Apparently some topics are taboo. Apparently, I don't care.
Why do we collectively pretend that we don't masturbate? More importantly, if you aren't pretending and you honestly don't, why the hell not?
Masturbation, regardless of what some of your mothers may have told you, isn't dirty. It isn't shameful nor is it embarrassing.
Masturbation serves to help build a relationship with your own body, allows you to explore the ways you like to be touched as well as the ways you don't.
Let's be honest, orgasms are pretty phenomenal. Every now and again I'm in the mood to have one, without all the work that goes with it. I adore my husband and we have a great sex life. That doesn't take away from the fact that on occasion I just want what I want without having to return the favor. And the same goes for him.
Men masturbate. Often. Really often. Men will masturbate to videos, pictures, fantasies, the woman standing in line behind them at the bank, a really strong breeze, a ripe peach. Whatever, you get my point. The difference is that men have no shame about it, and they shouldn't.
Let's take my husband for example ( considering he's a man, and therefor without shame, he won't care that I'm using him), he is a once a day kind of guy. He also has a very healthy and active sex life but that doesn't stop him from indulging in a one off with himself. He's particularly fond of amateur housewifey type porn. How do I know this you ask? Because it isn't a secret, he doesn't hide it from me, and I don't mind that he looks. Who cares. The man has been faithfully married to me for 15 years. If he wants to admire some random internet boobs, so be it. It's healthy. And the fact that our masturbation habits are something we can freely discuss with each other simply adds to the sexy in the bedroom. As a side note, mutual masturbation is a great way to let your other half see exactly how you like your lady-parts fondled.
I, on the other hand, am not a fan of the visual. I prefer a good stranger fantasy. How I get to the finish line isn't the point though, the point is, I masturbate. Alot. There isn't anything wrong with it. I'm not embarrassed. I love my body, I love an orgasm.
Being confident enough to accept your body, to love it, to pamper it and pamper yourself is an exceedingly important step toward becoming a strong, healthy, complete woman.
Oscar Wilde had the right idea when he said " To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance."
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The greatest enemy of women
I have to go to my daughter's softball game today and I am petrified. Not because I worry she'll be hurt, or that they'll lose. Nope, those are but minor fears. I am petrified because with softball games comes parents. More specifically, other mothers.
Oh fellow women, why the hell are you so scary?
In 1920 women across America banded together and fought to secure our right to vote. I can guarantee that even during that historic time, women who stood together in picket lines, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, still found the time to gossip as soon as they had the chance.
It baffles me, the ways of women, and I am one. I have never understood our need to tear other women down in order to build ourselves up. Everyday as women we face constant battles for equality, for fairness, for safety and security. We struggle with our own self-worth, our personal demons and our place in the world.
With all of that, why the hell are we adding to our own pressures by attacking each other?
I'm 5'8, 135 pounds, blonde, and heavy chested. The combination of those things means that women who don't know me will be mean to me. It isn't the exception, it is the rule. It doesn't matter that I laugh from deep in my belly, that I am loyal to my friends, protective of my family, honest to a fault or that I love with my entire heart.
I am simply a threat to those who don't know me. And it is ridiculous. I bake cookies, I knead bread, I quilt. I play online video games, I love sports. I'm a dork. I tell dirty jokes and I cry at everything. I am so not a threat.
I take myself out to lunch and I watch tables of women together, laughing and sharing and enjoying being together and I sit on the outside and die a little inside. The envy that I feel is deep and it is profound and it tears at my heart and rips away my self-worth.
I want to sit at the table, I want to be let in. I want shoulders to cry on and women to call when I am lonely, when I am afraid, when I am joyous or proud. But I have none.
After years filled with gossip and lies, dirty looks and shuns, I have given up. I am afraid of women.
And still I just want a friend.
We, as women, should be each others strongest supporters. We should be the ones celebrating each other, celebrating our beauty, celebrating our victories.
My strengths are not your weakness. My strengths, or her strengths, every women's strengths, they are yours too. They are your victories as well.
I am not your competition, I am your cheering section.
My daughters have been taught to compliment other women whenever they can. To notice a beautiful smile, to appreciate the beauty in others, to see women for their worth.
Life isn't a contest. There is no winner, no losers. There are only people, feelings, friendships and love. There is enough for everyone. What I have doesn't lessen what you have. What we have together only makes it bigger, stronger, better.
