Well, my little Single poppets, if there is one thing most of you and I have in common it is the lack of the patter of little feet in the home.
The pattering stage is not my favourite, though. My favourite baby stage is when they are crawling. When they are really tiny and still kind of purple and their eyes are not focused and there's some mysterious crushable place on their poor tiny heads, I'm a bit terrified of their helplessness.
And then when they put on some fat and develop neck muscles so they can hold up their own heads but mostly just lie there, they're a bit dull. But when they begin to roll around and figure out crawling, then they get exciting.
It can be heartrending watching a poor baby desperately trying to crawl towards some toy and not quite making it. I am terribly tempted just to get them the toy, especially if they cry with frustration. However, I think it is better to encourage them to try again. And when babies do manage mobility, they seem absolutely delighted with their new powers. Usually they crawl backwards at first. Then they figure out how to crawl forwards. Then they crawl speedily everywhere, and anxious adults have to comb the carpet for the tiny objects babies long to swallow.
I very much enjoy visiting crawling babies because then I can get down on the floor and crawl around myself. Life after 18 months can be a drag, so it is great just to get down there and crawl again. Babies have a lot of cool toys, too. Two of the parish babies (now, alas, abroad) had an amazing spinning top of which I could never get enough.
Sometimes, though, after playing with babies--although not right after, usually not until the next Sunday Mass--I wonder where my baby is. How come I don't have a baby? What's wrong with me? How come I wasn't chosen to be a baby mother? I'm a nice lady. And I don't smoke crack or shoot heroin. I'm even married. So what is the deal, Lord? I don't see why I shouldn't have a nice baby that I can take home and keep.
This, however, is a dangerous line of thought and leads to crying in the choir stalls and possibly the altar servers wondering why. ("Maybe he beats her.") It is better just to think about the babies who exist already and how cute they are. Fortunately, there are always new babies. People are always having new babies. Unless they are, of course, me.
I would love to tell you what a comfort the medical establishment is at such a time, but I cannot. And unfortunately this is where culture shock and the British brand of socialized medicine and political correctness all play a part. When I finally did have the courage to talk to a doctor, I was handed a scary looking kit and told to test myself for a Horrible Social Disease of which I have no symptoms except, apparently, childlessness. So I went home and did nothing. Of all the things you can say to a childless woman, "Hey, go home and test yourself for syphilis" has got to be among the worst.
The result has been petrified inertia. I wrote "Roman Catholic" on my registration form, but God only knows why they asked, because certainly no-one at the medical centre seems to have taken on board that there are some issues around reproduction that Roman Catholics are very sensitive about, especially if we ourselves did not go to medical school. Never has my Torono family doctor--Lutheran, mind you, pro-choice but perfectly aware I'm not--seemed so far. And nobody mention Naprotechnology or I will have a stroke. This isn't Ireland. All anyone here can think about is IVF.
And nobody mention adoption either. Thousands of Scottish babies, or, as the NHS nurse who was extolling folic acid to Catholic me corrected herself, fetuses die from violence every year.
Any nobody cry for me. I have two nephews and a niece. There are babies in my immediate social circle. Other friends in my social circle are very likely to have babies themselves. I am not totally deprived here. I'm just feeling cranky.
Update: And now for something complete different: my random scrapbook of Polish stuff.
Friday, 13 July 2012
Thursday, 12 July 2012
Process of Elimination
Today is the Glorious Twelfth for some people, e.g. eccentric Ulster- Scots who enjoy going from British town to British town to march through them to the banging of drums and the shrieking of flutes. They do this to express Protestant pride, although many Protestant Scots find them embarrassing and even heretical.
Many people shudder when they see them, reminded of how really bad sectarian violence was in Northern Ireland only a decade or two ago, and how very bad it could have been in Scotland. It wasn't absent from Scotland, as anyone from the west of Scotland can tell you, but it wasn't ever as bad as it was in Ulster. It could have been; it wasn't.
