Um, Jane?

.

This is a deserted island. Clooney would make it decidedly undeserted. Desserted, maybe.

Anyway, my list:

1. A laminated picture of my family
2. Laminated dirty picture of my wife
3. iPod loaded with every Lost and Gilligan’s Island episode
4. Bag of weed with the seeds in it
5. Pack of Bic lighters
6. Voltmeter
7. Tattooing equipment
8. Set of Ginsu knives
9. Wilson brand volleyball
10. Tuxedo

P.S. Jane: cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater.

…but Dan thinks…

You know, I kinda get the need for the husband jokes. It’s like why everyone hates the United States. We own everything. We run everything. We know how everything works. We know how to fix everything.

And we can pee standing up. It’s natural to be jealous.

But I’m pretty sure that holding the title “cruise director” does not make women queens of all they survey.

The household you run? You’re welcome for providing that for you. The long hours we spent separating clients from their money, constructing their constructions, meeting with fart-breathing bosses and filling out TPS reports? Because you didn’t see it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, and that it wasn’t every bit as grueling as plopping the children in front of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse while you run down the Energizers on your favorite toy. Oh, right. That actually ISN’T that grueling, is it.

You know what Rachel Rae does to prevent every calorie from going to her ass because you have the time. Time to watch television. Time to read gossip blogs. Hell, time to write your own damn blogs.

We’re just too busy to spend all our free time bitching to any other man that’ll listen about how unfair life is.

And the reason we can’t find the Advil? You keep fucking moving it. I get wanting to feel like you control your surroundings, but do you have to do it by constantly shuffling everything around in the house? The answer to “Where’s the Advil” should NOT be “Billy had soccer that one time and he hurt his knee and so we were sitting on the floor and I gave him the Advil while I held ice on his knee and then Miranda came in and distracted me and I needed to put away the Advil so it was out of reach of the kids and so I think I put it with the spices so check there.”

Um, no. The answer should be “It’s in the medicine drawer, where it always is.”

Ok, now I feel the need to wipe away the piggish veneer and be serious for a minute. In general I don’t think men mind that much that women get together and privately dish dirt on their spouses. Some men dish, too. But the thing that I feel is wholly unacceptable? Airing dirty laundry to the world. Like on a blog. I’m not going to name names here, only because Jane has been screaming and pleading that I don’t, for fear that it’ll mean disaster for this blog. But there are women with high profile blogs who write really insulting things about their husbands and family on a regular basis. Husband jokes, but in real life.

Maybe it’s a lack of maturity that makes these women do this. Or maybe it’s a lack of intelligence or foresight. Or lack of respect.

But one of the first rules you ever learn about interpersonal relations, even as a child, is that if you have an issue with someone, you take it up with that person, not everyone EXCEPT that person. Maybe those women who blog nasty on their husbands are really, deep down, unhappy and hoping for a divorce and this is how they subconsciously make that happen. Or maybe they have mice for men (at which point those men should get together for some chest-bumping bro-lidarity, or go buy a t-shirt that says “she may be the woman, but I’m the pussy”). Whatever the reason, it’s pretty much indefensible, and all the harm that gets rained down on that relationship because of that behavior is justified.

Husband jokes? Fine in moderation. Wife jokes? Assume the position more often and they’ll go away.

And? We help out quite a bit around the house. We just don’t fly a biplane dragging a message each time we empty the trash.

…but Jane thinks…

Dan, choose 1 of the following to describe yourself: a) out of touch b) a repressed Midwesterner laden with Catholic guilt or c) someone practicing Socratic irony – a little too convincingly. I’m praying it’s C.

You are being willfully naïve if you think that the way to prepare or support a military during a time of war is to dump them in some godforsaken desert for YEARS at a time with nothing other than cold steel , a scratchy woolen blanket, and some MREs. I cannot believe that I am in the position here of the Patriot, while you are…I don’t even know what…proposing that we deny fighting men and women the same basic rights that other consenting adults have?

