I love being a woman!

14 Jun

I believe in womanhood, womanly arts, childbirth, and sexual activity between opposite sexes.

This is my own belief, not to be made public, universally or used to defame any group. It is not anti- gay. It is not anti- men. And it is certainly not meant to upset any other splinter group of non-conforming people. Having said that, here is why I think it.

From babyhood I loved being a girl. I suppose it may be that my mother was happy when she had a daughter. She wanted to have a daughter. ONE. She never wanted to have any more children because she herself was an only child. And a lot of her friends were only children, too. She thought that if she had Only one, she could pay all her attention to that child.

But my father had other ideas and wanted a son. So, they tried again, and got another daughter. I bet my father was worried, because his own mother had three daughters before producing him. And after that, they had a fifth child, a second boy, Avon.

 

When I was born, mother loved having a baby girl to dress up. She bought me everything that was ruffled. Lots of colors, too, and laces, and ribbons and always, ruffles. I like pretty things. As early as I can remember, I liked them. Especially shiny silky fabrics, or soft, comfortable, smooth velvet. I also like fur. Very much. I believe mother may have given me some things made of fur very early. She had loved to play with her own mother’s fur muff. And so, she probably made sure I had something like that. Fur makes me happy, even today when it is frowned upon by young people who don’t believe in killing animals for any reason at all.

From my earliest memories, I realized that it was the females who got to wear all the pretty stuff. Clothes, hats, coats, and any other decorative object; they were all much prettier for girls than for boys. It was everywhere obvious, then, that boys were supposed to care about guns and bows and arrows and balls of every type. Sports and rough- and- tumble things that got them dirty and sweaty and smelly were the domain of boys (and men). To me, there is nothing pretty about a ball used for sports. A sphere is lovely, a globe, fascinating and colorful, even a snowball is interesting, but a soccer ball? No. Nor are any other sport balls pretty to look at. Not to me. Who designed the football, anyway? And baseballs and golf balls are the same, plain and utilitarian. So, they did not interest me.

As I grew up, jewelry crept into the mix. Mother was a jewelry aficionado. She loved it in all its forms. She made sure I had jewelry appropriate for my age. Small gold bracelets and tiny rings, silver- enameled hair clips and small gold and enamel pins to wear on my dresses. All during my childhood, jewelry was a standard birthday and Christmas gift. The pieces grew larger, and the stones larger and more plentiful as I became a woman. It was part of my persona, though never as much a passion with me as it was for my sister, Dede, or our mother. They had an obsession with jewelry that I have never shared. To me, it was just an adornment, something to enhance my appearance in any of my dresses. And dresses were what I wore. ONLY dresses. Except, sometimes, as I grew up, I had culottes for riding and later, riding britches. I did NOT like pants, slacks, or, horrors, blue jeans.

 

I wore ultra- feminine clothes in those days because my mother shopped for me. She would come home with armloads of clothes for me and lay them out for me to see.  I began to have definite ideas about which ones I would wear. I am actually much happier in more tailored clothes, than Mother.

 

When I went to nursery school, I remember, I did have to wear overalls. I hated it. I can remember screaming and jumping up and down in anger and anguish because I did not want to dress like a boy.  This may have had to do with the fact that my baby brother arrived two months after my fourth birthday. And he was the “son and heir,” and my father was thrilled to have a son at last. Perhaps some instinct made me jealous of this strange animal: “a boy”. So, I fell back on all the positives of being a girl. This result was raging antagonism toward anything which threatened to mix up my gender. Being a girl became a banner to wave. Wearing coveralls was abhorrent to me. After leaving that nursery school, I remember I refused to wear any pants ever except riding britches.

I was serious about this. It lasted until I was about ten years old and met Marcia McCardle. She became my best friend, and she wore jeans. I thought she was very cool. She was a year older than I.  I wanted to do and be some of the wonderful things I saw her doing and being. So, finally, I realized that it was okay for girls to wear blue jeans. There were all sorts of ways to gussie them up; scarves for the belts, or pretty blouses– and jewelry.

Back when I was first learning the difference between girls and boys, it was war time. The second World War was ever present in my life in my earliest years. I was born five weeks after Pearl Harbor was attacked by the Japanese. The War in Europe ended in 1945 when I was a few months past my third birthday, around May 8th. Later that summer, I remember being in a car with my mother when we heard on the radio (over static) that the Japanese had surrendered on August 15th, 1945. She was excited and people around us were excited, too. There was electricity in the air that day, and I still remember it. Everyone felt relief. It was so wonderful not to have to worry about war anymore. And people who were serving overseas would be coming back home. That brought happiness to so many people, and it signaled the beginning of a resurgence in the economy. And before too long, rationing would be over. Mother hated rationing on shoes. She bragged that she had more shoes than all her friends because she used the ration tickets meant for the three of us to buy shoes for herself. We wore hand-me-downs from her friends’ children. We never owned a new pair of shoes until after the war.