I am not your competition. I just want to be your friend.
Oh fellow women, why the hell are you so scary?
In 1920 women across America banded together and fought to secure our right to vote. I can guarantee that even during that historic time, women who stood together in picket lines, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, still found the time to gossip as soon as they had the chance.
It baffles me, the ways of women, and I am one. I have never understood our need to tear other women down in order to build ourselves up. Everyday as women we face constant battles for equality, for fairness, for safety and security. We struggle with our own self-worth, our personal demons and our place in the world.
With all of that, why the hell are we adding to our own pressures by attacking each other?
I'm 5'8, 135 pounds, blonde, and heavy chested. The combination of those things means that women who don't know me will be mean to me. It isn't the exception, it is the rule. It doesn't matter that I laugh from deep in my belly, that I am loyal to my friends, protective of my family, honest to a fault or that I love with my entire heart.
I am simply a threat to those who don't know me. And it is ridiculous. I bake cookies, I knead bread, I quilt. I play online video games, I love sports. I'm a dork. I tell dirty jokes and I cry at everything. I am so not a threat.
I take myself out to lunch and I watch tables of women together, laughing and sharing and enjoying being together and I sit on the outside and die a little inside. The envy that I feel is deep and it is profound and it tears at my heart and rips away my self-worth.
I want to sit at the table, I want to be let in. I want shoulders to cry on and women to call when I am lonely, when I am afraid, when I am joyous or proud. But I have none.
After years filled with gossip and lies, dirty looks and shuns, I have given up. I am afraid of women.
And still I just want a friend.
We, as women, should be each others strongest supporters. We should be the ones celebrating each other, celebrating our beauty, celebrating our victories.
My strengths are not your weakness. My strengths, or her strengths, every women's strengths, they are yours too. They are your victories as well.
I am not your competition, I am your cheering section.
My daughters have been taught to compliment other women whenever they can. To notice a beautiful smile, to appreciate the beauty in others, to see women for their worth.
Life isn't a contest. There is no winner, no losers. There are only people, feelings, friendships and love. There is enough for everyone. What I have doesn't lessen what you have. What we have together only makes it bigger, stronger, better.
I am not your competition. I just want to be your friend.
My mother's daughter
When did I become my mother? More importantly, when did becoming my mother turn into a source of pride instead of a dreaded event?
As teenagers we all swore, usually at the top of our lungs “I’ll never be like you!” There was no worse imaginable fate than turning into Mom.
We spent our teen years doing everything possible to distance ourselves from Mom. We struggled to develop our own identities; we rebelled against anything that we believed Mom would approve of.
Fast forward a decade. Married and in my own home I had Mommy on speed dial. How do I make the gravy for Thanksgiving? How do I get homeowners insurance? Are men physically incapable of getting socks into the laundry basket?
Suddenly, my mother who knew absolutely nothing about life when I was 17 turned into my own personal Martha Stewart.
When I became a Mother myself, I realized I was in way over my head. Once again my speed dial button saw daily action. “Mommy, my baby has a little stumpy thing and it fell off in the tub, HELP!!” Convinced I broke my new baby, my first reaction was to call home. When I was 17 and in trouble…I was more willing to ask the homeless guy on the corner for help than to admit I needed my mom.
My daughter asked me the other day why I won’t put the bananas on top of the fridge. The only answer I could come up with was “Because that’s how my mom did it.” It’s the same reason I put soap into the washing machine water before I add the clothes. Someday my daughter will do the same.
We learn to be mothers by first being daughters. We also learn to be daughters by first being mothers. During the teen years when I tried to pretend my mom didn’t exist, her lessons still took root in my heart. I learned what being a mother means. I learned to give without receiving; I learned to appreciate a smile, a hug, a drawing. I learned to listen without judging. Having daughters has taught me how to be one myself. I see now who my mother was. I see what she did for me. I’ve learned that who I am, is only because I was lucky enough to be my mothers daughter.
When I look down, I see my mothers’ hands. Strong, a little beat up, a little wrinkled. They look like the hands that taught me to tie my shoes. The same slender fingers that ran through my hair when I cried on her shoulders. When I braid my daughters’ hair, I see my past and I see her future. Someday my daughter will become me. Hopefully I will have passed to her the same things my mother gave to me. Strength, Hope, Determination, Love, Acceptance and Guidance.
