Posts Tagged ‘women’

“What is it with women and their bras???“, asks a guy overhearing us gals talk about ours.

I always feel bad for male readers, when the topic of the day is something most can’t relate to.  Today might be one such day.  Most men don’t understand bras. They don’t understand why we wear them, why we like them, and they certainly don’t understand why we spend so much money on them.

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, the answers to those questions could be the subject of another post, but today the  focus is on a man who knows the power in a bra.

There are women who hate bras, but I love them. They are vital in encouraging “the girls” to stay close to home.  Everyone knows home is where the heart is.  Additionally, my mother taught me, the importance of dressing in layers.  With that in mind, I figure I might as well make the first layer a good  one.

Since their invention, we have been shaped by our bras, as they defined both feminine beauty and feminine roles.  Bras have never been more significant than they were in the The 20th Century, when bra-burning became an emblematic act for the cause of feminism.  After women stopped burning their bras and went back to wearing them, bras got all girly again–until now.

In the 21st Century, the bra is being used to liberate, empower and provide economic freedom for women. Free the Girls is a non-profit organization, which came into being, because of one-man’s awareness and compassion for the plight of sex trafficking victims in Mozambique.

In America, the freedom women have over their bodies is taken for granted, but in other parts of the world, the loss of virginity, an out of wedlock birth, or a sexually transmitted disease can mean being stigmatized, ostracized or even killed. For women who are sold as sex slaves, getting out doesn’t always mean freedom from the past. Those who manage to escape, carry with them the painful memories, but many also face health problems such as HIV, or may have trouble finding work, either because they are social outcasts, or because they have no education. Read the rest of this entry »

At an age when a girl has hardly known the joy of walking or running, both her feet are broken.  To those of us in The Western World breaking the feet of a small child would be justifiably called child abuse but to deliberately break the feet, then purposely stop them from healing, is unthinkably barbaric, yet the custom was practiced in China for hundreds of years.

The agonizing life-long process of foot-binding was performed to make women more attractive to men, giving them better marriage prospects and insuring they would spend their lives closely tethered to the home.  Also guaranteed were a lifetime of pain, the stench of rotting flesh and maimed feet which would impair the ability to walk.  Once the  weight-bearing and balancing properties of the feet were altered, a girl with bound feet would never enjoy more mobility than a horse with hobbles.  Like livestock branded and penned, husbands need never worry about their wives wandering far.

As the Chinese practice of foot-binding became an integral measure of desirability, the deformed foot and it’s accompanying odor became integral to the erotica of the age.  The men of that era were even convinced foot-binding strengthened and enhanced a woman’s sexual response.

Eventually, foot-binding was banned, mostly because, in the age of communism, the women’s role as laborer superseded her role as sexual vessel.  Women who had been the property of men, were now property of the state.

To us in The West, the practice is repulsive, cruel and bizarre, yet it is just one of many culturally-based beauty practices of unnatural body modifications and/or mutilations practiced in the world.  Unusual practices like the lip-stretching of the East African Mursi tribes or the use of metal coils to elongate the neck by The Karen tribes of  Thailand and Myanmar, seem strangely primitive to us, but are they really so much different from the practices of our sophisticated use of silicone and other materials to change the shape of our faces or bodies?

Nips, tucks, lipo, piercings, gauging, tattoos . . American women are no longer strangers to body alterations–with one big difference…we alone decide what we will do to be attractive.  Whether budgeting for Botox or choosing a tattoo, the decision is our own.  While our media and culture may indoctrinate us with ideas of beauty, we are not under an edict to conform.

Nevertheless, it is almost impossible to determine how much of what we do for ourselves is really a response to those who will see us or evaluate us.  The need to be accepted, the hope of eliminating perceived flaws or the choice to conform to an ideal, fuel our decisions, but they also express our desire to be desirable.  Even powerful women, who reject being subjugated by society’s expectations, may not realize the extent to which external messages become part of innermost feelings.

I know of what I speak, for as I write this, my mouth is filled with inconvenient metal and wires.  Though they will eventually correct legitimate alignment problems, I’d by lying like a bad hairpiece if I didn’t admit, only the prospect of a better smile, makes the trade-off, worth the discomfort.

For more on the history of foot-binding: http://www.angelfire.com/ca/beekeeper/foot.html

Apologies to the gentlemen readers of de blog, but it’s been over a year since the topic of the “girl talk” blog ventured onto the subject men would rather not read about.  Count your blessings. We could justifiably whine about our periods once a month, while sending all men we know postcards (or missiles) from Crankytown, but de blog women have better things to do.  Pardon us, as we delve into the one part of the female anatomy that fails to capture men’s imaginations.

