That has nothing to do with wearing flip-flops but...because I am as easily distracted as a puppy, I will take a second to tell you that I do wear flip-flops almost constantly, summer through winter. Yes, only around the house. Yes, you can manipulate your socks so that this is possible. It's not that hard. Socks have stretch. People that know me can vouch for this (if you can get them to stop rolling their eyes...yes, even with socks).
So feminism. "the advocacy of women's rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men." I am a feminist when it comes to things like pay equity, being able to vote, getting lids off of jars (what, I work out?), that sort of thing.
Okay, but back to flip-flops for a second. Thongs! A lovely older relative of mine who was in her 80’s, insisted on calling flip-flops “thongs” long after people had given the word the meaning it, um…has today. We couldn't bring ourselves to tell her what we were calling "thongs" now but we strongly recommended that she say flip-flops instead. Thankfully, she was open to change and stopped announcing loudly (in public) that she “wore thongs all the time” or “look at the thongs I bought at Walmart for $4.99”.
You thought I was doing the puppy distraction thing there? No. On the topic of thongs I am radically feminist...women have a right to never ever wear them because men don't have to wear them (and obviously no one should be wearing them). Oh, I hear you, “no visible panty-line” girls, but here's the thing. Number one...they have put people on the moon. Let’s please just hold out for them to come up with a better solution for panty-lines. And two. You made me say panty in my blog. I thought we were friends.
Back to feminism. I tend to regress feminism a couple of hundred years at the very sight of a spider. I scream (like a girl) when I see one. It doesn't matter to me whether the person who gets rid of/makes dead that thing is male or female, but let’s just say it’s not female. Not around here, we are all cowering and/or screaming (like girls).
As far as who cooks dinner, does laundry and cleans – it doesn’t matter to me who does it – man, woman, teenage twin daughters who are just sitting around watching Youtube videos...you know, as long as it gets done…um. Now, please. I’ve asked you six times.
About bringing home the bacon? Well. I mean...bacon? Sure, it’s great with eggs and toast, but I'm not standing there waiting for someone to “bring it home so I can fry it in the pan”. I don't love it? It's kind of salty? Also, not really a supper food...much more breakfasty. Not to mention that it's not heart healthy.
Fine, fine…yes. I know what you really mean. Here’s the thing. I would NOT fry it up in a pan. I’d broil it in the oven. Quicker and less messy. Life hack for you there (you should be writing this stuff down).
I tend to divide up what is considered a "man's job" and a "woman's job" mostly by whatever I want to do or don't. For example - getting gas. It is a man's job. I'm sorry, Gloria Steinem, famous spokesperson of feminism, but you haven't seen me try to get gas (actually, Gloria stopped reading after the “bacon” thing because she is all about bringing it home and frying it up in a pan herself...)
Me Getting Gas: A Comedy of Errors
I see the price of gas. The number means nothing to me. I have no frame of reference as I am too lazy to keep up with gas prices…but it's a relatively new car and I don't know how far below the "empty" line it will go (yet).
I pull in to the spot. I can't find the gas-cap door release (“relatively new car” excuse works here too). After a good 5 minutes pulling every lever and jabbing every button (not a recommended approach but if you do happen to try it, heads up when you turn the car back on! Things are furiously wiping, squirting and blasting)
I finally find it (it is not a smart location, brilliant minds over at Mitsubishi).
I get out to “pay at the pump”. I am bewildered by the picture they provide. Down and to the right? Their right? My right? Is anybody ever right? And why does the card look so flexible in the picture. What kind of credit card company makes such bendy cards. Their interest rates must be shockingly low. I stick my card in. Error. I try down and to the other right. Two wrongs still don't make a right.
Pay inside!! The machine is now yelling at me. Probably alerting the store clerk of possible gas and dash suspect. Pay inside. The voice of a real person crackling over the intercom tells me and the rest of the neighbourhood.
I lift the nozzle. Gas drips on the ground. Luckily not on my shoe, or I'd have to toss them (the gas smell would be there for all eternity). I guide it over to the thingy.
It drips on my shoe. It doesn’t reach the thingy.
I replace the nozzle, get back in and reverse a bit. I get back out and try again. The nozzle reaches!
Oh. I forgot to unscrew the cap. I have to put the nozzle back.
It drips on my pants.
I try to unscrew the cap, which was screwed on by gas-cap tightening-power-tool wielding ninja/sadists (who work undercover for Mitsubishi competitors…)
It's not budging. "Do you need some help?" asks the nice young man behind me. He was witness to the whole debacle thus far, so he's just being polite. He knows I need help like nobody's business. He comes over and unscrews it in 1 second. I'm sorry, Gloria...I work out! I tried! I get the nozzle again.
It drips on my coat.
I get the gas, I replace the cap (lightly…gently) and “pay inside”. It is blizzarding sideways at this point. Obviously. I am not surprised at the line-up of people inside also outwitted by the “machine”. I am not surprised at the lady counting out change slowly from a tiny purse. I almost smile at the clerk running out of register receipt tape. I actually lol when my “relatively new car” announces that I have “left the gas cap door open”.
Listen, Gloria…with all due respect, I am going to call “getting gas” a “man’s job” because it is the only way I’m getting out of doing it.
(she understands, right?)
(is Gloria Steinem still alive?)
(do you think she calls flip-flops thongs?)