By the way, bananas turn brown too quickly on the top of the fridge. I called my mom and asked.
As teenagers we all swore, usually at the top of our lungs “I’ll never be like you!” There was no worse imaginable fate than turning into Mom.
We spent our teen years doing everything possible to distance ourselves from Mom. We struggled to develop our own identities; we rebelled against anything that we believed Mom would approve of.
Fast forward a decade. Married and in my own home I had Mommy on speed dial. How do I make the gravy for Thanksgiving? How do I get homeowners insurance? Are men physically incapable of getting socks into the laundry basket?
Suddenly, my mother who knew absolutely nothing about life when I was 17 turned into my own personal Martha Stewart.
When I became a Mother myself, I realized I was in way over my head. Once again my speed dial button saw daily action. “Mommy, my baby has a little stumpy thing and it fell off in the tub, HELP!!” Convinced I broke my new baby, my first reaction was to call home. When I was 17 and in trouble…I was more willing to ask the homeless guy on the corner for help than to admit I needed my mom.
My daughter asked me the other day why I won’t put the bananas on top of the fridge. The only answer I could come up with was “Because that’s how my mom did it.” It’s the same reason I put soap into the washing machine water before I add the clothes. Someday my daughter will do the same.
We learn to be mothers by first being daughters. We also learn to be daughters by first being mothers. During the teen years when I tried to pretend my mom didn’t exist, her lessons still took root in my heart. I learned what being a mother means. I learned to give without receiving; I learned to appreciate a smile, a hug, a drawing. I learned to listen without judging. Having daughters has taught me how to be one myself. I see now who my mother was. I see what she did for me. I’ve learned that who I am, is only because I was lucky enough to be my mothers daughter.
When I look down, I see my mothers’ hands. Strong, a little beat up, a little wrinkled. They look like the hands that taught me to tie my shoes. The same slender fingers that ran through my hair when I cried on her shoulders. When I braid my daughters’ hair, I see my past and I see her future. Someday my daughter will become me. Hopefully I will have passed to her the same things my mother gave to me. Strength, Hope, Determination, Love, Acceptance and Guidance.
By the way, bananas turn brown too quickly on the top of the fridge. I called my mom and asked.
At what price beauty?
Wrinkles just aren’t funny. I’m sitting here trying to find a humorous spin on the fact that I have discovered wrinkles. On my face of all places. Knee wrinkles, no biggie, a few wrinkles on my hands? No problemo. On my face?? Okay, that’s just not funny.
If I take my glasses off and look in the mirror my skin is soft, supple and totally unlined. Did I mention I’m half blind without my glasses? As soon as I put the darned things on the truth slaps me in the face. I’m getting older.
I’m not sure who coined the phrase “Laugh Lines” but I’m not seeing the humor in it. At no point have I ever looked at those little lines and laughed. Not even a snicker.
So now what? According to the barely 20 year old woman on my television, wrinkles are no match for modern science. All I have to do is get deadly bacteria injected into my face.
WHOA! Hold up. Bacteria. Injected. On purpose?? My face?? Let me get this right, people pay money to have a deadly bacteria injected into their bodies, losing all ability to show facial expressions? Woohoo, sign me up!
Moving along, I could also get an acid peel. Sounds fun right?? I can have burning acid poured on my face to remove all the damaged layers of skin. After the skin peels off, I walk around for a month looking like Samantha from Sex in The City. Remember that episode? Her face made a child cry. I have children, it’s hard enough to get them to eat dinner, imagine the trouble I’d have talking them into eating their hamburger when it so closely resembles Mommy’s face??
There are always fat injections to fill out and plump up those pesky wrinkle lines. The doctor simply sucks some fat from my butt and injects into my face. Again with the injecting. The only thing less funny than wrinkles is needles. More funny than wrinkles would be the jokes my husband could make about me having my own butt for a face. Wrinkle free or not, I’m not subjecting myself to that.
When did wrinkles become such a bad thing for women? Men with wrinkles are distinguished looking but women just look old? I think not. It’s bad enough men get to be chunkier than women, but they get to have wrinkles in peace too? How the heck is that fair?
The thoughts of deadly bacteria, molting skin and a butt face have me reconsidering this entire wrinkle elimination idea. Looking a little more closely in the mirror, with my glasses on of course, I’m having trouble seeing why these little lines are such a traumatic thing.
