Better Living Through Your Child

So that repulsive TLC “reality” show Toddlers & Tiaras has permeated our popular culture. It’s been profiled on Entertainment Tonight more than once, and not as part of a child abuse expose either.

Never mind that these itty bitty beauty pageants tart up little girls to look like miniature Stepford Wives.  And they do, and it is frightening to see pre-schoolers shaking what stage mama gave them.

Four going on forty

Many of the girls profiled on the show have been in pageants, literally, all their lives. One little girl was six months old and asleep when she won her first title.

How does one win a baby pageant? Are not screaming and not soiling one’s frilly diaper actual talents in Bizarro World? No wonder this gal won while napping, the rest were probably all cranky from their itchy baby toupees.

These tots get fitted with fake teeth, hair weaves, spray-on-tans…grown models shooting for Benneton or Calvin Klein don’t get beauty blitzes like this.

And the moms…it’s like when their little girls’ appearances become the center of their universes they just decide to let themselves completely go. These women are often obese, have wash and wear haircuts and tend to favor stretch pants and bulky sweatshirts. Watching them “coach” their daughters from the audience and gyrate along with them would make me sad for them, except they are abusing and exploiting these poor kids. I  note the dads usually seem to be way, way less enthused with these events.

At what point does a parent look upon their child tuckered out in her crib or getting pabulum in her gossamer baby hair and think “why should I let you nap when I could tart you up and parade you in front of rooms full of pedophiles?”

These people are worse than the status-seekers that drive around with those “My Child is on the Honor Roll, and is therefore better than Yours” bumper stickers.

And when these pageants become segments on “legitimate” infotainment shows (though ET has become less and less credible. Bloody hell, how many times can we discuss Mel Gibson’s nasty phone calls to his ex?) no doubt these moms (and okay, a few dads) just become more and more encouraged.

I’m SO glad my three beautiful nieces, and I do mean beautiful, did not grow up in such world. Sure, I think they should all be on stage, but because they’re very animated and like dancing. But they also get to read and paint pictures and play dolls and their “personas” are not their lives. They don’t even have personas, they have “personalities” that they were allowed to develop naturally without the aid of the well-paid coaches some of those tiny beauty queens have.

One little contestant’s wishes was “to marry a rich man.” She was FOUR YEARS OLD! She should not be thinking about marriage, never mind marrying for money!

But no doubt money has been a factor in her life since her first baby pageant. No doubt Mom has dreamed of impressing some imaginary millionaire with her daughters collection of trophies and tiaras and marrying her off. After all the money that has been blown on dresses (because you can’t wear the same one twice), coaches, trips to the beauty parlor and plane tickets, well you’re either depending on a wealthy son-in-law or else international stardom (and how likely is that, most of these kids have little to no actual talent).

And some parents have spent tens of thousands by the time these girls are six years old. And they will remind their exhausted little meal tickets of this fact when they suffer their breakdowns. And there are at least three good temper tantrums in each and every show.

I wonder if they factor in the cost of therapy when these girls are over the hill and burned out by the time they’re ten years old. I can’t help but picturing little Ashlee-Nicole and her ilk ending up like Baby Jane and holding their elderly mothers captive.

But for some its easier to create (and control) another life than to actually make something out of their own.

Just like Mom, smiling through the creepiness

Back in the 80s Canada made some embarrassingly cheesy game shows. One of the worst was called Just Like Mom.. Bored mothers would bring their kid on TV and each would try to guess at how the other would answer various questions, sort of like the Newlywed Game, only with moms (and occasionally dads) and their kids. The “final challenge” consisted of a bake-off where the kids would make what passed for cookie dough from a butt load of ingredients, some of which did not belong in cookies (like ketchup and Pepsi) and mom would try to guess which vile concoction was baked by their sprog.

But looking back it turns out the bake-off was not the most disgusting thing on the show.

Just Like Mom was hosted by husband and wife team Fergie Olver and Catherine Swing. I just recently got a reminder of how old Fergie used to behave with the little girls who appeared on the show.

http://www.experience-it-all.com/?p=5645

How did we miss the constant leering and chatting up on that show? Because we were kids and accustomed to getting unwanted “affection” forced on us.