I was enjoying the company of a friend I’ve known forever when, in an enthusiastic conversational exchange, he accidentally got me with a bit of spittle. Had he not been so apologetic and visibly embarrassed, I might have teased him.  (After all what’s a friendly little exchange of spit between old friends, eh?) Though I was unfazed, clearly, to him it was a less-than-fabulous  moment. We all have them.

The best days are those on which we feel fabulous, look fabulous or when circumstances convince us we are fabulous. In a perfect world, women would wake up every day feeling spunky, competent and beautiful.  Alas, this is not a perfect world.

Lack of sleep, too much stress, bad hair, favorite jeans in the hamper, or moments of self-doubt can leave us feeling less than fabulous.  Still, when it comes to being diva-rrrific, women have all the advantages. We have more wardrobe options and grooming helps than men care to employ.  Not only that, but are allowed to play dress-up whenever the mood strikes us.  That’s one of many reasons I love being a woman, but there are so many more.  For starters, we can cry without having anyone question our sexuality, we carry cute handbags instead of sitting on sciatica-inducing wallets and we can do one thing men can‘t–give birth.

Anyone who has witnessed birth, knows it is a miraculous thing, but the downside of the miracle is approximately every 28 days fertility has a way of posing unpleasant inconvenience.  Nothing quite like cramping, bloating or bleeding to diminish our fab-quotient.

Even though it isn’t always possible to feel our best, we don’t have to surrender to everything that would drag us down.  I feel the same way about my period, as I do about maternity clothes.  It’s bad enough to be in a less-than spectacular condition, without making it worse by wearing dumpy clothes. I want to wear what I want to wear, every day of the month.

That’s why, when I first saw the new panties from Sexy Period, I had to have them. Not only that, but I wanted all my girlfriends to know about them.  Once upon a time, women burned their bras to symbolize women’s liberation.  Stoke those fires again, it’s time to burn your granny panties.

Smart, confident women have always defined fabulous, but the definition has now been broadened by two women who decided to turn their idea of sexy leak-proof panties into a reality. (Victoria doesn’t know any secrets this good.)  I got in touch with the brainy beauties at Sexy Period, and they were more than gracious in offering to help me spread the word.  In fact, they are giving de blog readers a chance to win their choice of undies from Sexy Period.

So here’s the deal.  Visit http://sexyperiod.com/store/collection/ to check out the goods. Then send de blog an e-mail with a photo of the panties you’d like to burn and a note telling us which smokin’ hot pair of undies you’d like to win.  (Style, Cut and Size) Photos will be posted, but we won‘t identify which shameful panties are yours. A panel of judges will select the winner.

Just so we’re clear here, this is serious (and lighthearted).  Photos should be tasteful.  This is not a solicitation for pictures of women in their underwear.  (Lord knows, there are already enough websites devoted to that.)  Men may send in photos too, but if any of my gentlemen readers are wearing panties, please lie and tell us they belong to your mother, sister, girlfriend or wife.

The more the merrier, so spread the word by sharing this link:  http://www.deblogsite.com/?p=3257

GOOD LUCK!

Entering: Contest is open to anyone 18 or over.  Entrants must submit a photo of the panties they’d like to ditch in a usable digital format. Along with the photo entrants will be required to specify which style and size of Sexy Period panties, they’d like to win.  Entries (note with photo attachment) must be e-mailed to: deblogsite@yahoo.com

Photos will be posted in a gallery format on de blog. By submitting a photo, you are agreeing to allow the photo to be used by de blog or Sexy Period for promotional purposes. To prevent panty-pervs from stalking de blog readers, entries will be identified in a way which does not disclose the identity of entrants.

Winning: Finalists will be selected by judges appointed by de blog.  Sexy Period will choose a winner from the finalists.  All decisions are the sole discretion of the judges from de blog and Sexy Period.

The prize will be one pair of panties (your choice) selected from www.sexyperiod.com.  It is the winner’s responsibility to provide a valid shipping address in accordance with the delivery restrictions of Sexy Period.  Prize will be shipped directly from Sexy Period via U.S. Postal Service.   

Winner will be notified via the e-mail address used for entering, at which time, shipping address will be required.  After notification, the winner will have 5 business days to respond.  Failure to respond within the time limits, will result in forfeiture of the prize; in which case it will be awarded to another entrant, as selected by our judges.