The lines around my eyes? Those are from laughing at my children. The little crows feet around my mouth? I’m pretty sure I got those from puckering up to kiss my husband so often. I can’t believe I actually considered getting rid of those. No way. I earned them, and they are badges of honor. My face has a story to tell, and that story is filled with love and laughter.
The beauty industry can keep their needles, I’m keeping my face just the way it is. Wrinkled and happy.
If I take my glasses off and look in the mirror my skin is soft, supple and totally unlined. Did I mention I’m half blind without my glasses? As soon as I put the darned things on the truth slaps me in the face. I’m getting older.
I’m not sure who coined the phrase “Laugh Lines” but I’m not seeing the humor in it. At no point have I ever looked at those little lines and laughed. Not even a snicker.
So now what? According to the barely 20 year old woman on my television, wrinkles are no match for modern science. All I have to do is get deadly bacteria injected into my face.
WHOA! Hold up. Bacteria. Injected. On purpose?? My face?? Let me get this right, people pay money to have a deadly bacteria injected into their bodies, losing all ability to show facial expressions? Woohoo, sign me up!
Moving along, I could also get an acid peel. Sounds fun right?? I can have burning acid poured on my face to remove all the damaged layers of skin. After the skin peels off, I walk around for a month looking like Samantha from Sex in The City. Remember that episode? Her face made a child cry. I have children, it’s hard enough to get them to eat dinner, imagine the trouble I’d have talking them into eating their hamburger when it so closely resembles Mommy’s face??
There are always fat injections to fill out and plump up those pesky wrinkle lines. The doctor simply sucks some fat from my butt and injects into my face. Again with the injecting. The only thing less funny than wrinkles is needles. More funny than wrinkles would be the jokes my husband could make about me having my own butt for a face. Wrinkle free or not, I’m not subjecting myself to that.
When did wrinkles become such a bad thing for women? Men with wrinkles are distinguished looking but women just look old? I think not. It’s bad enough men get to be chunkier than women, but they get to have wrinkles in peace too? How the heck is that fair?
The thoughts of deadly bacteria, molting skin and a butt face have me reconsidering this entire wrinkle elimination idea. Looking a little more closely in the mirror, with my glasses on of course, I’m having trouble seeing why these little lines are such a traumatic thing.
The lines around my eyes? Those are from laughing at my children. The little crows feet around my mouth? I’m pretty sure I got those from puckering up to kiss my husband so often. I can’t believe I actually considered getting rid of those. No way. I earned them, and they are badges of honor. My face has a story to tell, and that story is filled with love and laughter.
The beauty industry can keep their needles, I’m keeping my face just the way it is. Wrinkled and happy.
Sex and the married woman
Sex. It's everywhere we look. Music videos, movies, television, novels, the internet. Everywhere. So why aren't women having more of it? I don't mean the quick "get it over with so I can get back to the laundry" kind of sex either.
I'm talking about down and dirty, make you forget how to breathe, sweaty, passionate, mind-numbing sex. You remember that, don't you?
I know, I know. You're too busy, too tired, the kids are home, the dog needs to be walked, you worked all day, your thighs are fat. Whatever. Too bad, get over it, get laid.
Don't be shocked. Married moms can fuck too. And we should. Often. Actually, as often as possible.
A fantastic sex life, in my humble and horny opinion, is the key to a strong and healthy marriage.
Sex isn't something we have to do, sex is something we should want to do. It creates an intimacy, an open line of communication, a connection to another human. It opens the door to our inner confidence. Few things make a woman feel as sexy as fantastic sex. And a woman who feels sexy feels strong, confident, valid and desired. Who doesn't want to feel desired?
When we're young and single, still dating and looking for our Mr. Husband man, we're all about sex, whether we want to admit it or not. We held the power in our dating relationships. We went out of our way to look good, to be sexy, to attract men. And it worked. We got the ring. For awhile we keep up the game, we have crazy honeymoon sex, we fuck in the kitchen. We laugh, we love, we roll around in bed and eat chocolate covered strawberries naked in the bathtub.
And then it happens. We make babies. We tuck away our sexual desires, we give our breasts over to our children, we smother our vaginas in Khaki pants and run to soccer games and school plays. Mothers aren't supposed to be sexy, are they?