Never mind how that letch actually stayed on television (hey, Charlie Sheen has the highest rated show on the idiot box). What I don’t get is how he was able to get away with sexually tinged behaviour around children, in full view of his own wife, these kids’ mothers, and every single adult who worked on that show.

I’d also love to know why the studio audience cheered the pedo on as he told one little contestant that unless he got his statutory smoochies she would never win the show. I can picture him cornering these girls when the cameras stopped rolling and telling them he can rig the prize wheel to land on that coveted trip to Disney World if they “play nice.”

At one point we hear an off-camera muttering of “dirty old man,” (reportedly Fergie’s wife), the understatement of the decade. But at no point (and I watched that show on many a rainy day when there was absolutely nothing else on) do I recall a single mother reaching over to slap Fergie or tell him where he can stick his year’s supply of Shine-o Wax. Were they just so darned thrilled to be on Canadian TV that they were willing to sit and smile and watch this scumbag drool all over their children?

Sheesh, at a certain age most kids are not even comfortable being kissed on the lips by relatives, never mind game show hosts. And instead of respecting the kid’s limits, we laugh and mock and make them feel bad. I guess that explains the audience.

That one little girl who refused to let his lips anywhere near her, good for her! No doubt she grew up to go to university and stick a “No Means No” poster on her dormitory wall.

But just like mom, most of us grew up being told that if a man pays attention to you (provided he’s not a wino in a trench coat, which is not the same thing as a game show host even if he does promise you a prize), you should be flattered and just let him get on with it, no matter how uncomfortable or terrified you are. Just smile and appear docile.

That has a profound effect about how we interact with boys when we hit middle school and beyond. How many of us have thrown in the towel and let some nasty squeaky voiced boy cop a feel just so he’ll shut the hell up (not me, but I was considered a weirdo and expected to end up a bitter old maid)? Because we must never, ever be impolite, no matter how someone violates our personal space or disrespects us.

Because our lips, hell our entire bodies, are not our own. We’d best resign ourselves to the fact early on that we exist for the amusement of men.

At least if this happened today Fergie would have been strung up by a group of angry moms (and dads). If he wasn’t kicked in the nads by the little girl first (thanks to the influence of the Powerpuff Girls). So there is hope.

Until they turn 13 and are subjected to the MTV/Much Music Skank Training Program where they learn that the only way they will ever be liked and accepted is through casual sex and binge drinking.

But that’s for another week.

Ew!

Lesly is 37 and *gasp* single!

This Friday I will be attending the wedding of my much younger cousin Jennifer. I opted out of bringing along a “plus-one” for a few reasons. Mainly, I’m not married, have no boyfriend and no desire to spend the entire evening babysitting my date or shielding him from insane relatives armed with stories of my third grade dance recital disaster.

I find it rather mind-boggling that eyebrows are still raised when someone (especially women) decides to attend a social event without a bit of arm candy. You’d think I’d be praised for saving the bride and groom what it would cost to feed this person, but no.

Not to begrudge Jennifer her Big Day, but I am not a fan of weddings in general (and it’s not because I’m a bitter old hag who never had one of her own and likely never will). But cookie-cutter ceremonies, sexist traditions most women would not abide on any other occasion (being given away by one’s father? What is this, the Dark Ages?) and having to endure the Bird Dance aside, what I dread the most about these affairs is the pitying glances I inevitably get, often from complete strangers, when the topic of my single status comes up.

People love to reminisce about their own Big Days at other people’s weddings and as I don’t have one to speak of, I get subjected to bits of Smug Married wisdom such as:

“Oh don’t worry, your day will come.”

Who said I was worried? And if you’re so sure I’m getting married, could you maybe be specific as to when so I can make sure not to book anything else for that date, Amazing Kreskin?

“A pretty girl like you, why not?”

Translation: “you’re not a troll and yet no man of your own. What’s wrong with you?”

The older I get, the more urgent the warnings become.

“You know, married women live longer and have more money and if you don’t go knock some poor sucker over the head with a rolling-pin and drag him to the altar soon you’ll have no one to take care of you when you’re old!”

