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Friday, 03 July 2009

O Flannel, O Flannel...I Bidst Thee Come To Me
There are few things in this world that remain sacred for us women.

Not long ago, one could unabashedly traipse around the spa in nothing but her appointed robe. Yet now we find ourselves averting our eyes from the stately gentleman next to us, his hairy man thighs peeking out from the issued terry robe while he blissfully recovers from his full-body Lavender Salt Scrub. God help us if we cross our legs the wrong way while we await our appointment.

The other day I went shopping for a nursing bra with my sister Vanessa and her 6-day-old baby boy, Link. We walked into the local breastfeeding specialty store to find a man behind the counter. In less than ten seconds of dialogue, I heard him utter the words “how old is your baby?”, “engorged”, “swollen”, and “36C” before he handed her a blush pink bra. In less than four minutes, Vanessa had purchased a perfect-fitting nursing bra that, as this competent male shop owner described, would “transform to the changes of her breasts over the coming stages”. Without even voicing my inner thoughts, Vanessa assures me as we leave the store that no, he is not gay...just really good at sizing up the girls.

Another friend of mine explained her shock when a male nurse announced himself as her lactation specialist after the birth of her first child and then attempted to help her squeeze, shield, and siphon her newly lactating bosom into cooperating with baby. Apparently, not even breastfeeding is sacred!

Now, I do think there are certain things we are better off sharing with men. The days of “if it ain't over a grill or open flame, my woman cooks it” have now been exchanged with “cooking” listed as a favorite pastime on a man's social network profile. On behalf of all women everywhere, and as much as I love to be in the kitchen myself, I can say that cooking is one “sacred” delight we are most thrilled to share with you men.

So yes, I can handle men in the spa, the kitchen, and may even be swayed to accept the male lactation specialist as the new norm, but there is one female-given right, one sacred privilege, that I can not bring myself to share.

Panty shopping.

While the boys spent the afternoon with dad, I found a few moments to steal away and hit the mall. Once I recovered from the pure joy of being able to bypass the race car double strollers at Mall Services and the relief of not having to avoid the entire Toys 'R' Us area at all costs, I set out to get some serious business done – bra and underwear shopping.

I can tell you from experience that this is not the kind of outing you can do with 3-year-old twin boys. While keeping one from toppling the scantily-clad mannequin, the other one has already slipped on a lacy double-D black bra and announced to the whole store that he has “boobies”. Imagine my delight when I not only get to peruse the entire store uninterrupted but I also have an entire change room to myself with no need for the constant reminder to stop peering at the woman in the room next door. Oh this is bliss!

As I entered the store, I immediately came upon a mountain of panties. You know the one ladies. Separated by size in clear bins and overflowing with luxurious lace and comfy cotton. I looked at the sign, expecting the usual 3 for $25 or maybe even 5 for $25, but was ecstatic to see 10 for $25! This day just keeps getting better and better. I bellied up to the table, ready for the pursuit.

And then it happened.

With underwear already dangling from both my arms like medals for the Frugal Shopping Olympics, I saw him...eyes down, hands in his pockets, following about 3 feet behind his wife. Oh how badly he wants to be in that store...and yet how badly he wants to get out as soon as possible.

He is suffering from the Panty Plague.

You see, there are only a few types of men in lingerie stores:
- The boys who waddle behind their girlfriends like little puppies on a leash, ready to do any trick necessary to get their treat
- The reluctant and disappointed hubbies -- there only to distract the children so mommy can buy every tan, taupe and body-neutral piece of underwear the store has in stock
- The men buying gifts, in and out so quickly that you're sure the clothing on the racks are swinging as they race by
But stereotypes aside, they all have one thing in common -- they're looking for the flannel. Their eyes dart around the store as each lacy bra, half-clad poster model and hanging bustier is added to their already overflowing visual Rolodex. The visual Rolodex of images permanently burned into their minds whether they like it or not. These men are not looking for flannel to buy, they're looking for flannel because it's safe.