We allow the frustrations of our lives to shut down the core of our sexuality. No longer is Mr. Husband the center of our universe. We somehow allow him to become the guy we need when a pipe is clogged, or the trash needs to be taken out, but no longer is he the guy who makes our thighs tingle or our cunts throb. Now he is just one more person we're responsible for taking care of. Husbands, children, friends, family...we take care of all of them and in the process stop taking care of ourselves.
Knock it off. It isn't good for you, isn't good for your heart, your passions, your needs. or you soul.
Underneath the khaki pants and polo shirts is still a woman. A woman who deserves desire and fire, pleasure and satisfaction. And that Mr. Husband man, he misses her. He misses the woman he married, the woman who kissed with her eyes open, fucked with the lights on, and craved his touch.
I like to read craigslist. Specifically, I like to read casual encounters. The ads make me laugh usually, but last night as I was reading, it just made me sad. It seemed like every ad was from a married man in search of a little spark, a little passion, a fling. And each one said the same thing. "I love my wife, but I'm in a sexless marriage."
What. The. Fuck.
I've been married for 15 years. In those 15 years my husband has made me crazy, he's made me cry, he's made me yell, he's made me want to punch him in the face on occasion. More importantly, for 15 years he has made me cum. We fight, we fuck, we forgive.
I'm a mother. I'm a wife. I'm a woman. Not necessarily in that order.
In order to be a good wife, to be a good mother, I need to be a good woman. I need to have passion, I need to feel wanted, adored, cherished. I need to know that I'm satisfied, that my husband is satisfied. I need to know that at the end of a fantastically shitty day I can close my bedroom door, shut out my children, my friends, my job, my disappointments and frustrations and just be free.
Sex is beautiful, it's healthy, it's necessary. Sex isn't a chore, it's a release. It's a reminder that we're alive, that we're loved, that we can feel, breathe, taste, touch, laugh and live.
I'm talking about down and dirty, make you forget how to breathe, sweaty, passionate, mind-numbing sex. You remember that, don't you?
I know, I know. You're too busy, too tired, the kids are home, the dog needs to be walked, you worked all day, your thighs are fat. Whatever. Too bad, get over it, get laid.
Don't be shocked. Married moms can fuck too. And we should. Often. Actually, as often as possible.
A fantastic sex life, in my humble and horny opinion, is the key to a strong and healthy marriage.
Sex isn't something we have to do, sex is something we should want to do. It creates an intimacy, an open line of communication, a connection to another human. It opens the door to our inner confidence. Few things make a woman feel as sexy as fantastic sex. And a woman who feels sexy feels strong, confident, valid and desired. Who doesn't want to feel desired?
When we're young and single, still dating and looking for our Mr. Husband man, we're all about sex, whether we want to admit it or not. We held the power in our dating relationships. We went out of our way to look good, to be sexy, to attract men. And it worked. We got the ring. For awhile we keep up the game, we have crazy honeymoon sex, we fuck in the kitchen. We laugh, we love, we roll around in bed and eat chocolate covered strawberries naked in the bathtub.
And then it happens. We make babies. We tuck away our sexual desires, we give our breasts over to our children, we smother our vaginas in Khaki pants and run to soccer games and school plays. Mothers aren't supposed to be sexy, are they?
We allow the frustrations of our lives to shut down the core of our sexuality. No longer is Mr. Husband the center of our universe. We somehow allow him to become the guy we need when a pipe is clogged, or the trash needs to be taken out, but no longer is he the guy who makes our thighs tingle or our cunts throb. Now he is just one more person we're responsible for taking care of. Husbands, children, friends, family...we take care of all of them and in the process stop taking care of ourselves.
Knock it off. It isn't good for you, isn't good for your heart, your passions, your needs. or you soul.
Underneath the khaki pants and polo shirts is still a woman. A woman who deserves desire and fire, pleasure and satisfaction. And that Mr. Husband man, he misses her. He misses the woman he married, the woman who kissed with her eyes open, fucked with the lights on, and craved his touch.
I like to read craigslist. Specifically, I like to read casual encounters. The ads make me laugh usually, but last night as I was reading, it just made me sad. It seemed like every ad was from a married man in search of a little spark, a little passion, a fling. And each one said the same thing. "I love my wife, but I'm in a sexless marriage."
What. The. Fuck.
