us who aren't red all over have natural highlights that money just can't buy.  I learnt this a long time ago when my oldest sister was in her apprentice hairdresser days and was determined to make me blonde. My date with the peroxide bottle just brought out the ginger underneath and I ended up having to go black to cover the mess we made.

That, and buy a few hats.

Now considering the average adult human head is home to about 120,000 hairs ... when they start to turn against their owner, that's a whole lotta grief!

So when genetics came to play and the grey turned up one day on top of mum, she decided to grow old gracefully and let nature - rather than hair colour- take its course.

As we've discussed here before, times have changed in just a single generation. These days the only shades of grey that are totally acceptable is the series of bestsellers by EL James. If it's being read in bed, it's ok. If it's on your head it's nowhere near as thrilling.

Because if you buy the hype, the hue of your hair has a lot to do with being 'hot'. Or not.

But while men get away with the Silver Fox tag, very much so, and you'll still see newsreaders and the like with grey hairs glinting in the studio lights. Not so the female offsider. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the age ratio is getting greater between the fellas at the desk compared with the ladies alongside. Seems as soon as they need a touch up on top, they're replaced by a younger model.

In fact the only shades of grey allowed on prime time TV belong to blokes.

Which is one of the reasons radio appeals to me so much. Doesn't matter about your hair colour, hell you can even show up in your pyjamas if needs be, as long as you show up! Dead Air is not a good sound, in any frequency.

And do not get me started on the schoolyard parade!

No wonder I'm so partial to hats.

Especially when I made the comment to another mother that I was considering giving up the ghost and going the way of my mum, letting my colour come through however it likes. Her response: "Oh no- Never give up!"  Mind you, this was the same mum who commented on how grey my Beloved has become around the temples in the years since kids joined us: "What have you done to him??" (Hey, he's grey for the same reason I am...the aforementioned kids!)  Funny how there was no suggestion he reach for the dye bottle. 

Looks like he's on his way to Silver Foxism himself. Better hope he isn't in the market for a younger model.

So it seems I, along with women the world over, will be keeping the hair colour companies in business for a while yet.

Then for the times I can't afford a dye job, I'll be supporting hat makers too.

And just quietly, I think EL James et al have given grey a shady reputation, in more ways than one.

Jx

©2012

Just Add Water

Science states that the human body is up to 70% water.

Evolutionists say that life as we know it crawled out of the ocean some 3-4 billion years ago.

You only have to watch what happens when particular humans are placed near a body of water to see that it's true.

Take what happened to us late last year.

I noticed our front garden was looking a little lush, considering the lack of attention we give it - first a bit of extra moisture, then a trickle, then a faster flow into the carport beside.

It got to a point that the men of the neighbourhood did as men do, stood around and discussed the matter. After a suitable length of time, and appropriate number of beers, the menfolk decided a natural spring had sprung up in the midst of the front foliage.   

And left it at that.

Until the local Water Board left a little card in the mailbox saying our water usage was "higher than usual".  Still my Beloved thought it nothing of consequence, it was summertime after all and kids being kids had been splashing about a bit in recent times.

When the Water Board left a message on the phone that our bill was on its way and it was, again, a little higher than usual, I felt a trickle of concern.

It turned into a full blown flood the day the bill appeared- December 21. Whereas our regular bill was around the $400 mark, this one came in at $4521.18 (was that 18 cents really necessary?) I mean to say: Four Thousand, Five Hundred Dollars!! A "little higher"? Yes, like Lady Liberty is a little statue!

A discussion with the Water Board had me trying to track down a plumber to come take a look. Good luck with that, 4 days before Christmas. 45 minutes and countless phone calls later I still had not found a tradie willing to come before the holidays; the earliest any of them offered was the 4th of January!  Forget the sugarplums, I had visions of dollar bills running down the driveway. So back to the Water Board I go and beg them to help me find someone suitable to assess the situation. Finally a company agrees, for only $150 call out, plus $90 an hour. 

There go the kids' Christmas presents. I need a Secret Santa, stat!