Deadline: All entries must be received by July 31, 2011, (11:59 p.m. PST)

Photo and slogan “All 28 Days” are copyrighted material are used by permission of of Sexy Period. de blog reserves the right to refuse acceptance of any entry that is deemed inappropriate by de blog or Sexy Period.

Q.  What’s a woman’s favorite position?
A.  C.E.O.

A woman’s place is in the kitchen, unless we don’t want it to be. Fortunately, women are no longer confined to the home, we have many choices.  It is no small thing that each day women leave their homes, proving  they are every bit as qualified as men to run companies, research and develop things, build things, grow things or make their mark on the world in whatever way they wish.  Women have broken barriers to become leaders in fields once exclusive to men. There has never been a better time or place to be a woman.  Today women have countless venues in which to demonstrate their capabilities and competence.

Though many women still choose home over career, there is no place a woman cannot succeed, whether it be managing millions for a corporation, training men to do their jobs, or making a roomful of rambunctious children as quiet as a library.  We may have different strengths than our male counterparts, but we are every bit as capable.  This is why, it still amazes me to see women of extraordinary competency being rendered powerless by men.

They are such simple creatures.  Compared to single-cell organisms, like say a paramecium, they are complex, but compared to females, they are simple.  Simple creatures with the ability to confuse us, infuriate us and neutralize us.

Once upon a time, women got married.  The end.

That was then.  Times have changed and many women begin “Dating: The Sequel” a few decades past Sweet Sixteen.  With 20 or so years of  things learned, life experienced and all the wisdom that provides, one would think females should be better equipped than ever to succeed in their relationships.  Ironically, men are still able to make even the  most competent and powerful women weak.

A women may be able to go head-to-head with any man professionally, yet a man she desires can quickly turn her into jelly on legs.   I remember an a female friend who was a published author, scholar and professor at a good university.  Lamenting her romantic foibles, she said, “As a professional, I’m holding a royal flush, but my personal life is still a crap-shoot.”  Even she realized the dichotomy of being able to take charge in everything but her love life.

Why is it that the woman who can convince venture capitalists to give millions, has trouble convincing a single individual to give his heart?  Why does a woman attorney too powerful to wait on anyone, agonize as she waits for “him” to call, or a woman exec, making enough $ to afford her own driver, can’t keep a man from driving her crazy?

On the one hand, we owe everything to “feminism” for changing the rules that once held us back, on the other hand, feminism hasn’t changed our gender.  We are still women–the same as always, with tender and vulnerable hearts.   They are still men.  They still make us crazy.  We still need them.

They hold power over us, because deep inside of each of us is the need to connect.  We crave the intimacy of a loving relationship with another human being.  We still need them, we still want them.  Next time, I will address one reason men can make a woman cry herself to sleep, and not even have a clue why.

Loafers, mules, pumps, clogs, boots, sandals, oxfords–I’ve worn them all.  From plastic to exotic leathers, from discount to designer–I’ve stepped out in just about everything–sweet abundance of shoes.

The things one could write about women & their shoes are endless, and why not?  Each and every day, they are the vehicle which carries us to meet whatever challenges the day brings.

At the most basic level they are essential.  On a more esoteric level, they are an extension  of ourselves.   They are what we stand on.  They can make us feel graceful, or make us feel inept at walking.  Some empower, some embarrass.

When I was a girl, there was a common belief a person’s shoes could tell you about them–the implication being shoes would expose a person’s upbringing.  This was probably more true then, when most people didn’t have a closet full of shoes.  I don’t know if the same could be said today, but shoes still convey information.  They tell the world who we think we are, and sometimes they tell us who we are.

Some time ago, I was in negotiations with my teen son, regarding shoes he wanted.  The shoes he wanted cost four times what a comparable pair from another store would; the only difference was the way they would make him feel.

I understand.  I remember how shoes can transform us.  I remember when a new pair of shoes, was enough to convince me that I could run faster or jump higher.  I remember the magic of shoes.

Once upon a time, I had a pair or red leather Mary Janes.   They made me feel special.  On linoleum, they had a little squeak.  Maybe that little squeal was trying to tell me life would never again be as carefree.  I only know, they made me love being a girl.

In high school, almost everyone wore a particular brand of athletic shoe–everyone but me.  I wore look-alikes my mother purchased from the discount store.  I don’t think they fooled anyone, but for a time, they fooled me into believing I fit-in.