I've been married for 15 years. In those 15 years my husband has made me crazy, he's made me cry, he's made me yell, he's made me want to punch him in the face on occasion. More importantly, for 15 years he has made me cum. We fight, we fuck, we forgive.
I'm a mother. I'm a wife. I'm a woman. Not necessarily in that order.
In order to be a good wife, to be a good mother, I need to be a good woman. I need to have passion, I need to feel wanted, adored, cherished. I need to know that I'm satisfied, that my husband is satisfied. I need to know that at the end of a fantastically shitty day I can close my bedroom door, shut out my children, my friends, my job, my disappointments and frustrations and just be free.
Sex is beautiful, it's healthy, it's necessary. Sex isn't a chore, it's a release. It's a reminder that we're alive, that we're loved, that we can feel, breathe, taste, touch, laugh and live.
Emasculating Mr. Right
We've all asked the question "where have all the good men gone?" and sadly I know the answer. We killed them. In our demands to be listened to, understood and treated equally we we took away everything that makes men, well, Manly.
As little girls we read beautiful fairy tales that inevitably ended with the Prince saving the Princess and living together happily ever after. We then move on to romance novels filled with knights in shining armor and bad boys gone good. We dream of big weddings and houses with pickets fences, wrapped at night in the arms a big strong man. Then we grew up and took that mans balls away. Yet we continue to complain that we can't find Mr.Right.
We've demanded equality between the sexes, we want our men to listen, be attentive, understand us and even worse, empathize with us. We want our men to be evolved. We said it isn't okay to treat us like women anymore. Don't open car doors, don't tell us we're pretty, don't pull out our chairs. We actually convinced them we wanted to be treated like men. At the same time we browbeat them into becoming these sensitive pasteurized versions of their former masculine selves. Forget Yes Men, we turned them into Yes Dears. The thing is, it backfired. We got what we wanted, men who are caring, empathetic and considerate of our feelings. Little Stepford men. Now that we have them, we don't respect them. Not one single bit.
Why do you think romance novels are so popular? They all have the same formula, boy meets girl, boy is dashing and sweeps girl off her feet. The end. Is the leading man ever a weakling or a yes dear? Nope. That book wouldn't sell. The leading man is always a manly man, strong, debonair, macho and very masculine. He doesn't put up with the heroines crap. He goes after what he wants, gender sensitivity classes be damned, and he gets the girl.
Deep down that's what women are looking for. We want a Man. A man to take control, sweep us off our feet and make us feel like feminine, beautiful, cherished women. We don't respect a man we can walk all over. We want to be challenged, we want passion and sparks and fire. We do not want a man mopping our kitchen floors. We may think we do, but honestly...how sexy is a man that you can push around?
Men are very simple creatures. We're trying to turn them into complicated male versions of ourselves with all the depth and complexities. It's not going to happen. Men want food, shelter, sex and praise. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less.
Before men came to us, they were with their mothers. Mom praised him, made him feel like a big boy and rewarded him with hugs and kisses. Mom thought he was the smartest fastest strongest boy ever! He did anything he could to please her because she made him feel good about himself. Fast forward to his relationships with women. Jane wants Bob to get a better job. Jane tells Bob he isn't pulling his weight, he better get his act together, she berates him, demeans him and in effect, takes away his masculinity, which also takes away any desire to please her. In scenario two Jane wants Bob to get a better job so she tells him he is the smartest fastest strongest man ever! Bob, beating his chest, goes out and gets better job, because he wants to please Jane. When your mother said you'd catch more flies with sugar than vinegar, she knew what she was talking about.
Men are Men and Women are Women, Thank the Heavens. That's the way it's supposed to be. From the first hunters men have been responsible for providing for his woman, rewarded and praised for bringing home the bacon. Woman stayed around the fire, raised the children and communicated with each other. Men hunted together in silence. We, as women, developed communication skills from the very beginning. Men did not. They learned to express themselves with actions instead. Can you imagine a group of yappy cave-women trying to track a bear? Silence was a necessity for men. It was bred into them. Why do we act so surprised when they don't verbalize the same way women do? Men are raised to keep their emotions in check, shake it off, hang tough. Playing football and your leg gets ripped off? Grunting is acceptable, crying is not. Once again, why do we act shocked that men are less emotional than we are?