At a recent dinner party I said I couldn't get my head around that kind of tribalism today. I felt comfortable that no-one was going to hate my guts because I belonged to a tribe called "Catholic"--particularly as I am a foreigner. (I once was amused by a Glasgow memoir in which the teenage Catholic author avoided beatings by teenage Protestant neighbours by claiming to be Polish.) I was much more worried about people despising me because I ascribe to a philosophy called "Catholic", go to church on Sunday and believe the tenets of the Catholic faith.
I find it almost amusing that the same Guardian readers who shudder at the bigotry of the Orange Order against Roman Catholics also shudder at Roman Catholics who are Roman Catholics in more than name and tribe. Almost amusing.
But what is amusing is this story of a fellow foreigner friend of mine who met an Ulsterman at a Scottish party. Maybe it was in Edinburgh. Maybe it was in Glasgow. Maybe it was in Inverness. She wasn't me, so I'll be more discreet than usual.
Anyway, this Ulsterman took a shine to my friend and as he did not approximate her ideal in any way, she began to dread that he might ask for her phone number, and that this would lead to later embarrassment. But she smiled and was polite and sought the company of her friends, and did not talk to him again until she was in the hallway, preparing to leave.
"Why are you leaving so early?" asked the Ulsterman.
"Well," said my friend. "I have to get up early. I have things to do."
"Like what?" asked her erstwhile suitor.
"I have to go to Mass," said my friend.
The Ulsterman was stunned.
"To what?"
"To Mass," said my friend. "To. Catholic. Mass. In the morning. It's Sunday."
"Oh, er, um," said the Ulsterman and, after a panicked stammer of a good-bye, melted back into the kitchen.
"I guess we know which side of the divide HE was on," I said, after a many healthy howls of laughter. But as a matter of fact, who knows? Was it her "tribe" or was it her faith? We'll never know, and it doesn't matter. Well, not in this story anyway.
Many people shudder when they see them, reminded of how really bad sectarian violence was in Northern Ireland only a decade or two ago, and how very bad it could have been in Scotland. It wasn't absent from Scotland, as anyone from the west of Scotland can tell you, but it wasn't ever as bad as it was in Ulster. It could have been; it wasn't.
At a recent dinner party I said I couldn't get my head around that kind of tribalism today. I felt comfortable that no-one was going to hate my guts because I belonged to a tribe called "Catholic"--particularly as I am a foreigner. (I once was amused by a Glasgow memoir in which the teenage Catholic author avoided beatings by teenage Protestant neighbours by claiming to be Polish.) I was much more worried about people despising me because I ascribe to a philosophy called "Catholic", go to church on Sunday and believe the tenets of the Catholic faith.
I find it almost amusing that the same Guardian readers who shudder at the bigotry of the Orange Order against Roman Catholics also shudder at Roman Catholics who are Roman Catholics in more than name and tribe. Almost amusing.
But what is amusing is this story of a fellow foreigner friend of mine who met an Ulsterman at a Scottish party. Maybe it was in Edinburgh. Maybe it was in Glasgow. Maybe it was in Inverness. She wasn't me, so I'll be more discreet than usual.
Anyway, this Ulsterman took a shine to my friend and as he did not approximate her ideal in any way, she began to dread that he might ask for her phone number, and that this would lead to later embarrassment. But she smiled and was polite and sought the company of her friends, and did not talk to him again until she was in the hallway, preparing to leave.
"Why are you leaving so early?" asked the Ulsterman.
"Well," said my friend. "I have to get up early. I have things to do."
"Like what?" asked her erstwhile suitor.
"I have to go to Mass," said my friend.
The Ulsterman was stunned.
"To what?"
"To Mass," said my friend. "To. Catholic. Mass. In the morning. It's Sunday."
"Oh, er, um," said the Ulsterman and, after a panicked stammer of a good-bye, melted back into the kitchen.