I didn’t have them long, before they were stolen.  I might have been angry, if I hadn’t felt so bad for the girl desperate enough to steal such pathetic shoes.  It’s been years, but I still remember the lesson those shoes taught me.

I’ll never forget the lovely silk shoes I wore the day I wed.  As an excited bride, those shoes filled me with romantic idealism and made me feel like a princess.  They made me feel lucky.  Exquisite they were, a short walk in those shoes and my life was forever transformed–for better or worse–mostly better.

I wish I’d been wearing those shoes when I went to visit my new husband’s family.  Instead, I wore a favorite pair of boots.  They were good boots, built to last, but their leather had become creased and worn.  I remember feeling,  that I was sized up, as being no better than those worn boots.  If only those boots, could have spoken for both of us, they probably would have said, “Ignore them, they can’t tell by looking, what we’re made of.“

As I write this, I am wearing a pair of very over-priced “flip-flops”.  Third pair of them I’ve owned.  I bought the first pair, because they were a brand that appeals to me.  After I bought them, I later discovered they were uncommonly comfortable.  They were a little splurge, but worth every penny.  It’s has nothing to do with the status logo, which tells people I spent too much on them;  it is simply they way they feel on my feet.  When I put them on I know I am part of a privileged class.  Not because of that brand, but because my feet don’t hurt the way they did when I waitressed my way through college.    Without saying a word, they remind me that I’ve been very blessed in this  life.

There’s more . . having once been embarrassed, by not having  the same shoes as my peers, these shoes remind me how hypocritical it seems not to buy my son the expensive shoes he desires.  Unlike my mother, I can afford to buy name-brand shoes for my son.  What I can’t afford,  is to allow him to believe, he is more acceptable  because of what he wears.   I want him to understand it’s the person in the shoes that matters.

I’ve learned a few things from my own shoes.  I’d like my son to wear shoes that will help him know what my shoes have taught me—even in the most fabulous pair, I am so much more than my shoes.

A favorite quote:
By the time a woman is wise enough to find a good husband, she has been married 10 or 15 years.

Nothing like being married, to teach one what constitutes a good one.

I selected my husband the same way I select most things.  Shopped around, looked for the kind of quality that would last.  I looked at quite a few, before I chose the one I liked best.

I know more now, than I did then, but I did okay for myself.

If I were to be shopping for a husband today, I’d never marry a man who didn’t dance.

Never thought about it when I was single, but I’ve thought about it a lot in the time since.

Some people enjoy dancing more than others.  I have often wondered, if men enjoy dancing as much as women seem to.

I don’t know the answer to that one, but I know that unless I was in love with a man who didn’t have use of his legs, I could never be with a man who didn’t dance.

I love dancing.  It’s an essential expression of the best parts of being alive.  It’s uninhibited, it’s active and it’s sensual.

For people with energy, the need to move is rudimentary.  For people who enjoy music, the desire to move to it is instinctual.  For people in love, the desire to have bodies in concert is unmitigated.

Dancing is all of that for me.

Dancing is nothing more than moving.  Moving that feels good.  Moving that has the power to move us.

What I like best about dancing, is that it is a publicly-sanctioned display of sexuality.  It is a time when we can go head-to-head or cheek-to-cheek with the object of our desire, without fearing raised eyebrows.   We are given permission to admire the motion of their body.  We are allowed to move in synchronicity with them.

In those moments, we can imagine we are Fred & Ginger, or anyone else our minds can conjure.   Time is suspended, allowing us to enjoy inhibition and intimate closeness.  We are able to forget what we look like, and become what we imagine.  We can revel in the simple placement of a head on a shoulder.  We can listen to the heartbeat or breathing of our partner, and allow it to affect our own.

This is why I am baffled at how men would choose to stand around with their warm hands wrapped around a cold beer, when there are women who want to dance.

The same guys who may fantasize about the flexibility of gymnasts, seem not to see the sensuality of women dancing.

It’s rather like having one’s house painted and failing to notice.  It’s out there and obvious, but only the blind don’t see it.    Choosing the comforting feel of ice cold aluminum in his hands, a man can miss the smell of a woman’s hair, the feel of her face, or an opportunity.

A silly old line calls dancing the vertical expression of a horizontal intention.

That’s not that silly.

I want to dance.
Everyday of my life, I want to dance.

Some days I want to dance crazy.  Some days I want to dance refined.  Sometimes I want to dance in the way that makes my partner know that old line isn’t silly.

I don’t want to be with a man who doesn’t get that, because I don’t want to dance alone.