It doesn’t seem as if your objection here is to the morality (don’t even start with me, people, it’s completely none of anybody else’s business) of the morning-after pill, but rather the notion that the military should be acknowledging and responding to the simple fact that soldiers are going to have sex – should the lucky moment strike. Why is that wrong? They aren’t robots – although, there’s an idea – they are human beings, with physical and emotional desires, probably more in need of human contact and comfort than those of us here safe at home stateside. Should they not be able to buy tampons or Diet Pepsi? Those things aren’t necessary to blowing the enemy whoever the hell that is these days sky high. How about pillows? Nobody needs a pillow. Sure it’s NICE to have a pillow, but if you’re really tired, and I’ll bet those soldiers are, they’ll sleep without one. Playstation and Xbox, heck, television, computers, cds, ipods. Those things don’t have much to do with their mission, do they?

Or maybe your point is that we and by we, I mean you and Goody Brown from the old settlement in Jamestown, shouldn’t be facilitating sexual relationships at all unless they occur between married people at home in their own bed. And somehow NOT providing birth control is going to keep unmarried adults from having sex. In a war zone. When they are scared and lonely. And bored. And facing death on a daily basis. Right…that’s about as likely as turning up those missing WMDs and yellow cake uranium.

.

.

…but Jane thinks…

Doctor I’d like a vasectomy
First you should talk to your family
I did just today
What did they say
They are in favor fifteen to three

My eggs are 42 years old. Older, actually, because I’m pretty sure those little babypods start to grow in utero. Not my utero. Well, IN my utero while I was in utero.

I’m confused now.

Let’s start again.

I’m too old to have any more babies. That, and I can barely handle the ones I have and they’re not even babies anymore. Excuse me while I lock myself in the bathroom and sob for an hour. I get emotional about the no baby thing sometimes. Even though, truth be told, I wasn’t that great with babies. Not that I endangered them or hated them or dressed them up in weird clothes and took pictures of them for my own amusement or shoved beans up their noses, I just wasn’t a very calm and together mother of babies. She says. In the understatement of the decade.

My youngest baby child is six. After she was born, we (husband and me, that is) decided that we were done. Boy. Girl. Done. Two kids. Done. I should probably mention at this point that our discussion of the subject occurred shortly after the one in which my obstetrician told me that with my history of high risk pregnancies that I’d probably just explode upon conception rather than have to suffer through the trials and tribulations of pre-eclampsia and gestational diabetes if I were ever to get knocked up again. Which, actually, might be preferable to both, but never mind. Exploding Mommy = Bad Plan.

The thing is, I tried to get pregnant twice. And I got pregnant twice. In fact, the second time, we’d just begun talking about trying to get pregnant again. I think my husband sneezed near me when I was in the shower because I’m sure there was no scheduled or conscientious effort on either of our parts and then I remember that we both got the flu – the stomach flu – so there was no, er, effort made shortly after this initial “Should we? Shouldn’t we?” conversation. In other words, in the past, it’s not been hard for us to conceive.

I’ve also never been pregnant other than those two, intentional (mostly) pregnancies. This makes me very lucky, I think. Not that I’m a huge tramp and spent most of the 80’s and 90’s whoring it up all over town or anything, but, you know, statistically, shit happens. But not to me. And for this I am grateful. But getting NOT pregnant took some effort on my part (again, I feel I should reiterate that I am not a tramp. I didn’t get married until I was 32, OK? What did you expect? Mom, Dad. Don’t read this anymore. I probably should have mentioned that earlier.). Birth control pills are awful. Side effects, both long term and short are only the tip of the iceberg. The patch? Still birth control pills, just not in pill form, and in my house the patch was called “The Bitch Patch” because within 20 minutes of sticking that little square of hormone-infused plastic to my ass I was transformed into Hormona, The Evil Queen of the Planet Dysmennhorrea. Diaphragm. Gross. Bladder infections. Also. Gross. On and on. I’m not telling anybody anything they don’t already know.

About a month and a half ago, I thought I was pregnant. It was a very tense two weeks at my house while I mentally checked and rechecked symptoms and then peed on many a stick. Ultimately, not pregnant.* Did I mention that it was a very tense two weeks at my house? I miss being pregnant, I miss breastfeeding, I miss having tiny, sweet smelling cuddly warm babies. What I don’t miss is daycare bills, bottles, formula, baby food, diapers, crying, teething, weird rashes, that thing you have to use to suck out snot when the kid has a cold, weekly (it seems) trips to the pediatrician, not sleeping, getting fat(ter), not spending time with the other people in my house. Also, I don’t miss diabetes and 20 pounds of water weight and the risk of stroke caused by high blood pressure. What I would miss? My car – because I’d need a minivan and then I’d have to kill myself. Also, my house. Because there ain’t no room at that inn for another person.