"I guess we know which side of the divide HE was on," I said, after a many healthy howls of laughter. But as a matter of fact, who knows? Was it her "tribe" or was it her faith? We'll never know, and it doesn't matter. Well, not in this story anyway.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
Not the Boss of Me
I grew up in a traditional family of quiet, stubborn, reading people. My dad is an academic, my mum is a housewife, and I have two brothers and two sisters. As kids my brothers played ice hockey--like almost every other Canadian boy whose parents could afford it--but they were musicians, not jocks. My sisters and I also played ice hockey; I think the youngest one enjoyed it. The boys went to all-boys school from the age of 8; the girls went to all-girls school from the age of 14. We all went to church on Sunday. We said grace before dinner. We had family dinner every night, and except once in a blue moon, it did not begin until my father had reached the table.
But that's about it for the patriarchy. The male authority in my life was my dad, and never my brothers. We siblings were all brought up as equals. The boys had the same curfew as the girls, simply because my mother couldn't bear to apply a double standard. There were already more opportunities for boys than for girls in our little world, and my parents tried to be fair to the girls without denying the opportunities to the boys.
When your dad is so clearly the head of the household, I guess a girl can go two ways. She can either emulate her dad and strive for kingship, or she can subconsciously look for a king to serve as a loyal Prime Minister. (I always thought of my dad as an absolute monarch who left the running of the kingdom to his trusty Prime Minister, my mum.)
Actually, I suppose there are a lot of other ways a girl can go and a lot of other metaphors to describe it. I am sure many women aim for a Biumvirate or have a completely anarchistic approach where there are no leaders in a family or relationship. However, despite working really, really hard not to become one, I discovered that I'm the Prime Minister type.
But I'll tell you something. Just because I grew up with my dad as the Supreme Authority of the house and now I treat my husband as the Supreme Authority of the Historical House does not mean I think men in general, or any man other than B.A., can tell me what to do.
This fact can not be too widely known.
As a freelance writer, I have very polite interactions with editors. They give me deadlines, I give them articles. They occasionally make suggestions, and I either accept them or reject them. So I don't even have a boss telling me what to do, which is great although a rather impecunious way to live life.
As a Catholic, I do occasionally go and seek instructions from men. Jesuit confessors in Canada usually ask if I am okay with the penance they have assigned. Confessors in Scotland do not, but I've never been given a penance I found onerous.
As a student, I had a lot of male professors, and because I am so easily influenced, I became very careful about whom I chose to teach me. If I had found any professor in my PhD program whom I would have happily risked becoming, I might have stayed. But I hadn't, so I didn't. I was Single then, and I just couldn't risk having the wrong man (or wrong woman) become the boss of me.
The whole concept of female subordination is so unpopular, so misunderstood and so abused, that it is difficult to discuss it at all. I imagine many woman would blush with shame at the idea that another woman might just instinctively obey her husband because not to obey him would just feel icky. But that's how I feel.
The amusing thing about this, though, is that for some men it is a litmus test of female goodness. It gives me the freedom to say "Only my HUSBAND can tell me what to do. YOU can go jump in the LAKE" without being accused of being a feminist battle-ax. If Single readers want to adopt this weapon yourselves, I suggest you cite your fathers. You battle fish with fishhooks, bears with guns, traditionalists with tradition.
I'm thinking about this because new men have come trolling by in recent weeks to comment on our female conversation. Obviously our poor Swashbuckling Protector is too tired to protect us any longer, so I'll have to post a new one. Of course I have no problem with such old friends as Hip 2 B Square--one of my oldest readers--coming by, but random astronauts from the manosphere landing briefly to say "Bad, bad women! Read your Bibles!" or "Why shouldn't I dump my girlfriend for not being a virgin?" very much annoy me.
But that's about it for the patriarchy. The male authority in my life was my dad, and never my brothers. We siblings were all brought up as equals. The boys had the same curfew as the girls, simply because my mother couldn't bear to apply a double standard. There were already more opportunities for boys than for girls in our little world, and my parents tried to be fair to the girls without denying the opportunities to the boys.
When your dad is so clearly the head of the household, I guess a girl can go two ways. She can either emulate her dad and strive for kingship, or she can subconsciously look for a king to serve as a loyal Prime Minister. (I always thought of my dad as an absolute monarch who left the running of the kingdom to his trusty Prime Minister, my mum.)
