Even Dr. Phil Cannot Help Us

It is not hard to figure out where the roots of my feminism stem from. As a child my Mother informed us on a regular basis that all men were idiots, and that we could only hope to find the best idiot for us and settle for what we got, should we choose that life, which she highly recommended we did not. On cue her idiot, our Father, would walk into the room and say something that reassured me she must be correct.

I recall my Mother being very stylish and hip in those days, and my Father with his ever growing beer belly and white shorts and shirt started resembling a bloated "Man from Glad." Walking down the street with my Mother when I was a child, I was unaware that other Mothers were not the object of the intention of every man that walked by as she was. In her sleek back pant suit, her long legs and perfect small breasts, her jet black coiffed hair, she was often confused as the babysitter of the brood straggling behind her. God knows we did not get her long legs, small hips or jet black hair. As children I suppose it would be hard to tell that none of us really resembled her in any way. The "idiot" Italian gene won out. Sturdy is a word no woman wants to here after a session of lovemaking.

As we aged and realize our brand of feminism seemed to border on unhealthy. We were certainly nice girls, polite when we were not drinking, sensible when we were not angry and loving when we got our own way. We could compromise, as long as gifts were involved. We could take on the role of caregiver, to some extent. We had limited patience and resources to compare our behavior to. If we were slighted the phrase "hell hath no furry like a woman scorned" was for amateurs. We were the ultimate catch; screw any man who did not see it.

Now as a woman fast approaching fifty, totally obsessed these days with the aging process, we give hats off thank you to our Mother. We are for the most part alone, even while in relationships. If we do not deliberately dig into our subconscious and pick the men who we know we have no future with, we are for the most part happy and content being single. Hell we don’t want or need a husband. We found a few idiots on the way and disposed of them. When we want sex we break out the charm long enough to obtain it, or break out the toy. We are alone, but we have great hair and few wrinkles. Thanks again.