Anyhow, plumber comes at the crack of dawn next day (pun fully intended, you know what tradespeople are like) and there's me out in the garden in my pjs, with him saying "You need someone with underground detection gear to find the pipe and save a lot of digging". I make no assumptions on the intelligence of the plumbing profession, but Einstein he ain't. So, why, I ask, did your company not send someone with said gear? His advice was to get someone else to do the dirty work, unless I was willing to pay two blokes the hourly rate apiece. Yeah, no.

Armed with shovels my Beloved and neighbouring blokes started shifting soil.

4 hours later, 6 feet down and 8 feet along, they found where the water was coming from.

But we seemed to have misplaced our menfolk.

Instead we had mud monsters of various shapes and sizes, three grown men had a total and terrific transformation back to boyhood, they were having so much fun playing in the mud. 

Our actual children, on the other hand, stood well back from the filth, in their gumboots. 

The womenfolk were standing a little further back again, armed with various  cameras and recording devices, capturing the moment for posterity...just in case one of the aforementioned fellas did something that might win us the big bucks on those Funniest Home Video Shows.

Sadly, while there was a lot of laughter, cursing, and occasionally squealing from 'the pit' (yes, squealing), there wasn't any footage worth submitting. Happily, they found where the Water Board were making their money, and after more swearing and squealing, they were able to clamp it off until the plumber could come back - using a system that would have made MacGyver proud- a bit of wire, a rubber glove, some duct tape, and a plastic bag.

They caused such a spectacle that the neighbours across the street had set up deckchairs and were sitting, drinking, and cheering everytime the water got turned back on and the men started their swearing and squealing again.

After much mirth and way too much mud, the boys reckoned their rubber glove/duct tape/clamp combination would do the job until the professionals came back (at the crack of dawn the next day). Surprisingly, it did.

Now all we had to do was unearth (literally) our spouses, by way of the garden hose on the lawn- no way was that much mud coming inside our homes.

And after a bit more begging, pleading, and form-filling for the Water Board, they accepted our submission that the original water pipe had simply given way due to old age (happens to us all), and they reduced the bill from 4-and-a-half grand, to a mere 500-hundred-and-something.  Plus the plumber's bill.

The kids got their Christmas presents after all.

The neighbours got a new drinking game out of it.

And next time the neighbourhood needs a bit of cheering up, we'll just add water.

Jx

©2012

Men oh Pause

All of us have heard the startling fact that men think about sex several times a day. Every 52 seconds, if you can believe this report.

We are all well aware that most women do not.

I agree. We’re too damned busy thinking about what to serve for dinner, or whether we paid that bill in time, or where the hell the other sock went.

By the way, according to the same research, a woman uses 20,000 words per day, while a man uses only 7,000.

I’m not surprised by that at all. Considering that the word for fellas is “Sex”, while the woman is busy coming up with excuses to get out of it.

If you ask me, if men had to do the whole menstruation and menopause thing, methinks the odds would be a little different (is it irony that those very words have 'men' in them yet it's the women that suffer?).

I do find it funny in a way, that a young girl looks forward to the whole puberty business with excitement and a certain kind of pride that she is “becoming a woman”. Give her a few months of visits from Aunty Flo and she’ll soon sing a different song.

So why, I wonder, do so many women get so upset when they’re closing in on the other end of things, worrying that their womanhood is somehow diminished? If we believe all the jokes and stereotypes, she’s spent the better part of 40 years cursing ‘the curse’ or trying to get out of her matrimonial duty, and should be happy that it’s almost over.

It’s not that the ladies don’t like the lovin’. Oh no, take a look at all the stories of ‘cougars’ currently on the prowl, looking for love in a younger form than perhaps the one they’ve been cuddling up to for better or for worse. Heaven knows Harlequin/Mills & Boon™ still publish enough of the sexy stuff (about 100 new titles every month at your local newsagent or favourite bookstore- I should know, my Beloved delivers them).

It’s just that women need to be in the right mood.

Whereas the typical man wakes up in it (hello morning glory).

And if you’re Mr & Mrs Average, time and place –not to mention privacy– is paramount for your paramour.