Actually, I suppose there are a lot of other ways a girl can go and a lot of other metaphors to describe it. I am sure many women aim for a Biumvirate or have a completely anarchistic approach where there are no leaders in a family or relationship. However, despite working really, really hard not to become one, I discovered that I'm the Prime Minister type.
But I'll tell you something. Just because I grew up with my dad as the Supreme Authority of the house and now I treat my husband as the Supreme Authority of the Historical House does not mean I think men in general, or any man other than B.A., can tell me what to do.
This fact can not be too widely known.
As a freelance writer, I have very polite interactions with editors. They give me deadlines, I give them articles. They occasionally make suggestions, and I either accept them or reject them. So I don't even have a boss telling me what to do, which is great although a rather impecunious way to live life.
As a Catholic, I do occasionally go and seek instructions from men. Jesuit confessors in Canada usually ask if I am okay with the penance they have assigned. Confessors in Scotland do not, but I've never been given a penance I found onerous.
As a student, I had a lot of male professors, and because I am so easily influenced, I became very careful about whom I chose to teach me. If I had found any professor in my PhD program whom I would have happily risked becoming, I might have stayed. But I hadn't, so I didn't. I was Single then, and I just couldn't risk having the wrong man (or wrong woman) become the boss of me.
The whole concept of female subordination is so unpopular, so misunderstood and so abused, that it is difficult to discuss it at all. I imagine many woman would blush with shame at the idea that another woman might just instinctively obey her husband because not to obey him would just feel icky. But that's how I feel.
The amusing thing about this, though, is that for some men it is a litmus test of female goodness. It gives me the freedom to say "Only my HUSBAND can tell me what to do. YOU can go jump in the LAKE" without being accused of being a feminist battle-ax. If Single readers want to adopt this weapon yourselves, I suggest you cite your fathers. You battle fish with fishhooks, bears with guns, traditionalists with tradition.
I'm thinking about this because new men have come trolling by in recent weeks to comment on our female conversation. Obviously our poor Swashbuckling Protector is too tired to protect us any longer, so I'll have to post a new one. Of course I have no problem with such old friends as Hip 2 B Square--one of my oldest readers--coming by, but random astronauts from the manosphere landing briefly to say "Bad, bad women! Read your Bibles!" or "Why shouldn't I dump my girlfriend for not being a virgin?" very much annoy me.
Tuesday, 10 July 2012
Men Weeping
Second post of day. I watched the end of the Wimbledon final on Sunday afternoon, and I was disgusted by the not-so-subtle ways in which Scottish/British Andy Murray was encouraged to cry for the camera. Poor boy; it didn't take much. But it was ghoulish all the same.
Here's Brendan O'Neill's take, and I agree with every word, except the "dour" the sub-ed no doubt put in the headline.
(Every time an English newspaper prints the word "dour", it tempts a Scot to make the magic X on the ballot that will destroy the UK. Scots read the sports pages and watch a lot of telly, so if I were English I would really watch it with the the knee-jerk anti-Scots remarks and slurs. They won't seem so harmless and funny when the Union is ripped in half.)
I'd counsel women not to let their hearts melt just because a grown man cries. Some men will cry to manipulate women, just as some women will cry to manipulate men. So don't think tears are automatic proof of a softer, domesticated side. Uh uh.
Update: Whoever in Glasgow who's desperately searching for "charicuristics of serraphic jews", you're looking for characteristics of Sephardic Jews. Why, I have no idea. I hope it's for good.
Here's Brendan O'Neill's take, and I agree with every word, except the "dour" the sub-ed no doubt put in the headline.
(Every time an English newspaper prints the word "dour", it tempts a Scot to make the magic X on the ballot that will destroy the UK. Scots read the sports pages and watch a lot of telly, so if I were English I would really watch it with the the knee-jerk anti-Scots remarks and slurs. They won't seem so harmless and funny when the Union is ripped in half.)