I see the poor guy, exhibiting all the usual symptoms of the Panty Plague, and can't help but think he is visualizing every woman in the store wearing the very thing she is carrying, touching, or even looking at. And there I am, smack dab in front of him, with a dozen pairs of dental floss panties dangling from my arms. Great.

So, move over female lactation nurse and bring on the male day spas, but this is one sacred experience I would rather not share with just anyone...

Wednesday, 17 June 2009

Sticks and Stones

Equal pay, maternity leave, the right to own property...these are all good things that resulted from the feminist movement. I get that. But somehow, what was meant for good, has spiraled out of control and created a new breed of woman. A woman that is less of a woman if she stays home with her children. A woman that thinks she needs to not only wear the pants but is armed and ready with "honey, know your place or I'm outta here". A woman that can't go a week without seeing her girlfriends and emotionally "venting" about all her man's faults.

Somehow bra-burning turned into man-hating. Turn on the TV, read a novel, check your email -- you can't go very far without getting your fill of man-bashing. Think of sitcom characters like Doug and Carrie from The King of Queens. He's a big doofus and she's a super-hot fiery woman that makes it clear he's lucky to have her. Or reflect on the zillion and one email forwards you receive with jokes about inferior, lackluster, and downright dumb men. Our men.

Have we women just created our own self-fulfilling prophecy? In ridiculing men, both publicly and privately, have we lost sight of their goodness? Some of us devote so much time and energy into complaining about them that we allow little or no time at all for appreciation. I know I spent enough time in this category and it doesn't end well, believe me.

As this Father's Day approaches, do you believe that your husband truly believes he is a great dad? Even a good dad? Because I'd venture to say that if you could really read their minds, you'd hear inner thoughts that would shock you. Thoughts of not being good enough, smart enough, tough enough, kind enough, rich enough...the list goes on and on.

Perhaps their not as impenetrable as we like to think. Shaunti Feldhahn, in her survey and studies on the male psyche for her book For Women Only, calls it the "Imposter Complex".

"The majority of men do want to be good husbands. But in the same way they worry that they may not know everything about being a good employee, they secretly worry that they don't know how to succeed at being a good husband, father, provider, or handyman. Not surprisingly, men said they judge themselves--and feel that others judge them--based on the happiness and respect of their wives."

If this is true, then we as women have incredible power at our fingertips. By our honest affirmation, we calm their inner fears, encouraging our men to tackle anything. By our disdain, we only affirm the inability they feel, whether it's true or not, and create apathetic men afraid to do anything for fear of being wrong....again.

"Home is the most important place for a man to be affirmed. If a man knows that his wife believes in him, he is empowered to do better in every area of his life. A man tends to think of life as a competition and a battle, and he can energetically go duke it out if he can come home to someone who supports him unconditionally, who will wipe his brow and tell him he can do it."

With all this stirring in my heart, imagine my reaction as I passed by the Hallmark store yesterday. On their most prominent end-aisle display sat Father's Day gifts and wrapping supplies, including a gift bag that said in giant lettering: "Mr. (kind of) Fix-It" and a paper weight with the bolded statement "If I only had a brain".

Please tell me which husband or father has either of these gifts on their wish list! Whether the statements ring true or not, I don't know of a single man who wants to be reminded of inadequacy by the people he wants to impress the most...his wife and children.

"Hey Mick, I see you got a gift for Father's Day!" says co-worker as he snickers to himself while reading the "Mr. (kind of) Fix-It" gift bag. "What's this inside? Oh nice, a paperweight for your desk! Hmmm...that's an...uh...interesting paperweight..."

Wow, Mick feels like a real winner right now. All because a wife, in her bra-burning turned man-bashing glory, felt the need to get a personal jab in on a day that was meant to be all about him.

So today, and especially this Father's Day, spend some time thinking about how great your man is and then go tell him about it. He's all ears.

And let's leave the hurtful gift bag and paperweight to collect dust on the Hallmark shelves this Father's Day.