I swear I do not know how the previous generations had so many children. If it isn’t enough doing all the running around that a family requires on a daily (and nightly) basis, how on earth did the parents manage to find themselves alone in the bedroom with enough time and energy for intimacy?! Equally, I wonder how many have not been caught ‘in flagrante delicto’ and had to come up with a cover, or cover up, so that their children are not permanently damaged by the scene (do the words “Mummy and daddy are just having a little chat; we’ll be out soon” sound familiar)?

After a couple of kids, most couples I know have sadly resorted to what’s known as ‘hallway sex’: be it a quick kiss on the cheek or an outright “Screw you” as they cross paths, depending on the stress levels that week.

If they’re lucky, they’ll get lucky only a few times a month. And then sometimes it’s a case of just lie back and think of England, just to keep the other happy for a while.

It’s obviously been on my mind as I edge ever closer to that certain time of life, whether I’ll embrace the end of my monthly visitor, or feel saddened as the visits stop. I can only hope that Aunty Flo won’t take what’s left of my libido with her.

At least I can console my Beloved with the fact that in the time it’s taken for me to compose this post, I have had sex on the brain for a solid 37 minutes (give or take a couple of trips in to check on children).

So by my reckoning, I’ve matched his every-52-seconds no less than 42 times today.

That’s gotta count for something, right girls?!

Jx
©2010

D. I. Why?

There are a lot of professions for which I have the utmost regard: emergency service crews... medical health professionals... teachers... oh and the people who install car window tinting.

Seriously, anyone who’s ever tried to apply any adhesive covering to children’s school books will know the utter frustration of first aligning then affixing the fiddly stuff to the surface without leaving telltale bubbles below. It's a bad enough look on books, so who wants to drive around with the reminder of your incompetence staring you in the face every time you looked out the window (mind you, I have seen many many people who do).

If you have the same pale skin that my children and I do (bordering on albino), it’s not an auto fashion accessory as much as a flesh’s necessity.

And I have no qualms at all about paying someone to do the job for me.

But my Beloved, being a typical male, is positive that he can do it himself (I call it the DIY Chromosome), so off we go to the auto accessory shop and pick up a packet of tint.

Well, as soon as he took the roll out of the box I knew I was in for an afternoon’s entertainment.

So I put the kettle on to fix myself a cuppa tea, grabbed a magazine, and took up a position in the yard with a good view of the carport.

There was my Beloved, trying carefully to unroll the tint in order to cut off enough to cover the first window. “Do you think it would be wise to measure the window first and just cut off what you need?” I ask from my perch on the patio. “This is quicker” says he from somewhere under a metre of coloured plastic.

And it was- if you consider the speed with which the roll slipped from his fingers and disappeared under the car, unravelling as it went.

After a number of comments I couldn’t possibly print here, he managed to gather the tint, cut off a section of approximate length, successfully peeled off the backing paper, then set about applying to the auto glass.

Long story short, it was back to the auto shop to pick up another pack, and home again to try once more.

This time he got the tint off the backing paper and onto the window.

Unfortunately he also managed to capture the entire supply of oxygen in the air surrounding him, leaving enough bubbles under the tinting to give one the distinct impression of looking at the world through a bottle of Coca Cola®.

Determined not to be defeated by a packet of plastic, it was a round trip to the shops once more.

Anyway…

After the third attempt, my Beloved gathered up the wreckage, tossed it all in the garbage can, and leaving the still untinted car windows, stalked past me into the house muttering: “We will never speak of this again.”

And we haven’t.

Until now.


1989 Mazda ... c.$2700.00
3 packets of tint ... $149.97
An afternoon spent watching my Beloved try to apply it ... Priceless!


Jx
©2009

Cinderfella

I’d like to refute recent findings that Australian men make the worst husbands when it comes to housework.

I’d like to … but I can’t.

See, my Beloved comes from a long line of folk who expect the woman to do the housework while the man does the breadwinner thing. (But he can never remember to bring bread home though, can he?)

And so he’s of the opinion that he works such long hours he shouldn’t be expected to turn around and do any work once he comes home, not even on weekends. Whereas since I am currently unemployed again (thanks to that car accident), I really have nothing better to do than wander round with a duster, apparently.