I'd counsel women not to let their hearts melt just because a grown man cries. Some men will cry to manipulate women, just as some women will cry to manipulate men. So don't think tears are automatic proof of a softer, domesticated side. Uh uh.
Update: Whoever in Glasgow who's desperately searching for "charicuristics of serraphic jews", you're looking for characteristics of Sephardic Jews. Why, I have no idea. I hope it's for good.
Host Like in Most
Most, I see, is a city in Czech, but it will do for my bad pun as Czech is in Central Europe. And today's HT of the D is Central European standards of hospitality, which I started thinking about again yesterday.
I come from one of the most multicultural cities in the world, and when you grow up in such a city, you naturally start noticing and cataloguing cultural differences. You learn not to take everything personally and also such lore as that whereas it is not necessarily a big deal if your Canadian boyfriend invites you to his fourth generation Canadian parents' place for supper, it is a big fat deal if your friend's boyfriend invites her to his Italian parents' place for supper. If the Canadian son of Toronto Italian parents exposes a girl to the eyes of his relations, that means he is serious abut her because otherwise he will never hear the end of it.
Canadian (and, as far as I remember, American) hospitality is warm, friendly and informal.The standard Canadian attitude is that you want to make guests feel at home. We usher them in and say "Make yourselves at home". We set a plethora of dishes on a buffet table, with plates and forks conveniently on one end and say, "Help yourself!"
The implication is that your guests can eat as much or as little as they like, with no pressure from you. You will not be mortally offended if they eat only a little. You will be gracious if the shrimp salad disappears before you yourself can have any. The guests are offered back that which the act of entering your house may have lost them: their autonomy.
Or so I tried to explain to two young Central European nuns when they came back to our convent, grumpier than damp cats, from some Canadian family's lunch party. (I was a lay boarder, just so you know.)
"'Help yourself'," seethed the chattier one. "'Help yourself!'"
The quieter one just sighed and shook her head sadly.
The fact that they were so shocked and offended at being told to help themselves very much surprised me as they were the merriest, friendliest, youngest nuns I had ever met. They spread cheer wherever they went; I would not be surprised if they won new postulants to their order with their attractive personalities alone.
However, I am a Torontonian born and bred, so I thought at once that there must have been some cultural misunderstanding. I asked them what hospitality looked like in their country, and lo.
In their country your host or hostess (mostly the hostess, I suspect) is transformed for the duration of the party into a particularly attentive server. She greets the guests; she takes their coats; she sits them down; she brings them drink and food where they are; she asks them if she can get them anything else; she refills their cups; she refills their plates; she dotes upon them like a mother welcoming her sons from home from the wars, or like a mother hen brooding over her chicks. She never says "Help yourself" because it is her job to help them. As the Poles say, "Guest in the house; God in the house."
After I heard this I very much wanted to go at once to Central Europe to be treated like God. And, indeed, I did later visit these nuns, who so badly wanted me to visit that they paid for my flight from Germany and met me at the airport and rented a car and spent an entire weekend entertaining and feeding me. (Their richer Canadian sisters shrieked with horror, sent them a cheque to cover the costs of me and then told me what they had done--which made me feel terrible.)
It also occurred to me that this might be why--as I had heard--Central Europeans aren't as casual with invitations as North Americans are. It must be awfully tiring to be a Central European hostess. It can be tiring just to host formal dinner parties in Scotland, which I do often, and very much enjoy. However, I think Central European standards of hospitality are admirable and worth emulating.
Of course, there is a right way and a wrong way to do this. The impression a hostess wants to give is of graciousness, not of a mother (unless the guests are twenty years younger) or a broody hen.
I can hear in my inner ear someone objecting that "But this isn't Central Europe and Central Europeans should just get with the program." However, I would counter that it is the first duty of a hostess to make a guest feel comfortable, and that means taking into consideration cultural differences. Very possibly the high value Torontonians place on considering cultural differences is what has kept the entire place from seething with constant race riots, Koreans and Persians and Czechs and Italians and Chinese and Serbs and Croatians and Indians and Pakistanis
all killing each other on the subway.