Saturday, 30 May 2009

A New Day

For all the negative of Facebook, I have to say I used it to my full advantage this weekend when I saw a status update of a friend who was hiking Mt. Finlayson on Saturday. I commented that I was interested in going and we hit the peak this morning at 7:30am. Nothing like a bit of thigh/butt burn first thing in the AM!

What an amazing way to start the day!

Saturday, 14 February 2009

Your Junk, My Treasure

No sooner than the festive holiday decor has made it's way back to the storage closet are we then inundated with red and white hearts and tempting chocolates. It's one more step from the frigid winter into the freshness of spring and I love it. Sure, there are people in other parts of Canada still shoveling snow but my mortgage is four times theirs and I have to fork out a few hundred dollars just to get off this little island so I don't buy into the whole “it could be worse” theory. Yes, it could always be worse. But telling an Ontario native that it could be worse had they been an Eskimo in the arctic tundra probably falls on the same deaf ears. It's all relative. For me, just 2 inches of the white stuff is enough to instill the fear of winters past.

It's either my hatred for the cold or my constant denial that winter actually happens here which leads me to the realization that our twin boys are about to hit Mt.Washington for a day of tubing with Daddy and I don't have a single piece of snow gear for them. Don't get me wrong, I didn't issue a full quarantine as soon as the snow started to fall. My boys got a healthy dose of outdoor fun almost every day throughout the snowy weeks and they absolutely loved it. We just did it in small doses where warm layers would suffice. Although I don't think I intentionally avoided buying proper snow clothes, I realize now that buying them would almost be resigning myself to admitting that winter, snow and minus zero temperatures actually exist.

With the boys being only three years old, I know that the kids will spend more time driving to and from the mountain than actually on the mountain. I cringe at the thought of dropping $100 or more on snow pants, jackets, mitts and boots, this late in the game. Just in time for the snow to melt and the boys to catapult another three or four inches before the dreaded fluff makes a return appearance next winter. And let's be honest, sending your child out to play in the snow with their pants up to their shins and their jackets up to their elbows doesn't exactly get you invited to the neighbourhood block parties.

Because throwing away a hundred bucks isn't typically my idea of a good time, I started thinking creatively. Who do I know I could call with snow clothes their size? The only friends we have with kids the boys' age have daughters....and although one of our boys has an affinity for purple and chose bright pink Dora bed sheets over Spiderman, Daddy might not be too thrilled with walking around Mt. Washington showcasing his lineage in a sea of hot pink and Cinderella embroidery. Okay, next idea.

As I loaded a pile of clothing, household goods and toys into the back of the van for yet another donation drop-off, a lightbulb went off. I'll look for snow gear in my hometown's plethora of thrift shops! The place seriously has more secondhand stores than coffee shops and seeing as winter is almost over, there's got to be some recently purged toddler snow attire just waiting to be rescued from the dingy smell of the unwanted.

The next day, I announced to the boys that we were going “shopping”. This is often a very good motivator for them as they correspond “shopping” with either the place food or toys live. Both of which they are extremely fond of. We piled into the van and within a few minutes were walking from musty store to musty store in the five-block radius I affectionately dubbed “Thrift Store Mecca”. I combed through the kids clothes while the boys stood amazed at the shelves and shelves of abandoned toys. Allowing them to pick one toy each, they quickly gravitated towards the giant bags of junk toys. These are the toys that by themselves are absolute garbage but perhaps put enough of them together and they are just barely worth $1.75. To you and I, the bag's contents range from junk to total junk but to the boys -- it was treasure. Jack actually said to me in disbelief, “mommy...I get ALL these toys?”

“Yep honey, you get ALL those toys...” I say with a slight tone of disbelief myself. Disbelief that I'm going to actually take that entire bag of junk home with us when I just unloaded four bags of it out the back of the van.

After two days of this new approach to shopping, I have to admit that somewhere along the way I actually fell in love with it. The dingy smell truly loses some of it's potency when you realize that you can get fairly current six dollar magazines for fifty cents and that your still-naive children are just as happy with a $1.75 bag of junk as they are with a $20 toy-of-the-moment.