According to the British research, Aussie blokes don’t like helping out around the house, and are less likely than any other country in the study to offer to do the chores.

Now not having been married to any man from Norway (the best in the survey), the UK, USA, the Netherlands, Ireland, Sweden, Spain, New Zealand, Japan, Germany, not even Austria (unless you're a little dyslexic), I cannot comment on how domesticated those male creatures might be.

I only know that most men of the Terra Australis variety verily and merrily support the findings.

Now, I’m not complaining really, well ok just a little. But with good reason. In the hours that my Beloved is not out there earning the family income, he is either asleep, or off in some virtual reality of a computer game. And I have to be feeling particularly brave to ask him for some help (even if it’s something I have trouble doing, thanks to a bad back).

So I did a little experiment recently. After I had been accused once too often of “doing nothing around here” … nothing is in fact what I did. Only as far as matters pertaining purely to him, mind you.

I still bought and prepared the food, dutifully packed and unpacked the dishwasher and did the other washing up by hand, and also ran the kids’ school clothes through the washer and dryer as needed. I still wiped down the basins, bath and shower, and scrubbed the yukky bits off the toilet bowls as needed; I also emptied the rubbish and recycling, and picked up and packed up all the detritus that comes with kids; I simply left his clothing to fold itself (I did wash it for him though, couldn’t help myself- there’s nothing quite like the aroma of sweat and diesel fuel to urge one towards the washer).

I also refused to do any extra duties, like yard work, changing lightbulbs, or stuff like that.

Two weeks later, guess whose clothes are still sitting in the laundry baskets where I had dumped them? Or to be more precise, I should say whose clothes are sitting all around said baskets- since someone has been in there foraging for something to wear.

And guess who’s been caught out flicking a light switch with no response too many times to count? Same person who has tripped over the lawnmower sitting in the exact same spot it was left a fortnight before.

Grrrrr.

Seems my little experiment backfired on me, didn’t it. And it’s looking highly likely that the sight of this avalanche of laundry will force me to do something about it after all.

Along with the rest of the stuff I “never do around here”.

All I need now’s a couple of ugly stepsisters and the fairytale’s complete.

Oh well, at least I feel I’ve well and truly proved the story about Aussie men and their lack of enthusiasm about housework. So I can do the “I told you so” dance to my heart’s content, if ever my Prince Charming takes me to the ball.

Hmmm.

Maybe in my next life my Fairy Godmother will send me a nice, single, Norwegian fella instead.

Jx
©2009

It Seemed like a Good Idea at the Time

There’s a dirty big truck that’s been stuck in our front yard for the past day or so.

It’s because it’s big that it’s dirty and it’s because it’s big and dirty that it’s stuck.

Oh it all started out so innocently, but a few poor decisions added up to one whole lotta trouble.

See, the neighbours are planning on building a new back deck. Before they can do this they need to remove a tree next to the driveway to allow access to their backyard. We happen to share that driveway. At this stage it was so far so good and we had no complaints about the planned removal (the tree drops leaves and funny little spiky pods all over the driveway each autumn making a bloody big mess and slippery to boot).

So there they were, 4 blokes merrily chopping and chipping the liquid amber that overlooks the drive. But instead of backing the truck in off the street (then just driving it straight out again), they drove it in and tried to back it out. That was mistake number 1.

This is where the fun really begins!

The driver apparently had a minor moment of panic about how to go about getting out again as the now fully-laden truck started sliding down the drive towards the drop at the bottom (the aforementioned leaves and recent rain making it even more slippery). Mistake number 2.

The smell of burning clutch was our first indication that something was not quite right outside so the kids and my Beloved decided to go investigate. The driver has managed to stop the truck before it went over the edge of the yard (which drops almost straight down into the bushland reserve below), but failed to do so before all but one tyre left the concrete. So now my Beloved offers his assistance, and his ute. He manages to pull the hopper trailer off the back of the truck (with 3 of the tree guys helping) and drags it across the driveway, leaving scrapes and tyre marks as he goes (what can I say, little ute versus big tree chipper).