Meanwhile, I am still smarting from the humiliation of having heard from a Polish friend that she was invited to a flat of Scottish students for supper, and was not given anything to eat. This is especially terrible because Scots have an undeserved reputation for being cheap (and in Germany sales are called "Scottish" sales). And therefore I Seraphic, being married to a Scot, prefer to go a bit overboard when Central Europeans come to supper.
I come from one of the most multicultural cities in the world, and when you grow up in such a city, you naturally start noticing and cataloguing cultural differences. You learn not to take everything personally and also such lore as that whereas it is not necessarily a big deal if your Canadian boyfriend invites you to his fourth generation Canadian parents' place for supper, it is a big fat deal if your friend's boyfriend invites her to his Italian parents' place for supper. If the Canadian son of Toronto Italian parents exposes a girl to the eyes of his relations, that means he is serious abut her because otherwise he will never hear the end of it.
Canadian (and, as far as I remember, American) hospitality is warm, friendly and informal.The standard Canadian attitude is that you want to make guests feel at home. We usher them in and say "Make yourselves at home". We set a plethora of dishes on a buffet table, with plates and forks conveniently on one end and say, "Help yourself!"
The implication is that your guests can eat as much or as little as they like, with no pressure from you. You will not be mortally offended if they eat only a little. You will be gracious if the shrimp salad disappears before you yourself can have any. The guests are offered back that which the act of entering your house may have lost them: their autonomy.
Or so I tried to explain to two young Central European nuns when they came back to our convent, grumpier than damp cats, from some Canadian family's lunch party. (I was a lay boarder, just so you know.)
"'Help yourself'," seethed the chattier one. "'Help yourself!'"
The quieter one just sighed and shook her head sadly.
The fact that they were so shocked and offended at being told to help themselves very much surprised me as they were the merriest, friendliest, youngest nuns I had ever met. They spread cheer wherever they went; I would not be surprised if they won new postulants to their order with their attractive personalities alone.
However, I am a Torontonian born and bred, so I thought at once that there must have been some cultural misunderstanding. I asked them what hospitality looked like in their country, and lo.
In their country your host or hostess (mostly the hostess, I suspect) is transformed for the duration of the party into a particularly attentive server. She greets the guests; she takes their coats; she sits them down; she brings them drink and food where they are; she asks them if she can get them anything else; she refills their cups; she refills their plates; she dotes upon them like a mother welcoming her sons from home from the wars, or like a mother hen brooding over her chicks. She never says "Help yourself" because it is her job to help them. As the Poles say, "Guest in the house; God in the house."
After I heard this I very much wanted to go at once to Central Europe to be treated like God. And, indeed, I did later visit these nuns, who so badly wanted me to visit that they paid for my flight from Germany and met me at the airport and rented a car and spent an entire weekend entertaining and feeding me. (Their richer Canadian sisters shrieked with horror, sent them a cheque to cover the costs of me and then told me what they had done--which made me feel terrible.)
It also occurred to me that this might be why--as I had heard--Central Europeans aren't as casual with invitations as North Americans are. It must be awfully tiring to be a Central European hostess. It can be tiring just to host formal dinner parties in Scotland, which I do often, and very much enjoy. However, I think Central European standards of hospitality are admirable and worth emulating.
Of course, there is a right way and a wrong way to do this. The impression a hostess wants to give is of graciousness, not of a mother (unless the guests are twenty years younger) or a broody hen.
I can hear in my inner ear someone objecting that "But this isn't Central Europe and Central Europeans should just get with the program." However, I would counter that it is the first duty of a hostess to make a guest feel comfortable, and that means taking into consideration cultural differences. Very possibly the high value Torontonians place on considering cultural differences is what has kept the entire place from seething with constant race riots, Koreans and Persians and Czechs and Italians and Chinese and Serbs and Croatians and Indians and Pakistanis
all killing each other on the subway.