The key thing to remember was that women did not serve in the military unless they wished to. There was no draft for women. And if they did wish to serve, they could NOT go into combat. To me, this seemed like such an obvious “plus” that I could not imagine why anyone would want to be a man. No fighting in a war for women. It was not allowed. I did not think it sounded fun to go to war, even though I played cowboys and Indians for hours at a time. I always wore either a skirt or my calfskin culottes, and my guns were lodged in a white leather double holster with red, cut stones and silver dots decorating it. I was a cowGIRL, not a cowboy. We played elaborate games where we shot the bad Indians and won. Sometimes we were the Indians. I loved being an Indian Princess. The movie Broken Arrow with Debra Paget and Jeff Chandler and Jimmy Stewart was such a favorite of mine, I wanted to live it. I spent hours pretending to be the female heroine. I LOVED it. It was fun and easy, and we had a wonderful big yard to play in. I had a playhouse and swings and a stable and a pony. There was a fish pond and a rose garden planted in a pattern with straight beds and surrounded by semi- circular ones. There were English borders along the brick wall that separated two parts of the garden, and a grassy lawn on which to run or play games. There were a variety of trees to climb, particularly apple trees and a beech tree, which I climbed a lot, in my dress. Often, I was scolded for playing outside in my “good clothes.” They were just clothes, as far as I could tell. I hated having to change my clothes all the time.

When I was seven years old, my mother brought me home from school early one afternoon. She wanted me to witness the birth of puppies for myself. Our female Cocker Spaniel, Butsy, was having puppies and they were coming soon. This particular day, my mother and I got home in time to see several of the pups born. It was a fantastic experience. The bitch was a blond dog with a calm temperament. And she let us stay there in the doorway of the space where mother had set up a whelping box for her, in the room beyond the garage. Seeing the puppies emerge with little effort on the mother’s part and looking like cellophane- wrapped packages was thrilling. Then Butsy would bite and lick the sack off the pup with her teeth and tongue. From this strange material emerged a moving puppy with four little feet and a tail. The eyes were tightly closed. They were so cute. I believe she had a total of six puppies and I was able to see three of them born. That stayed with me. A fascination for childbirth was born along with those puppies. And it grew as I grew up, expanding and refining itself until I became a mother, myself.

That miracle convinced me once again that there is no contest between being a man or a woman. Who wouldn’t want to give birth? The most miraculous miracle of all. The perpetuation of the human race, the power to give birth is the greatest power of all. Poor men. They cannot do this. in fact, I eventually learned that men played such a tiny part in the whole process that one man could theoretically service thousands of women, certainly hundreds. But his service was minimal. Could be carried out by any man, but the woman was key. She carried the baby to term and when it was born, only she had the power to feed it. To sustain life, the mother had been given the structure and interior equipment to feed her infant until it was old enough to feed itself. Such amazing superiority made me feel sorry for boys everywhere. How embarrassing for them that they could not reproduce the way a woman can.

So, yet again, I was reminded of the benefits of being female. It was so much more fun, so much less trouble. Back then, and for some, even now, we got to choose to stay home while the men worked. It seemed their problems would never end. They had to go out and work to be able to support themselves and us. We women did not have to work outside the home. As a home lover, this seemed like a miracle to me. How did we get so lucky!?

And then, of course, there were the clothes. As I grew older and understood more about my wardrobe  compared to that of my brother or other boys, there was simply no contest. It was pathetic to see what they had to wear. My closet was brimming with colors, materials, ruffles and sparkles that no boy could ever wear. I felt so sorry for them.

And then there was the female figure. So much more interesting than the male. Men were not curvy, not sexy that I could tell (except for Tarzan, but he was an anomaly in the 1950s) Women had breasts, and rounded rear ends, narrow waists and broader hips, lovely legs and narrow ankles. Men did not have any of these. They were straight up and down and boring to look at, their bodies dressed in muted colors and unimaginative styles. Men used to be able to dress in a more interesting costume historically. But not in my time.

At any rate, I believe I have explained why, for a multitude of reasons, women appeared to me to be so much better off than men.

Add to that the fact that I knew from early childhood that my mother could get her way with my father almost 100% of the time. And most of that time he did not even know she was doing it. None of this was lost on me. It was the way of the world. Men were stoic and somewhat oblivious about relationships and “what women want,” and that made it all the easier to influence them and manipulate them. My mother was a master at it. She never nagged or whined. Yet she nearly always managed things to her liking. So why on earth would I wish to be like my father when my mother was so much more in control of our daily life?