When men are through breeding, they should all get vasectomies. It’s a simple, out-patient procedure that results in minor discomfort – and they send you home with pills, so hello? Win, win as far as I’m concerned. The only preparation or “inconveniences” after the surgery is a little swelling – great opportunity for humor here, and the need to collect sperm samples before and after. That’s right. You, the magazines, a sterilized cup. My heart breaks for you.

The arguments for why men should get vasectomies instead of women getting tubal ligation or continuing to be responsible for birth control are so frequently trotted out in this debate that they are clichéd at this point. I don’t care.

I had two c-sections. Isn’t that enough mucking about with my innards? You think a little snip snip of the vas deferens makes your knees tremble, boys? My UTERUS WAS PLACED ON MY STOMACH WHILE THEY STITCHED IT BACK UP. At the end of my second c-section, I asked the doctor why it smelled like someone was smoking in the OR. He said, “It’s you. I’m cauterizing your insides.”

It’s cool. I’ll wait. Get a drink of water and put your head between your knees. The feeling will pass.

The arguments against vasectomies are that it hurts, it’s gross, and men are afraid. Ever seen one of these?

That’s an amnihook. Used to break a woman’s (mine) water during induced or slow labor.

And this?

That’s my obstetrician’s actual hand. Used to do a lovely procedure called “stripping the membrane” to speed labor along.

The vasectomy procedure, called, unbelievably, Riddle’s Fiddle, consists of two tiny incisions into numbed skin (topical anesthesia before the injection, you big wimps), two snips, and a few stiches. Which dissolve. Then you’re home, on Percodan, with a bag of frozen peas between your legs while you lie on the couch and demand beverages and sympathy. Other than a little private Dad time in the bathroom with the periodical of your choice and some hospital-approved Tupperware, you’re done.

The only real, scientifically proven, negative consequence or side effect of a vasectomy is that it is permanent. Reversing a vasectomy is often costly, challenging, and ineffective. Although I don’t see why this is a negative. That’s the whole damn point, isn’t it? No more babies? And not just no more babies with me, no more babies with anybody. The hell if I’m going to pick up your socks and raise two of your hellion offspring just so you can turn around and decide that you’ve had enough of my bitchy screeds and irrational behavior (till death do you part, buddy) and trade me in for a new model. A new model who wants babies. Babies who will make my own babies crazy because that’s what daddy’s new babies do. And I don’t have the time or energy for some other chick’s babies making my babies crazy. So no. No more babies. **

Get ‘er done. Anymore babies come in this house, mama’s out.

* If we had been pregnant, I’d totally have named that kid Daisy, as in “Oopsy Daisy.”

**Not that he’d ever leave me. Of course. I’m a catch. A bitchy, irrational catch. Who isn’t having any more babies.

…but Dan thinks…

When I heard about a brothel putting the “dude” into Dude Ranch, being the business man and penis-carrier I am, I immediately thought of the logistics, business model and marketing. Here’s exactly the conversation that went on in my head as I mulled this over:

“Hmm. If a woman wants to get laid, she only needs to show up at a bar. She can be wearing a wife beater, be 3 days post-shower, teeth and hair a mess, but if she makes it known that she wants you to split her uprights, she’s going home with an erect penis on a leash.

“So how do you market this? Well, what does the dirty, smelly, mussed hair woman get in a man at the bar? Does he have a big cock? Hmm, hard to sample that merchandise in public. Does he have a quick trigger-finger?

“Is there any kind of guarantee that he’d perform even modestly in bed? Would he even pay lip service to her needs?

“Ah, that’s it. There would need to be some sort of performance guarantee. An assurance that any money spent on a man would result in some sort of happy ending. And so maybe the men need to be put into categories – Markus would be the big, dumb jackhammer. I’m sure there are women out there who’d want a good hard fuck after closing some big business deal. But there would also be women who’d want their needs tended to exclusively, who cares if the guy gets off. Right? Are you with me? Of course you are.

“Hmm, again. But how can you have a satisfaction guarantee? I mean the finish line for a guy is pretty easy to reach and easier yet to prove. But a woman? Was all the moaning and shuddering just a rehash of When Harry Met Sally? Could she just want a freebie and claim she never had an orgasm, thereby getting her money back and the brothel going broke?