The truck driver, on the other hand, has decided to get back in the truck and have another go at backing up. Mistake number 3.

By now the stench of burning rubber has wafted into the house to join the smell of burn-out clutch (and wreaking havoc with my plans for dinner, I can tell you).

Not willing to quit while he’s, um, already behind, the truck driver has another go…and succeeds in ploughing up enough mud for us to plant at least 3 rows of vegies, or another small tree. And still the truck is stuck in the muck.

The fellas in their combined wisdom decide to chock the wheels with some nearby timber. Mistake number 4. We now have almost as many woodchips on the outside of the truck as in it!

Not keen to give up just yet, the men then try propping the wheels with blocks. Mistake number 5- as both blocks and tyres disappear into the soggy boggy mess that was our front yard.

So they enlist the help of a friend’s 4WD and try to tow the truck out. Mistake number 6- now the truck and 4WD have almost totally burnt out clutches (and I have an even more beautiful aroma through my home).

Next they call in another mate with another truck and try using that to haul the stuck truck out. That was mistake number 7 as all they managed to do was pull the 2nd truck’s rear bumper clean off.

The truck has now been stuck for over 3 hours, has developed a dangerous lean to the left, and night has fallen. Deciding that perhaps they would have more success in daylight, they leave truck and trailer smack bang in our front yard, and go home (presumably for a beer or six). Except for the guy whose bumper fell off, he rings our doorbell asking my Beloved if he could help him carry it up to the road- it was too heavy for him alone, poor dear.

Since they weren’t planning on coming back ‘til 10.30am I wasn’t worried about getting my car out for the morning school run. Obviously the boss was a little more stressed about his heavy machinery parked in our garden and turns up before I had even managed to get the kids fully dressed and out the door. So I chased said kids into the car, telling them to finish putting socks, shoes, jumpers, and hats on, while I tore off out the driveway before I was blocked in for the day.

I then figured I’d give them space and time to remove the truck, so took yet another car for a test drive (I don’t know what I’ll do to kill time when I finally find the right vehicle!) but was amused when I arrived home to see even more men, even more equipment, and one truck still stuck. (Oh and did I mention it had started to rain again?)

From what I gather (with an occasional peek out the window) they’ve used a bobcat to dig around the bogged up wheels (sunk in up to the axle they were!) used some stronger better chocks to prop up the tyres, and then another bigger truck to pull the bugger out (and this one kept its bumper bar)!

All up, 9 men, 5 vehicles, and almost 24 hours. Lord only knows how many mistakes in all.

Plus we now have a freshly ploughed field for a front yard, and a driveway that looks like it's just hosted the 2009 Drag Racing Championships.

Maybe next time they’ll back it in…or better yet, park it on the street.

Jx
©2009

The Eyes have it

I’ve just been reading new research that says men and women see things differently.

Plus another report into how much we check out members of the opposite sex, which says guys are seen to be spending twice as long as the ladies sussing what else is available.

Talk about stating the obvious!

The theory is that male and female brains evolved differently, with a distinct disparity in our eyesight as a result, depending on what each needed to do to survive.

What the researchers failed to see is that a man puts his very life on the line in the event that he is sprung by the Missus whilst checking out other chicks. They also overlooked the well-known syndrome called: “Having a Man’s Look”.

I’ve got to admit, my Beloved is hopeless at the sneak peek.

I have no doubt that he well and truly fits the bill of those men who like a little look from time to time. What he hasn’t developed, in all this evolution, is the skill to do it without me being fully aware of what he’s up to. And he has tried every flimsy excuse in the book when caught in the act of noticing what’s walking past- even to the point of trying to draw my attention to any male in the area instead. (Seriously, what’s worse, thinking your other half is looking at the opposite sex, or checking out their own kind, hmmm?!)

The research also found that men are better at seeing things in the distance, while women are best up close. Something about the men being hunters, and women being gatherers, and all that from way back.