Instead of complaining about how men aren't like us, why aren't we embracing the differences? I for one am very very thankful for a man willing to pump my gas, clean my gutters, mow my lawn or kill anything with more than 4 legs. I don't want a man to know what color nail polish I prefer, or understand why I have 14 pairs of black shoes. I want a man that simply says You look nice tonight.
Women are soft and pretty and smell good, men are big and strong and normally smell not so great. Men hunt, women nurture. Women empathize and men fix things. Men are rough and women are gentle Like Ying and Yang, like 2 halves of a whole, men and women complete each other. Until we accept our differences and start to appreciate how important they are, talk shows will continue to be filled with unhappy women, men will continue to have that "huh, what did I do?" look on their faces, and we'll all keep walking around trying to rip the balls off Mr.Right.
As little girls we read beautiful fairy tales that inevitably ended with the Prince saving the Princess and living together happily ever after. We then move on to romance novels filled with knights in shining armor and bad boys gone good. We dream of big weddings and houses with pickets fences, wrapped at night in the arms a big strong man. Then we grew up and took that mans balls away. Yet we continue to complain that we can't find Mr.Right.
We've demanded equality between the sexes, we want our men to listen, be attentive, understand us and even worse, empathize with us. We want our men to be evolved. We said it isn't okay to treat us like women anymore. Don't open car doors, don't tell us we're pretty, don't pull out our chairs. We actually convinced them we wanted to be treated like men. At the same time we browbeat them into becoming these sensitive pasteurized versions of their former masculine selves. Forget Yes Men, we turned them into Yes Dears. The thing is, it backfired. We got what we wanted, men who are caring, empathetic and considerate of our feelings. Little Stepford men. Now that we have them, we don't respect them. Not one single bit.
Why do you think romance novels are so popular? They all have the same formula, boy meets girl, boy is dashing and sweeps girl off her feet. The end. Is the leading man ever a weakling or a yes dear? Nope. That book wouldn't sell. The leading man is always a manly man, strong, debonair, macho and very masculine. He doesn't put up with the heroines crap. He goes after what he wants, gender sensitivity classes be damned, and he gets the girl.
Deep down that's what women are looking for. We want a Man. A man to take control, sweep us off our feet and make us feel like feminine, beautiful, cherished women. We don't respect a man we can walk all over. We want to be challenged, we want passion and sparks and fire. We do not want a man mopping our kitchen floors. We may think we do, but honestly...how sexy is a man that you can push around?
Men are very simple creatures. We're trying to turn them into complicated male versions of ourselves with all the depth and complexities. It's not going to happen. Men want food, shelter, sex and praise. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less.
Before men came to us, they were with their mothers. Mom praised him, made him feel like a big boy and rewarded him with hugs and kisses. Mom thought he was the smartest fastest strongest boy ever! He did anything he could to please her because she made him feel good about himself. Fast forward to his relationships with women. Jane wants Bob to get a better job. Jane tells Bob he isn't pulling his weight, he better get his act together, she berates him, demeans him and in effect, takes away his masculinity, which also takes away any desire to please her. In scenario two Jane wants Bob to get a better job so she tells him he is the smartest fastest strongest man ever! Bob, beating his chest, goes out and gets better job, because he wants to please Jane. When your mother said you'd catch more flies with sugar than vinegar, she knew what she was talking about.
Men are Men and Women are Women, Thank the Heavens. That's the way it's supposed to be. From the first hunters men have been responsible for providing for his woman, rewarded and praised for bringing home the bacon. Woman stayed around the fire, raised the children and communicated with each other. Men hunted together in silence. We, as women, developed communication skills from the very beginning. Men did not. They learned to express themselves with actions instead. Can you imagine a group of yappy cave-women trying to track a bear? Silence was a necessity for men. It was bred into them. Why do we act so surprised when they don't verbalize the same way women do? Men are raised to keep their emotions in check, shake it off, hang tough. Playing football and your leg gets ripped off? Grunting is acceptable, crying is not. Once again, why do we act shocked that men are less emotional than we are?
Instead of complaining about how men aren't like us, why aren't we embracing the differences? I for one am very very thankful for a man willing to pump my gas, clean my gutters, mow my lawn or kill anything with more than 4 legs. I don't want a man to know what color nail polish I prefer, or understand why I have 14 pairs of black shoes. I want a man that simply says You look nice tonight.