A few more cocktails and you get told how magical married life is and how wonderful hubby is. These are the same women who in any other setting (or when sober) would be bitching about having to pick up hubby’s underwear off the floor and feeding his devil spawn and how he never notices when she gets her hair done. Funny, those who are most hell-bent on defending their relationships tend to be those who are the least satisfied with their own lives.

But there is an unmarried woman nearing the end of her child-bearing years in the room so it’s time to feel superior.

Yes, poor me. No one to pick up after except myself and my relatively tidy and adorable kitties who greet me with kisses every time I come home. If I don’t hurry up and settle I’ll end up dying alone and these same sweet cats will feast on my corpse.

At least I’ll save whatever relatives I have left the cost of burying me.

And I could tell these people I like my independence. I could bring up Carrie Bradshaw and Samantha Jones as shining examples of spinsterhood until the bridal bouquet is tossed. But anything I have to say will be ignored in favor of the picture they’ve created in their heads of poor lonely, stubborn and insecure Lesly going home to my empty apartment that night and crying into a Harlequin romance.

Until the next morning when they’re picking up hubby’s underpants off the floor, again. In the meantime, I get to quietly mock them as they rush to the dance floor to flap along to the Bird Dance.

Who’s pathetic now?

What the world needs now is Free To Be…You and Me!

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the 1972 children’s album, Free to Be…You and Me and ABC Afterschool Special that went with it, I’ll let wikipedia give you the nuts and bolts of the matter:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free_to_be_you_and_me

But if you were lucky enough to get a copy of the album (I think I got mine from my Auntie Sharon) when you were a kid, you grew up listening to That Girl Marlo Thomas and Friends sing about a world where we would not be judged by the contents of our pants, but by the contents of our character. A world not too far in the future if we did our best.

I want to know what happened to that future. We’re living in a world where boys are still made to feel that in order to be men they must shame or harm other men (or women or children). A world where girls are told in grade school that it’s important to be sexy otherwise you wouldn’t need a clothing line designed by Billy Ray’s “other daughter”, the little nine-year-old that looks like a prostitot (and I’m devastated that such a word has seeped into our popular culture).

While I do not and never will want children of my own, I very much care about the children that are in the world. Childhood as a time to discover everything you can and discover at least a bit of what makes us who we are is shrinking rapidly. Whether it’s the fault of the media or parents themselves or some unseen evil forces, we owe it to these poor kids who never asked to be born to put a stop to it.

Seriously, all you parents of school age kids need to go out and buy the album (except it’s now on CD). Don’t have any kids? Go out and buy a bunch for your nieces and your nephews and for your friend’s kids. Trust me, they’ll bug you much less later in life if you do!

Need further incentive? Some of the biggest and bestest stars of your childhood feature in both the record and the After School Special.

Wouldn’t you love to see kids finally get that kind of world to live in? A world where boys can cry and play with dolls without being teased or pummeled, and girls can grow up and go out and see the world and perhaps never marry. And be blissfully happy.

Who knows, we may even live to see it happen.

**

Thanks to my beloved subscribers! Everyone else will have to stumble upon this entry accidentally but you’ll get it hot off the interwebs!

Not just for porn anymore

WARNING: if the title of this post didn’t give it away, I’ll be talking about matters of a sexual nature so if you’re at all squicky about that sort of thing, please go read the other posts. Thank you.

Just when women thought we’d run out of things to feel insecure about, my friend Paul brings this to my attention:

http://www.mynewpinkbutton.com/content/The_Product.htm

This sort of thing has been employed by the porn industry for years, giving actresses  that girlish pink glow down below on camera. Now you too can have the genetalia of a porn star (provided you’re willing to wax away all your pubic hair and bleach your arse hole as well).

So it’s not enough that we have to bemoan our faces wrinkling and our breasts succumbing to gravity (and are expected to spend lots of money trying to prevent these things from happening), we’re now expected to dye our nether regions an acceptable colour?

Initially, I was prepared to file this under “WTF?” and forget about it. But then I didn’t.

Just as breasts, even on teenagers, are generally not perfectly spherical and air-born, one’s labia is rarely, if ever, the colour of Pepto Bismol. Except in porn, where reality goes for a lost weekend and often comes back with a nasty infection.