Again I say, that’s pretty darn obvious to any woman who’s ever stood beside a man standing at the cupboard saying “It’s not in here!” … or to any fella giving directions to a female driver who then sails straight past the street she was supposed to turn up, saying she didn’t see the sign! (Guilty, as charged.)

It’s also apparent that this eyesight stuff has been passed down from generation to generation, and actually shows up quite early in the piece. But this fact was also overlooked in the recent research, possibly because it was carried out by males.

Just last week our 7 y.o. son was standing in front of the open fridge trying to find some biscuits, and yelling to me that we needed to buy some more. I simply walked up beside him, reached into the fridge and took the packet off the shelf right at his eye level. My little boy then declared “I must’ve had a Man’s Look!”

Quod erat demonstrandum.

If you want to look into it even further, you will see there’s evidence that women have better peripheral vision than their male mate- around 180 degrees compared with a mere 30. Which is why a mother, for example, can keep an eye on dinner, see what’s on the evening news, and watch over the children all at the same time. A man, on the other hand, can miss one child drawing on another if they’re standing right beside him.

It’s another reason that a male can swear black and blue that his partner has hidden something on him, when it’s really right before their eyes. (It’s a very handy trick, mind you, hiding something in plain sight. I find it works very well with chocolate.)

It also explains why the aforementioned study found that men are seen turning their head when something attractive walks by, twice as often as women.

I’d like to put forward the suggestion that the female of the species also likes to take a look, some just as much as the men do; it’s just that the scope of our vision means we’re less likely to get caught!

Jx
©2009

Secret Women's Business

There’s this new ad on TV that says “You shouldn’t be taxed for being a woman.”

I’m inclined to believe it’s exactly the reason certain things are included in the GST...it’s inescapable, and for the most part, not negotiable.

For, what’s that old saying: ‘Only two things in life are certain; Death, and Taxes.’

So it stands to reason that if it’s gonna be needed, someone’s going to put a price on it. In this case, we’re talking about ‘feminine hygiene products’ (and isn’t it funny that there’s still such obvious discomfort about discussing this natural occurrence and management thereof, that they have to employ euphemisms).

And it appears that the ad has caught the attention of the very market at which it was aimed. Which is great news for the supermarket chain in question- seems it’s luring those customers away from their competitors- at least if you believe the word on the street.

For example, I recently paused in the supermarket aisle to peruse all the possibilities for a periodic episode, when a couple comes strolling through. She slowed her pace and came to a stop alongside me whilst he picked up speed and was last seen dashing around the corner into Dairy. As we both stood there, dazed and confused by the size of the selection and the specials, it didn’t seem at all strange to strike up a conversation about it.

“A lot to choose from, eh.” says she, addressing the shelves in front of us but I assumed she was really talking to me. See, eye contact is a big thing in these situations, or rather, a lack thereof (kinda like the men at the urinal so I’m told- you don’t wanna look in the wrong place so keep your eyes at the wall dead ahead at all times).

“Yes, too many.” says I in a sparkling display of my conversational skills.

“There should just be one type of each to make it easier” continued the stranger at my right.

“And one price across the board” I agreed.

“But at least they’re not adding GST to them anymore,” says my newfound friend, “unlike some other stores.”

“Now if only we could get them to take the tax off a few more of life’s necessities!” declared I.

Perhaps it was a case of safety in numbers as our selection seemed to take a little longer than the usual sideways snatch-and-grab on a quick trip up the aisle. And we finally strolled companionably around the corner to find her other half still lurking near the yoghurt section.

As she was smacking him with the sanitary napkins and stirring him for taking off again, I continued on my quest for other essential items (with GST included, unfortunately), chuckling as I went.

I was then amused as I took my turn at the cash register, where an obviously pubescent lad highlighted his rather unfortunate crop of acne with a brilliant blush as he scanned my items. It probably didn’t help that I clumsily dropped that particular product no less than three times as I was transferring it from basket to conveyor belt to bag. (Isn’t it amazing how clumsy one can be when you least need it?)