Women are soft and pretty and smell good, men are big and strong and normally smell not so great. Men hunt, women nurture. Women empathize and men fix things. Men are rough and women are gentle Like Ying and Yang, like 2 halves of a whole, men and women complete each other. Until we accept our differences and start to appreciate how important they are, talk shows will continue to be filled with unhappy women, men will continue to have that "huh, what did I do?" look on their faces, and we'll all keep walking around trying to rip the balls off Mr.Right.
The beauty of women
You are beautiful. I haven't seen you but I know you are. You have to be, you're a woman. All women, regardless of age, race, body or face posses true beauty.
Our beauty lies in the sway of our hips, the curve of our neck, the swell of our breasts. Our beauty comes from the depths of our laugh and the strength of our hearts.
Our beauty isn't defined by the size of our dress or the length of our legs, our beauty is defined only by ourselves and somewhere we allowed our definition to be handed over to the eyes of others.
Rare is the woman who can stand naked in the mirror and appreciate what she sees. Instead of seeing the light in her eyes, the suppleness of her skin, the beauty that simply comes from being who we are, she sees the flaws. Imagined or otherwise.
How did we get here?
Open a magazine, turn on the television, listen to the radio, read any novel. The answer is clear as can be. We're encouraged to be thinner, younger, firmer, more symmetrical, more polished. Don't like what you see? Have it poked, prodded, rubbed, removed, replaced, redone. Go the gym, take a handful of pills, drink a magic potion, buy this shoe, buy that lotion, buy this cream, buy that bra, and if you still don't fit the standardized mold of what is beautiful you can simply cut everything open and start from scratch.
Bullshit.
Your beauty, your sexiness, your strength is already inside you, waiting to be set free. Not by lotions or pills or knives, but simply by you allowing it to be.
Beauty and sexiness come from confidence. Stand straighter, walk taller, lift your chin and know who you are. Know your body, know your face and accept it, appreciate it, revel in it. Be an individual and embrace the things that make you unique.
Take off your clothes and look at yourself, not at what you believe are the flaws but what is truly there. Take your beauty and own it. Own the heaviness of your breasts, the fullness of your thighs, the ripeness of your hips. You are a woman. You hold the keys to the world.
Your smile, your laugh, the tilt of your head, the smell of your hair, the depth of your life, these define you, they define your beauty and they define your sexiness. Not a magazine, not a stereotype, not a predetermined idea of what is or isn't genuine beauty.
You are beautiful.
Our beauty lies in the sway of our hips, the curve of our neck, the swell of our breasts. Our beauty comes from the depths of our laugh and the strength of our hearts.
Our beauty isn't defined by the size of our dress or the length of our legs, our beauty is defined only by ourselves and somewhere we allowed our definition to be handed over to the eyes of others.
Rare is the woman who can stand naked in the mirror and appreciate what she sees. Instead of seeing the light in her eyes, the suppleness of her skin, the beauty that simply comes from being who we are, she sees the flaws. Imagined or otherwise.
How did we get here?
Open a magazine, turn on the television, listen to the radio, read any novel. The answer is clear as can be. We're encouraged to be thinner, younger, firmer, more symmetrical, more polished. Don't like what you see? Have it poked, prodded, rubbed, removed, replaced, redone. Go the gym, take a handful of pills, drink a magic potion, buy this shoe, buy that lotion, buy this cream, buy that bra, and if you still don't fit the standardized mold of what is beautiful you can simply cut everything open and start from scratch.
Bullshit.
Your beauty, your sexiness, your strength is already inside you, waiting to be set free. Not by lotions or pills or knives, but simply by you allowing it to be.
Beauty and sexiness come from confidence. Stand straighter, walk taller, lift your chin and know who you are. Know your body, know your face and accept it, appreciate it, revel in it. Be an individual and embrace the things that make you unique.
Take off your clothes and look at yourself, not at what you believe are the flaws but what is truly there. Take your beauty and own it. Own the heaviness of your breasts, the fullness of your thighs, the ripeness of your hips. You are a woman. You hold the keys to the world.
Your smile, your laugh, the tilt of your head, the smell of your hair, the depth of your life, these define you, they define your beauty and they define your sexiness. Not a magazine, not a stereotype, not a predetermined idea of what is or isn't genuine beauty.
You are beautiful.
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