Women were physically stronger, too, I learned. We did not have the same amount of upper body strength. And in those days few women lifted weights or did any bodybuilding. However, we were much better at bearing pain, and most of the time more resilient and recovered faster from illness or injury. If we had a cold, we could continue on with what we were planning while a man would be sent to bed with the same illness.

There was absolutely nothing, I felt, that a man could do that I could not do better, except play sports, and that did not interest me.

Still, I wonder, in the year 2018, why there is an argument about this. The fact is that we used to keep our power to ourselves. We did not shout it from the rooftops while demanding equal opportunity. In so many ways, we had more power when it was less well- known, or so loudly-advertised, that we were capable of so much. I often want to say to women, Be Quiet. You are hurting your own cause by demanding equality. We women have always been more than equal. And we still are.

 

©Bonnie B. Matheson 2018

 

Caterers are fun when they want to cater your wedding

4 Jun

The meeting we went to at Occasions Caterer is worth mentioning. It is a huge firm. http://occasionscaterers.com/They have around thirty events a day. It is extraordinary when you think of how many things can go wrong at thirty different events. But, for us, nothing went wrong. It was all set up in a Tasting Room: a table with candelabra and flower arrangements and many glasses and chargers on placemats. It looked like a lovely dinner party. And we all sat down, Lilla and Delilah and Alex and Me, and the wedding planner and two women who work at Occasions Caterer. They and the wedding planner were all rather dressed up. The rest of us were dressed casually.

 

We were served, first, a series of individual hors d’oeuvres. We were given a menu and were encouraged to mark what we liked best, with a private grading system of our own. I used 100%, on down, but, truly, most everything was 100%. The food was delicious. One of the owners sat with us for part of the meal. He told us that he and his twin brother had graduated from college with rather worthless degrees and they had worked for caterers while in college. They decided to start their own company, using their kitchen in their apartment. And the rest is history.

Occasions Caterers really is an amazing operation. We got to inspect the kitchens, which were extensive, with mammoth pots and bowls for mixing and marinating. Stoves and ovens and sinks and countertops were all spacious. Walk- in freezers and fridges and stacks of trays for putting prepared food on to wait its turn. There were photos of the staff hanging overhead, which we thought was a charming touch. Then, there is a separate pastry area and one for making chocolate.

They are a GREEN company, which means they recycle everything, use organic everything, and really try to be ahead of the curve on ways to conserve. We looked at the glassware, china, flatware and tablecloth selections, checked out ballroom chairs and table types and spent almost four hours there. It was the first time I had done anything like that. I guess a lot of people do it when choosing a caterer for a large event.  On past occasions, when I myself have used a caterer, I just called them up and said what I needed, and maybe discussed alternatives, but never anything like this “Show” they put on for us yesterday!

 

The company sent home sacks of food, too, for dinner for Mother and me, but I could not eat dinner. I was completely stuffed from the tasting.  I did sit with Mother, who also ate almost none of it. She has little appetite in the evening. But she did enjoy her papaya for desert.

 

What we ate at our “Tasting” was often Asian in flavor, which I loved. The salads served were nice; the first one was sort of a “normal” salad. The second was made from asparagus which was put through a slicer so that it was served in long thin slices, mixed with other greens, somehow. That was extraordinary.  The entrees were beef, cooked perfectly but which had been seasoned with coriander and had an unusual taste. If I am going to have tenderloin, which is expensive, I want it to taste like tenderloin. This did not. The other entree was cod. I have never tasted fish so good. It was just delicious. And then they had also given us wine, both white and red, and non-alcoholic beverages like cucumber water, spiced tea and, finally, a lemon drink and a grapefruit drink, both of which were to die for!

 

Then they served us a drink with bourbon- and- something. It was real and tasty if you are a bourbon drinker, which I am not. They then brought out a sort of martini glass with a cloudy liquid that turned out to be gin with something added that tasted delicious and with pomegranate seeds sprinkled in it. I actually drank 3/4 of mine over the course of the meal.

 

The whole thing was over the top, in my opinion. It just did not seem to be very restrained. But I don’t think of Delilah or Alex as the type of people who care about that. They care about the Green part, and each other. That’s it. And Lilla has her own taste, her own style. She does not need to color inside the lines.

I believe that true good taste is lovely, but it is also a reassurance to people, showing that things can be done a certain way. Sort of like the army wearing uniforms. It all has a purpose. Occasions understands this and  play to their audience, depending on who it is.

And for people who would not be able to figure it out any other way, it works great. Good taste is innate in some; others need to be shown what it is. Charley Matheson has an innate sense of this. In fact, he is an arbiter of good taste. He instinctively knows the right thing to do. The right look for a room, the proper way to dress and look dapper without being weird. I have always admired him for that ability. I am much more all over the place with my ideas and my clothes and my rooms.

 

So, yesterday is over and I’m not sure what today holds. But I shall sally Forth!