Meanwhile, I am still smarting from the humiliation of having heard from a Polish friend that she was invited to a flat of Scottish students for supper, and was not given anything to eat. This is especially terrible because Scots have an undeserved reputation for being cheap (and in Germany sales are called "Scottish" sales). And therefore I Seraphic, being married to a Scot, prefer to go a bit overboard when Central Europeans come to supper.
Monday, 9 July 2012
Horrible Topic of the Day
When I was in high school, my then-best friend and I would have conversations about the sexual side of life, about which we knew almost nothing. They began with the question, "What is the Horrible Topic of the Day?"
To give you an idea of how innocent and clueless we were, our model of the sort of man you wanted to avoid was Captain James T. Kirk, who romanced sexy green ladies, et alia, presumably during the commercial breaks. A lot was hinted, but very little shown since, after all, Star Trek was filmed between 1966 and 1969. We did not actually know men like Captain James T. Kirk, which is not surprising as we were only 16 and lived existences as sheltered as our frazzled parents could manage. Our school was attached to a convent. The crudest conversation on television was on "Married with Children." You know, as crude as Pam and Al were, at least they were married. With children.
We looked forward to the Horrible Topic of the Day as an exercise in freedom of speech and an opportunity to laugh until tears dripped from our faces. I think my Seraphic Singles oeuvre is my way of continuing the ritual of the Horrible Topic of the Day, although usually without the shock value.
But today I will chuck in some shock value, for that is the mood I am in, to ask how far you would betray the feminist revolution for your own personal romantic fulfillment. To what extent would you mimic Donna Reed to get the guy you have your eye on? I'm not saying you should do this. I'm just asking if you would do this. For example, would you ever strategically answer the door holding a vacuum cleaner while wearing apron, high heels and pearls? Would you, at a party, wait on male guests hand and foot instead of sitting down for a well-deserved chat with the girls? Would you bake a man chocolate chip cookies after hearing him sigh about how much he misses his mother's wonderful chocolate chip cookies? Would you pretend you know absolutely nothing about the electoral process but you would be grateful if he would explain it to you?
In terms of betraying the Revolution for your own personal romantic satisfaction, how far would you go? Anonymous comments allowed IF you write "Woman in [your town]" after your comment. May any man who attempts to comment himself experience a sudden horrible surge of female hormones after typing the words "Woman in".
To give you an idea of how innocent and clueless we were, our model of the sort of man you wanted to avoid was Captain James T. Kirk, who romanced sexy green ladies, et alia, presumably during the commercial breaks. A lot was hinted, but very little shown since, after all, Star Trek was filmed between 1966 and 1969. We did not actually know men like Captain James T. Kirk, which is not surprising as we were only 16 and lived existences as sheltered as our frazzled parents could manage. Our school was attached to a convent. The crudest conversation on television was on "Married with Children." You know, as crude as Pam and Al were, at least they were married. With children.
We looked forward to the Horrible Topic of the Day as an exercise in freedom of speech and an opportunity to laugh until tears dripped from our faces. I think my Seraphic Singles oeuvre is my way of continuing the ritual of the Horrible Topic of the Day, although usually without the shock value.
But today I will chuck in some shock value, for that is the mood I am in, to ask how far you would betray the feminist revolution for your own personal romantic fulfillment. To what extent would you mimic Donna Reed to get the guy you have your eye on? I'm not saying you should do this. I'm just asking if you would do this. For example, would you ever strategically answer the door holding a vacuum cleaner while wearing apron, high heels and pearls? Would you, at a party, wait on male guests hand and foot instead of sitting down for a well-deserved chat with the girls? Would you bake a man chocolate chip cookies after hearing him sigh about how much he misses his mother's wonderful chocolate chip cookies? Would you pretend you know absolutely nothing about the electoral process but you would be grateful if he would explain it to you?
In terms of betraying the Revolution for your own personal romantic satisfaction, how far would you go? Anonymous comments allowed IF you write "Woman in [your town]" after your comment. May any man who attempts to comment himself experience a sudden horrible surge of female hormones after typing the words "Woman in".
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