Although it wasn't without compromise (“broken zipper” is now only deemed true if said zipper won't go up...ever) I found two winter jackets, two pairs of snow pants, fantastic insulated mitts and insulated boots for the grand total of $14. Sure, my otherwise styling handsome little men will be complete fashion misfits for the first time in their lives but let's be honest, I saved over $80! I'm fairly certain that the boys will be the last ones to realize they don't colour-coordinate while they bomb down the snowy mountain for a few hours. Mission accomplished!

Now I just need a way to break it to my purple-loving son that his smaller-sized twin brother is in fact getting the girly purple snow boots.

Saturday, 31 January 2009

How Do You Rescue a Damsel if She Doesn't Think She's in Distress?

A $3 coffee doesn't seem all that frivolous. But five $3 coffees a week and you suddenly have a guilt-ridden $60-per-month java addiction.

That sly sixty dollars goes right in one pocket and out the other without so much as an ounce of buyer's remorse. Coffee is after all, one of life's necessities, is it not? Yet compared to the $60 Emille M. purse that I desperately wanted but responsibly declined, suddenly my daily coffee ritual scratches like the fraying edges of the old purse I'm carrying now. At the end of the month, all I will have to show for the coffee is a slightly more dependent stimulus and approximately 1,400 calories in half and half.

I think I'd rather have the purse.

Resolution # 2 - I will not spend more than I have.

In truth, this resolution excites me. It's one part of a bigger movement that's been brewing in me for the last few months. A change of mind, which inevitably forces a change of heart. Those are wise words by the way -- in case you need to read that sentence over again.

What do we deserve anyway? At risk of getting all tree-hugger on you, what makes you think you deserve anything at all? Mom wasn't kidding about the starving kids in Africa when she wanted you to eat those soggy peas. In fact, she was sheltering you from the harsh reality of it. They are more than just starving. And here I am, visiting zappos.com with religious fervor to see if I can find the "perfect" pair of leather slouch boots in just the right shade of brown.

Of all the countries in the world, why was I born here? What did I do to deserve a life of plenty instead of a life of starvation?

Jesus is on the record as saying "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God." (Mark 10:25). How many of us have read that scripture and thought, "wow, am I glad I'm not rich!". I know I did. Until last year, when my eyes were opened to the true meaning of that passage.

I am rich. When Jesus made that statement, he was talking about you and me.

Here in the free world, we have a life of luxury riddled with instant gratification and self-satisfaction. We can sit on our laurels and satisfy ourselves with the many pleasures that abound at every turn. And yet Jesus said that to be a true Christian, one must "deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me" (Luke 9:23). He expects us to sacrifice the ways of this world for the ways of him.

But when you're so sure of yourself, who needs a Saviour? When life is so full of pleasure, who wants to sacrifice?

Some of you can relate to the feeling of when tragedy strikes. When you realize that all of your accomplishments and accolades won't pull you out of the pit and an entire world of guilty pleasures won't fulfill the aching void that ravages your soul.

It's at this point of total emptiness that the barriers fall away and out of sheer desperation, you accept your need for a Saviour. For something bigger than yourself because your self isn't working for you all that much. One could say it kind of cheapens the whole experience...nobody wants to be a last resort...but in His infinite grace and mercy, God embraces you like a lost child that's now been found. His love for you runs so deep that he gladly accepts your ditch effort and awakens your soul with a peace that overwhelms and a comfort that escapes words.

And that is salvation.

When I began, I really thought we had the advantage over the starving, desparate kids of the third-world countries. I was going to write about how we should live with less, knowing how fortunate we really are. I failed to understand that those very kids are accepting Christ's love and following him, by the millions, simply because their hopeless environment creates fewer barriers for them to embrace God's waiting love.

So send your peas, and monthly contributions, and whatever else it is that you do to support the poor, and then hope that in exchange, they will offer up a prayer for you. For if this life is just a minute in all of eternity, perhaps they, with little to sacrifice in this earthly realm, are the ones with the advantage after all.