 

End

 

Copyright 2018 Bonnie B. Matheson

My Room is a Mess!

29 May

Today I looked at my room and it is a mess. I really looked at it, for the first time in months. There is a paper sack sitting by a nightstand in which there are files that I brought up from Charlottesville. There is no telling what is in that sack. Unexamined by me all this time, it could be important; but let’s hope it is not.
Every surface is covered, more or less, with stuff. Considering the fact that I gave away all of my things to my children when I moved out of my house at Barrsden, where did all this come from? It really must be put away or given away– or rearranged, somehow. There is just TOO MUCH. And yet I never get to the bottom of my drawers because I wear the same clothes pretty much, day in and day out. More or less.
Then there is my place of work in the hall outside my bedroom. It, too, is full of papers: bills and unopened mail. When am I going to fix this? When can I do it? And how can I get someone to help me?
What is it about my character that makes it so hard for me to clear up things and put them away and handle them immediately upon waking?

The good side of my room

Lately, the thing I do upon waking is write my daily 2000 words. I am proud of myself for that. It is a lot of writing and some of it is useful in that way as a body of work. Other parts of the writing can be useful in determining things like the “Why” of my life. Why, for instance, am I so disorganized when I crave organization? Why can’t I decide which thing to accomplish at any given time and just do
THAT? When I was describing my spaces upstairs in Mother’s house, I did not even get to a description of the downstairs space. I have a sort of “office area” in the Garden Room, which is a very useful and lovely place to work. Actually, that place is not as messy as the others, but it is also newer. I have not had time to let everything spill out all over everything, as things are beginning to do in my bedroom and hall upstairs.
And then– there is the basement. That is a wreck. And moldy, besides. I need to go down there and start throwing out, right away…. those mildewed albums, which are ruined. And they should be gotten out of there. The spores are awful and, probably, harmful. This really won’t wait. I need to do it now.
But today, I am going to do something with the DAR at Mount Vernon. I am doing this for Big Pink, my mother- in- law. May she rest in peace. It is probably going to be a little dull, but on the other hand it will be interesting to me because I have not been involved for years and years with the DAR. While remaining a member, I am remarkably ignorant of anything they are doing these days. But it is always nice to go to Mount Vernon. And I will resign myself to quite a bit of walking today.
And then there is tomorrow’s dinner. I hope that Roberta and Arthur are coming for sure. I need to check on that and see if I can get another couple to come, as well. Maybe Ingola and John. I really cannot think who else. There are a lot of people I would like to entertain.
I would love to have a spring cocktail party, but I am not sure how far to go with that. If I have about twenty guests, it works. But then I need to worry about the garden and the flowers and making sure
the grass is mowed and hoping the weather is nice. Mother cannot help, but she does want to be involved in her type of worry over planning even three people for dinner. Her worry and her planning make me want to do the exact opposite. Where did I get this rebellious streak? I have always had it. I can remember, as a child, feeling that I wanted the exact opposite of whatever was IMPOSED on me. Especially, if it was done with force. And I am still the same way.
When I told mother last night that we were having three people for dinner on Friday, she said, “We must plan.” I immediately felt anger and resistance rise up inside me. Of course, I will plan a little. But it is not a big deal to have three extra people. Seriously. However, Mother has nothing to plan for these days, and planning used to make her happy, though stressed. The problem is that she cannot remember anything. So, she may plan but then forget that she did and agonize repeatedly about not planning, when, in fact, she did plan very well, already. It drives me up the walls.
But she, at age one hundred, is so diminished these days. Some days she is better than others. Yesterday, my daughter, Lilla, and her daughter, Delilah (my granddaughter), and Alex, her fiancé, came by to see Mother after their tasting experience with Occasions Caterer. She really did not know who they were. Lilla was familiar, but that was all. Mother was very nice, and she enjoyed it. But she was clueless. After they left, she could not remember it and then I was finally able to get her to remember that she had people over. But when I said their names, she just looked at me steadily as if she heard the words, but they did not penetrate her brain. It did seem that way. And in the course of our conversation (ha ha! You cannot really call what we had conversation), I mentioned their names and their relationship to her and to me over and over, in many different ways, but she did not grasp any of it.
I know I should be sympathetic to my mother when she does this, but instead I just want it to be over. I do NOT want to be like that myself. I will see to it that it does not happen to me if I possibly can. What about the possibility that I become incapacitated and cannot help myself. That is one unknown that is hardest to plan for. What could I do to get out? Well, there is still time to find out. My main method of planning is just to assume I will go quickly, from a heart attack or a stroke. You do NOT want to outlive a stroke, if it is a bad one.

Well, I am happy and healthy today, and I will cherish every moment. Time is one thing that cannot be replaced.

©Bonnie B. Matheson 2018