“There’d have to be some fine print that’d say ‘your man will do his best to fulfill your needs, but just like in life, sometimes men fall short.’

“Oh. Here’s another problem. What if the client’s ugly? In this regard the women have it easy. Quadruplechin&asshair man not turning her on? Squirt a little lube and she’s good to go, right? What does a guy do when he can’t see anything but that wart on her face and the bulging hemorrhoids? Pretty hard to fake an erection.

“Ah. Viagra. We’ll give it to the studs like candy.  Mints next to the night table.

“And what about staying power? Would there need to be “tryouts” to make sure $300 per hour doesn’t turn into $300 per 6 minutes? (I have a solution for that – Zoloft. But that’s another story for another time after I’ve had another drink. Or eight.)

“Ok. I think this can fly. It just needs to be marketed to the right types of women. And they’d need a corrupt doctor on staff to prescribe SSRIs and assloads of ED meds to keep the men sporting durable wood.

And blah, blah, blah, Jane, teaching young men to have sex? You seem to know the names of porn stars, so I have to ask – do you know any of the male porn stars’ names? Porn is watched for the chick, not the dude doin’ the chick. But the dude is pretty necessary to the video. Same with this – no guy is getting famous for something 3 billion other guys on the planet would stand in line to replace him for.

I’m not going to stand in judgment of something I would have gladly done as a summer job. I just think this is much harder than providing a seed receptacle – this one will require a pretty bright marketing mind. I wonder if they’re accepting applications.

…but Jane thinks…

Jane thinks  a great many things, particularly on this subject, but let’s start with one general notion:  Most of the time any contemporary phenomenon is described as “empowering” for women, it’s actually just another way that women get shuttled away back into the corner.  And it’s common knowledge that NOBODY puts baby in a corner.

Equal opportunity in the job market?  Greaaatttttt….thanks.  Now I am expected to work full time and keep your house and children together.    Birth control pills?  Greeeaaatttttt…thanks.  I’m really enjoying the weight gain, the emotional consequences of artificially introducing unnatural levels of hormones into my bloodstream, the increased risk of stroke and breast cancer, not to mention the responsibility for not bringing new and unwanted life into the world.

The moniker “cougar” is just another stepping stone down this slippery slope.

Do I think that open dialogue about women’s needs and desires, particularly in the bedroom or whatever room you prefer, freaks, is valuable and should be encouraged?  Of course.  Do I think that a cultural acknowledgement of the beauty and wisdom and strength of older women is a long time coming and something we should all be campaigning for?  Of course.

Do I think that using a term that conjures up images of carnivorous predators is useful in these pursuits of greater social, emotional, intellectual, and physical enlightenment?  That would be NO.  Instead, slapping a bestial label on a population of attractive and confident women – and note, nobody’s calling Granny McLibrarian with the elastic waist pants and wrinkles so deep she could carry her grandchildren around in them a cougar, the term is reserved for women who are smoking hot, botoxed into statuary, lifted and smoothed, and generally loaded  – who happen to date younger men reveals society’s baser instincts.

An older man dating a younger woman?  We might raise an eyebrow, but you and I both know that this dude is getting a slap on the back and a wink wink nudge nudge.  Older man + younger woman is, though, so commonplace as to not even really merit comment.  The older woman with the younger man, however, has accomplished some incredible feat – clearly a consequence of her sexual prowess (carnivorous) and deliberate efforts (predator).

The only reason Dan thinks that my interpretation of cougar is “old skank” is that I laughed out loud and for days a long time when he told me that he thinks Jane Seymour is hot.  Dr. Quinn?  The Max Factor Le Jardin perfume postergirl, from, like 1912?  The testicle-necklace designer (and if that doesn’t prove my point about cougars being predators, what does??)?

I sort of get Dan’s point about J. Lo and the junk in her trunk.   To be sure, I’m way in favor of Appreciating the Big Ass.  But adapting our cultural norms of physical beauty to be more inclusive is only positive, whereas a widely disseminated (yeah, I said it) connotation that an attractive and sexually active older woman in a relationship or whatever the kids are calling it these days with a younger man is a) worthy of note and b) comparable to a wild animal is irresponsible and ultimately damaging.