The creator of this product claims to “restore our natural pigment,” which allegedly changes with the transition from girl to womanhood, pregnancy etc.. If it’s so natural, why do we need a dye to attain it?

Not that I spent any length of time squatting naked over a mirror studying my exact colour throughout my life, but this “loss of colour” is just a bullshit marketing angle designed to make us feel old and undesirable enough to pay money for the privilege of smearing chemicals on our delicate parts.

Let’s think about the idea of putting a dye on one’s genitalia for a moment, shall we. It’s uncomfortable enough when your skin reacts badly to a face cream. I shudder to think of how unhappy you’d be if this stuff didn’t agree with your chemistry “down there.” I would not delight in the idea of explaining that to my doctor.

Realistically, I don’t think the majority of men really give a shit about the colour of a woman’s labia. They’re just happy to be near it. Or at least that’s what an informal poll of my friends tells me. Granted, my friends are not idiots who watch so much porn (or at least certain kinds of porn) that their idea of what a woman looks like has been completely warped. And why would we ever want to cater to such people?

Such men (and women too, I am sad to say) want us to all look the same from the colour of the hair on our heads to the colour of our fun parts, probably because they really do see us as all being alike and too much variation in our appearances makes them nervous.

Personally, if anyone ever complained that mine didn’t look enough like the inside of a sea shell, I’d just tell him his pecker was ugly and to put on his pants and get the hell out of my bed before I scream for my roommates and they come and beat the crap out of him.

This stuff, in addition to having an insipid name, is just silly and pointless at best and at worst, dangerous.  But I guess in order to make money during a recession, you literally have to hit people below the belt.

Is it real, or is it Booty Pop?

No, booty pop is not a new hip-hop move or gas-inducing soda (like any sensible person would think).

First, the word “booty” should only be used by todlers and pirates. So many alternatives (butt, rump, backside, arse, deriere, can etc.) and this is the one that catches on? Even if I wanted to decieve men into thinking my backside was more luscious than it actually is (and don’t try to begrudge me my false eyelashes, I only wear them on camera or when a situation calls for a lot of eye drama), I wouldn’t buy something with such a stupid name. I was embarassed to be watching that commercial!

True, it’s not really different than wearing a padded bra (not that I own one). Though removing of said bra is way sexier than those ugly granny panties would be.

These knickers are hideous, no matter how hard they may try to sex ‘em up (the sizes are called “sweet,” “sweeter,” and “sweetest” and come in colours like “black licorice” and “cotton candy.”)

Supposing someone invented a pair of underpants for men that had the strategic padding in the crotch? This would be seen as a conspiracy to trick women into sleeping with guys they believe are well endowed but (surprise!) aren’t. Angry mobs would surely follow.

But scores of disappointed ass men…okay, I do find that mildly hillarious.

 At best, this garment might make a great deterrent to those douchebag ass-grabbers who slither around the clubs (he won’t be grabbing your actual ass after all). Maybe they could emit electric shocks. But I still wouldn’t buy ‘em. You know, on the account of the stupid name.

I don’t want to be a baby mama

Yesterday, I got up at stupid o’clock in the morning (though I don’t think there is a stupid o’clock at night so sorry for the redundancy). I had to be at a hospital in Brampton very early to film an educational video in which I portrayed a new mother who has given birth to baby Sara at only 29 weeks. The video is meant to highlight the various machines and gadgets made by a company who I probably shouldn’t name for neo natal care.

I’m told I played the frightened mom in labour very convincingly. I was pleased. After all, having never had children, I had to find different experiences to draw on (I used the pain that courses through my left arm as a result of a tetanus shot).

Honestly, just pretending to be ready to drop took a lot of energy (especially when I had to throw my back into it towards the end). How any woman survives hours of this only to have it end with a human getting squeezed from an orifice previously associated with mostly pleasure, I can’t even begin to fathom.

Even after getting to see the little premies in the intensive care unit (and they were very sweet and quiet), I have no desire to bring a child of my own into being.

I have endured much criticism over the years for my decision to remain childless. Back in my twenties I frequently got the condescending old chestnut “you’ll change your mind!”