Based on his face, it made me wonder how the checkout chicks cope when a customer plonks a packet of prophylactics on the counter. (Lord knows I blush if it’s my turn to buy them, and I’m a married woman approaching 40 for crying out loud!) Mind you, I can’t get my Beloved to buy certain items for love nor money…

How did we get to TV shows that show way too much of the seedier side of life, in a world where “sex, drugs, and rock & roll” seem to be both acceptable and attainable ideals; yet the man and the woman on the street still can’t bring themselves to freely use the proper terminology for totally natural bodily functions and the products designed to make that time of life a little easier (oh and what is with the blue liquid they use in all those ads, I ask you? If it’s blue, you’re in big trouble, I’d say)!

But I digress.

So, back to that ad and the claims one shouldn’t be taxed for being a woman.

While I’m happy to see at least one supermarket is covering a tax that the average female gets hit with for around 40 years of her life, I’d be absolutely cheering the first company that was brave enough to say it without the euphemisms too.

Jx
©2009

If Men Ruled the World

I have a husband, a son, and a stepson. Even our dog is a boy (though, thankfully, he’s of the no-nads variety).

Now, I could quite easily end this blog here and now, and I’d put money on it that a fair number of you would know exactly what I was talking about and could fill in the blanks all by yourself.

But since this is my 15 seconds of fame, I’ll carry on, shall I ladies? (And any man brave enough to venture forth from here, please note: you have been warned!)

If any of the abovementioned male creatures gets sick, the whole world as we know it comes to a screeching halt. The moon stops orbiting the earth, the sun falls from the sky, and human life ceases to be. Or it may as well.

All because a male is ill.

If, on the other hand, the females of the household get sick … life just goes on as before.

See, God created mankind in His image. And even God had to take a day off.

Whereas the female of the species just keeps ticking along, day after day, doing all the things that fall into the category of “women’s work” with the occasional ribbing from her mate (get it? Ribbing! Sorry, I couldn’t resist).

As we know from basic biology, it takes two Xs to make a woman, which in my opinion gives us a double dose of the stronger stuff, or twice as much tolerance when it comes to pain.

It is sad but true that if men had the babies, the world population would be much lower than it is today (and here’s where a man jumps in and says that wouldn’t be altogether a bad thing), if men went through pregnancy and labour, there would be medals made to hand out specifically to honour that achievement, and if men had to put up with PMS and the like roughly every 4 weeks, we would see the annual sick-day quota shoot up by at least an extra 12, and there would miraculously appear on the pharmacy shelves a painkiller to beat them all, at a very reasonable price too, I might add!

Yes, while it is true that man does traditionally carry the woman over the threshold on their wedding night, when it comes to the pain threshold, the typical male is reduced to a crawl.

Take my Beloved, for example, he recently recovered from a cold.

A cold.

He used up every tissue that Kleenex has managed to manufacture this past month, damn near drained the dam of its water supply, washing down enough paracetamol to put the local junkies to shame, and spent the better part of a week in bed (he did drag himself to work, God love him, purely because we need the money).

Just to balance out our particular equation, there’s me. I have suffered from endometriosis and polycystic ovaries since puberty kicked in. Most months I have trouble standing upright due to the agony in my uterus. I am usually anaemic, so throw in some good old-fashioned fatigue there. And I am one of those lucky lucky ladies that enjoys this wondrous event for a full 7 days each cycle. Yay me.

Do I get to wallow in my misery in the comfort and privacy of my bedroom?

Do I get to snuggle with a hot water bottle and a decent dose of anti-inflammatories?

Do I get to hit the pause button on the daily play-by-play of family life- the cooking, cleaning up, and chasing after kids?

Do I look like a man to you?

Oh no, with so much masculinity in our midst, I must just keep going.

And woe is the woman who happens to mention it’s “that time of the month”, because that only lays us open to a potential onslaught of PMS jokes thought up by someone who’s never experienced PMS, for obvious reasons.

So we suffer, but we do it in silence. And if the opposite sex shows some sympathy and offers a hot cup of tea, we do not throw it back in their face (however tempting that may be at times), we are gracious in our gender, and grateful in our manner.

And we curse the living dickens out of them over the internet instead.

Yes men may think they rule the world, but we know who keeps it turning don’t we?

Jx
©2009