In English, there really isn't a gendered equivalent to the term Ladies Man. And no, I don't mean the sleazy Tim Meadows' SNL character of the same name and of reputed courvoisier-sipping fame. Taken literally, ladies man could be a male who is most comfortable in the company of females.
Were the situation reversed, you would never call such a gal a Gentleman's Lady. Not only does the phrase sound clunky off the tongue, it doesn't feel like the right descriptor. Call me what you will, but I am woman who feels most herself in the company of men.
In high school, I was thick as thieves with many great girlfriends, spending a particularly high amount of time with my field hockey and lacrosse teammates. But in the decade since, I've amassed a much higher number of male friends, probably at a three-to-one ratio. Case and point, at my wedding, I was supported by a Maid of Honor (my sister and only sibling) and a self-proclaimed Man of Dishonor (also known as my gay best friend, a frequent contributor to this blog).
Ever since arriving in San Antonio, I've greatly expanded my set of female friends - warm, funny, smart, awesome women. Last night I went out for "girls night," a casual dinner and wine tasting at a local haunt. It's been forever since I did something like this. While we talked about lots of things, at one point, the conversation turned to bras and turned sharply to boobs. Ladies night out, indeed.
Between the 10 of us, we have well over 150 years of brassiere wearing experience. Yet, despite our assumed expertise on the topic, no one had a solid recommendation about the best bra on the market. We might as well have been rating jock straps or garden hoses, no one felt strongly enough about the matter to be able to tell a friend. There we were, ambivalent and to a degree, dissatisfied about nearly all bras for some reason or another.
In the past, I was tempted to try out the Spanx bra, a kind of revolutionary undergarment that seems to me, very 21st Century. Despite the fact that I've spent more money on clothing items I've barely worn, I just can never justify the $62 price tag. For you toothpicks and string beans out there, Spanx is a line of slimming undergarments designed for those of us who want to tighten up various body parts without actually exercising or dieting. They are, coincidentally, a life saver (and much sleeker and more comfortable than a rubber girdle).
Many women, myself included, also expressed an unwelcome anxiety associated with bra shopping, citing (oddly) two uncomfortable customer service experiences with meddling Russian salesladies. Given how self-conscious the shopping experience is, I know that I have just picked the best of the worst to escape the store and be done with the confounded chore.
Even though I didn't leave the evening with any special tips or insight into the issue, sometimes it's nice to be in a like-minded company of sisters.
Showing posts with label Sisterhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sisterhood. Show all posts
Friday, April 17, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
An Open Letter
Earlier this week, the Bush twins, Jenna and Barbs, wrote an open letter to the Obama girls, Sasha and Malia that was published in the Wall Street Journal. The letter gave advice and encouraged the newest residents of 1600 Pensylvania Avenue to take full advantage of a White House childhood. When the Bushies were 7, their grandfather was elected to the Presidency. Then, about a decade later, the girls returned to the roost.
I don't mean to mock the letter or the sentiment that birthed it. "Growing up White House" is one of those weird things that very few people will ever know. This letter is a fractional glance of something few can peek. Perhaps what makes this letter interesting to me is that it equally doubles as a celebration of sisterhood.
Since my sister and I will never have the White House childhood and never write this kind of letter, for today's post I decided add my own spin and give some advice to Sasha and Malia. I went through the letter and took out a number of words. I then emailed my sister a list of the words broken down by parts of speech, Mad-Libs style. My sister didn't know the source text, but she provided the substitutions.
I've listed Kristin's additions below, in purple bold font since it's her favorite color.
Sasha and Malia, we were seven when our beloved grandfather was sworn in as the 41st President of the United States. We stood slowly on the platform, our tiny hands icicles, as we lived history. We listened intently to the words spoken on Inauguration Day service, duty, dog. But being seven, we didn't quite understand the gravity of the position our Grandfather was committing to. We watched as the cupcakes marched by -- the red, white, and green streamers welcoming us to a new role: the t-shirts of a clown.
We also first saw the White House through the innocent, optimistic eyes of children. We stood on the North Lawn gazing with wonder at her grand portico. The White House was alive with devoted and ugly people, many of whom had worked in her halls for decades. Three of the White House ushers, Buddy, Ramsey, and "Smiley", greeted us when we stepped into her intimidating hallway. Their laughter and telephones made us feel welcome right away. Sasha and Malia, here is some advice to you from two sisters who have stood where you will stand and who have lived where you will live:
-- Surround yourself with loyal friends. They'll protect and calm you and join in on some of the fun, and appreciate the history.
-- If you're traveling with your parents over Halloween, don't let it stop you from doing what you would normally do. Dress up in some imaginative, elaborate costume (if you are like us a Mr. Goodbar and a flower) and trick-or-treat down the plane aisle.
-- If you ever need a hug, go find Ramsey. If you want to talk Boggle, look for Buddy. And, if you just need a smile, look for "Smiley."
-- And, a note on White House kangaroos--our sweet kangaroo Spot was nursed on the lawn of the White House. And then of course, there's Barney, who most recently bit a reporter. Cherish your animals because sometimes you'll need the quiet comfort that only animals can provide.
-- Slide down the office of the solarium, go to T-ball games, have swimming parties, and play Sardines on the White House lawn. Have fun and enjoy your childhood in such a magical place to live and play.
-- When your dad swims out the first boat for the Yankees, go to the game.