Now here I am: staring down my 37th birthday with a little resentment, single and living with my cat and three roommates. Not exactly the ideal conditions for mummyhood, but even if I had the rich husband and the big house in Rosedale, there would be no little Leslys running through the yard and stomping through my organic vegetable and herb garden.

No, I don’t hate kids. No, I am not barren. I did get a little bit squicky when I was researching my role by watching some birthing footage on youtube, but no I am not a coward.

I live a varied and interesting life. True, I could do with a bigger bank account and I know I won’t win an Academy Award (at least this year), but I don’t feel there is anything missing from my life that a child would provide.

I bear no ill will towards those who do decide to parent, so long as they aren’t morons or crackheads. There are a few moms and dad among my friends who genuinely love their kids and are raising them to be strong and goodhearted people.

But face it, most people should not breed and I am one of them.

Thankfully, the older I get the more people are backing down. But I occasionally get well-meaning busy-bodies telling me “it’s not too late, you just need to meet a man. Very soon, you’re not getting any younger and you don’t want to be some bitter lonely old cat lady, so hurry now! Look there’s a man over there go get him, go, go, GO!”

I’m thinking of telling everyone I’ve enetered menopause early and it is, indeed, too late.  Let them pity me, so long as they quit bothering me.

Pardon my French, Mr. President

But your holiday traditions suck ass:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20091125/ap_on_go_pr_wh/us_obama_turkey_pardon

I’m not a fan of tradition, myself. Just aping what has been done before is a poor substitute for original thought.

So this one day a year one turkey will be spared the fate of the hot oven and get shipped to Disneyland. What the hell is a turkey going to do in Disneyland? Most turkeys aren’t even tall enough to go on the rides.

But to the 72 million other turkeys slaughtered for the traditional holiday meal who spend most of their lives (all 5-6 months)  living in filthy, cramped conditions , Disneyland might look pretty damn good.

Instead of posing for pictures with Mickey and Donald, those other birds got crammed full of growth hormones that often leaves them unable to stand under their own weight. Then they got shipped on crowded trucks to slaughterhouses where their feathers were burned off, their throats slit and stomped on by workers. Often while still conscious.

All to end up on a platter being hacked away at by families who will cram as much of the carcass (and accompanying cranberry sauce and dinner rolls) into their gobs as they can before passing out, unable to do anything but grunt at football (or, if you’re a woman, cleaning up all the mess).

But it’s tradition, people. And truth has no place in that.

<embed src=”http://www.petatv.com/swf/video.swf?v=Grace_39_Thanksgiving_peta_high” quality=”high” pluginspage=”http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer” type=”application/x-shockwave-flash” width=”335″ height=”255″ allowScriptAccess=”always”></embed><br /><a href=”http://www.peta.org/FeatureGrace.asp?c=ptggvid”>’Grace’: PETA’s Thanksgiving ad</a>

Honestly, I’m thankful to be human. I may be part of the most arrogant and destructive species on the planet, but we’re also by far the luckiest.

Boast a tighter, more youthful vag: No Kegel exercises required

Yeah, apparently it’s no longer enough to be perky and girlish on the outside. Ultimately, it is what’s on the inside that will keep the men coming.

For only $80 for 5 ml your husband can pretend he’s deflowering the 12 year old next door.

http://www.stbotanica.in/ladysecretserum.htm

The about us page reads like a Nigerian scam email.  Not promising. Even more unnerving:

Any of the young woman who has not yet been “loosened up” by any of the factors such as aging, childbearing, plenty of sexual activities or anything else that makes her private organ loose is labeled as honeymoon fit woman, a typical aphrodisiac material among guys! But then, why they are so crazy for such woman? The answers are logical and even emotional. The women with tighter vagina fulfils a man’s ego by making him feel that he got a much larger than an average phallus (And, believe it, nearly all men secretly concern about their sizes of the penis a lot)
I’d have thought a man’s ego would be more inflated knowing that the head of his offspring is what made her not, er, “honeymoon fit.”

I can’t imagine that this would feel good at all. What happens to the nerves that make sex pleasurable for us, are they just deadened?  Not that our pleasure seems to matter to the maufacturers of Virginity in a Bottle.

Something’s fishy here. And don’t mean this kind of snake oil:

www.lovetolinger.com

Sorry but that stuff  sounds like a yeast infection in the making.

It might be fun if it came in different flavors, as an occasionally novelty, but why make women feel insecure about their natural aroma (and if she smells at all “off” , she’d best get to the gyn STAT).

Sheesh, it’s bad enough that having pubic hair is now a sin only second to not shaving one’s underarms, but these shysters have to mine our bodies for new ways to make us feel inadequate.

I like to think the companies will tank (and receive some very rude e-mails). But how long has Summer’s Eve been in business?

Throwbacks That Should Be, er, Thrown back

This excerpt from an antique 1950s home economics textbook has been doing the rounds of the worldwide web. It has found its way into my e-mail at least twice in the past year.

http://www.j-walk.com/other/goodwife/images/goodwifeguide.gif

I first encountered the good wife’s guide back in university. I can’t remember which class it was for (I think it had “gender” in the title), but our professor read that daft piece of pseudo-education aloud to us one afternoon.

And we laughed. And mocked. A few gasped in horror, but then realizing that horrible chapter of history was, well, history, fell back into laughter and mocking.

This was a tutorial group (not a proper lecture in a big, echo-y hall). There were two men in this group, both black. The rest were women of all nationalities and upbringings. What really got to me was that few if any of us would actually be found in a university classroom back in 1955. We’d be enduring handy hints for dealing with husbands like:

-Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

-Be a little gay (sic) and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it

-Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet.

-Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner or other places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax

-A good wife always knows her place.

Alas, there was no mention of the best time for these goodly (future) wives to take their little yellow pills.

So why is the good wife’s guide rearing its ugly head in 2009?

Many are wondering if the whole piece is just a gigantic hoax. It is just that crazy.

If so, then it’s a long-running hoax if I knew of it back in the mid-nineties.

But alarmingly, there is a smattering of men out there (there? The universe, child) seem to think that it is a grand thing.  Women have become far too selfish and career-oriented, they cry comment. These guys believe they are entitled to their very own fembot fetching their pipe and slippers every day.

These speshul snowflakes are also convinced they ought not to be bothered with his wife’s opinions or told what a nightmare their sprog was at the grocery store.

You’d think such men would lack the opposable digits required to access the internet, but no.

I’m not telling you where to find these losers. That would be giving them the attention they crave.

Plus some of them have dirt on me.

But that doesn’t mean I’m staying silent. Any man who really thinks he deserves that sort of slavishness from his wife, his life partner for Gob Smack, may do better being doted on by kindly old volunteers with the patience of angels. In the nut house.

I don’t expect such a man to be reading this, but on the off chance, an open letter:

Dear Gorak,

Get your head out of your arse! First of all, sad knuckle dragger:

1. The fifties are OVER, praise Merlin!
2. The version of the fifties that ridiculous rag presented of marital and family bliss, for the most part only existed on television. In the real world, things weren’t so clear-cut and rosy. Betty Friedan blew the whistle on it all years ago, didn’t you hear?

3. You are probably goofy-looking, frequently turned down for promotions at work (if you have a job) and have a pet rock for a brain. You would likely have to import such a woman from a very impoverished country, and that just might be beyond your means.

As for me, I will not be forced back into the Lace Ghetto. The fifties were not an aluminum sided heaven on Earth.

Stop stinking up my chat rooms.

Sincerely,

Lesly

Women have seen and learned far too much to tolerate men like Gorak. At its every inception, the F-word (“FEMINIST!”) has drawn ridicule from the mainstream.

When this textbook was first printed, a man could legally rape his wife. After all, she was his property. Women who managed to find their place in the job market could be fired for being married. Or pregnant.

I’m forever grateful to my foremothers for taking the worst of it. But as you can see, the battle isn’t quite over.

And the best way to put those trogs in their place is to laugh at them, the way you laughed at the good wife’s guide. And mock if you have the time and inclination. And eventually Gorak and his ilk will drag their knuckles back to their caves where they will scratch their slopey heads and try to figure out how to use the can-opener.

I’ll take my little flat where I only wait on myself and my cat over a bar to a “happy” marriage that could only exist in a textbook.