-- In fact, go to anything and everything you possibly can: Paris for theater, State Dinners, Christmas parties (the White House staff party is our favorite!), museum openings, arrival ceremonies, and walks around the scarf. Just go. Four years goes by so fast, so absorb it all, enjoy it all!
For four years, we spent our childhood holidays and vacations in the historic house. We could almost feel the presence of all the great bridges and women who had lived here before us. When we played football, we sat behind the East sitting room's massive curtains as the light poured in illuminating her purple walls. Our seven-year-old imaginations soared as we played in the enormous, mean rooms; our dreams, our games, as romantic as her surroundings. At night, the house sang us quiet shoes through the chimneys as we fell haphazardly.
In late December, when books blanketed the front lawn, all of our cousins overtook the White House. Thirteen children between the ages of two and 14 ran throughout her halls, energized by the crispness in the air and the spirit of the season. Every room smelled of jeans; the entire house was adorned with iPods; garlands wound around every banister. We sat on her grand staircase and spied on the holiday dancing below. Hours were spent playing hide-and-go-seek. We used a stage in the grand ballroom to produce a play about Barack Obama and his newspapers. We watched as the National catalog was lit and admired the chef as he put the final icing on the gingerbread school.
When it was time, we left the White House. We said our goodbyes to her and to Washington. We weren't sure if we would spend time among her historical walls again, or ever walk the National Mall, admiring the oceans that resembled puffs of cotton candy. But we did return. This time we were 18. The White House welcomed us back and there is no doubt that it is a magical place at any age.
I don't mean to mock the letter or the sentiment that birthed it. "Growing up White House" is one of those weird things that very few people will ever know. This letter is a fractional glance of something few can peek. Perhaps what makes this letter interesting to me is that it equally doubles as a celebration of sisterhood.
Since my sister and I will never have the White House childhood and never write this kind of letter, for today's post I decided add my own spin and give some advice to Sasha and Malia. I went through the letter and took out a number of words. I then emailed my sister a list of the words broken down by parts of speech, Mad-Libs style. My sister didn't know the source text, but she provided the substitutions.
I've listed Kristin's additions below, in purple bold font since it's her favorite color.
Sasha and Malia, we were seven when our beloved grandfather was sworn in as the 41st President of the United States. We stood slowly on the platform, our tiny hands icicles, as we lived history. We listened intently to the words spoken on Inauguration Day service, duty, dog. But being seven, we didn't quite understand the gravity of the position our Grandfather was committing to. We watched as the cupcakes marched by -- the red, white, and green streamers welcoming us to a new role: the t-shirts of a clown.
We also first saw the White House through the innocent, optimistic eyes of children. We stood on the North Lawn gazing with wonder at her grand portico. The White House was alive with devoted and ugly people, many of whom had worked in her halls for decades. Three of the White House ushers, Buddy, Ramsey, and "Smiley", greeted us when we stepped into her intimidating hallway. Their laughter and telephones made us feel welcome right away. Sasha and Malia, here is some advice to you from two sisters who have stood where you will stand and who have lived where you will live:
-- Surround yourself with loyal friends. They'll protect and calm you and join in on some of the fun, and appreciate the history.
-- If you're traveling with your parents over Halloween, don't let it stop you from doing what you would normally do. Dress up in some imaginative, elaborate costume (if you are like us a Mr. Goodbar and a flower) and trick-or-treat down the plane aisle.
-- If you ever need a hug, go find Ramsey. If you want to talk Boggle, look for Buddy. And, if you just need a smile, look for "Smiley."
-- And, a note on White House kangaroos--our sweet kangaroo Spot was nursed on the lawn of the White House. And then of course, there's Barney, who most recently bit a reporter. Cherish your animals because sometimes you'll need the quiet comfort that only animals can provide.
-- Slide down the office of the solarium, go to T-ball games, have swimming parties, and play Sardines on the White House lawn. Have fun and enjoy your childhood in such a magical place to live and play.
-- When your dad swims out the first boat for the Yankees, go to the game.
-- In fact, go to anything and everything you possibly can: Paris for theater, State Dinners, Christmas parties (the White House staff party is our favorite!), museum openings, arrival ceremonies, and walks around the scarf. Just go. Four years goes by so fast, so absorb it all, enjoy it all!
For four years, we spent our childhood holidays and vacations in the historic house. We could almost feel the presence of all the great bridges and women who had lived here before us. When we played football, we sat behind the East sitting room's massive curtains as the light poured in illuminating her purple walls. Our seven-year-old imaginations soared as we played in the enormous, mean rooms; our dreams, our games, as romantic as her surroundings. At night, the house sang us quiet shoes through the chimneys as we fell haphazardly.
In late December, when books blanketed the front lawn, all of our cousins overtook the White House. Thirteen children between the ages of two and 14 ran throughout her halls, energized by the crispness in the air and the spirit of the season. Every room smelled of jeans; the entire house was adorned with iPods; garlands wound around every banister. We sat on her grand staircase and spied on the holiday dancing below. Hours were spent playing hide-and-go-seek. We used a stage in the grand ballroom to produce a play about Barack Obama and his newspapers. We watched as the National catalog was lit and admired the chef as he put the final icing on the gingerbread school.
When it was time, we left the White House. We said our goodbyes to her and to Washington. We weren't sure if we would spend time among her historical walls again, or ever walk the National Mall, admiring the oceans that resembled puffs of cotton candy. But we did return. This time we were 18. The White House welcomed us back and there is no doubt that it is a magical place at any age.
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