What Women Want (or the story of my first Mylot-inspired trance)

My friend, reezluv posted a discussion on Mylot, and in response, the words emerging from my typing fingers brought back memories of the rabid feminist stronghold that used to be yours truly.

How odd. It seemed almost as if I were weaving back and forth in an ouija board-inspired trance. Have I sublimated all those sentiments which just that very moment, chose to prance staccato-like off the keyboard? Doubly odd, since this is the happiest I have ever been, in what I fondly call my post-feminist era.

reezluv asked: "What do women really want?" And this is what I answered:

As a woman I want to be:

1) Respected for my mind and not for my body and its capacity to do housework.

2) Taken seriously for my work and my ability to lead, and not because I'm a pretty face.

3) Loved and cherished as a wife, partner and co-decision maker, and not because I keep a reasonably clean and organized household.

4) Desired as a passionate lover, and not because I am a hole to fill, whenever, wherever.

5) Adored as a mother who does the best for her children despite stress and exhaustion, lack of sleep and lack of money.

6) Looked up to as a good example of compassion and kindness, honesty and fairplay, proper grammar and good table manners.

7) Accepted if not loved, as a daughter, sister, friend and neighbor, despite my quirks, temper and inherent weirdness.

8) Above all, I want to continue to do my best to be a child of God's heart.

I think I must've come back into myself at the last four numbers.

Triple odd.

If Only I Had This Resource When I Got Hitched

If I had to look back on my wedding day, I thought I had everything down to pat. But in retrospect, I realize now that I didn't.

Atch and I went into the requisite flurry of preparations. We booked the venue, we taste-tested the menu, we got a dreamy boy band for the choir. We got the priests (yes, plural - it was an eccumenical wedding), we prepared our outfits, we chose the flowers....oh so many things! And we printed our own invitations.

WE PRINTED OUR OWN INVITATIONS!!!

Who were we kidding? We were amateurs at best. We bought paper, envelopes, and murdered what we were hoping was an elegant come-join-us-as-we-share-blah-blah-blah. Oh the horror. I shudder in remembrance.

Especially when I leaf through our wedding album. Especially now that I've seen this website. If only I had access to The Invitation Depot way before I got hitched. Wouldn't everything have been perfect?

Then I could've gotten married by the seashore - which would've been a much better idea, methinks (Atch, who favors a more traditional approach, might have folded after much nagging on my part).

The Invitation Depot is a very user-friendly site. Simple. Succinct. Everything you can think of in chosing your wedding-by-the-sea invite. And the pictures: a choice of the minimalist Love On The Beach (mmmmm....gives me ticklish second honeymoon ideas) to the South Pacific inspired Palm Royale to my favorite - a Painting by Monet (one of the greatest watercolorists of all time, if you ask me).

But wait, that's not all. They even have beach wedding accessories! Can you dig that? It's not only an online invitation store, it's very nearly a one-stop-shop for a one-of-a-kind wedding, which I thought I had. And which every bride thinks she had. Until they find websites like The Invitation Depot, where they have this adorable Seaside Ensemble:

* pant-pant-pant *

Want! Want! Want!

Argh! I want to get married again. On a beach. And I have the perfect location - Sicogon Island in Panay - here where Woog frolicks would be the perfect place:

And we'd all be barefoot and my sons would be Best Men, and the guests would partake of the morning's fresh catch of grilled giant prawn, juicy squid, succulent grouper and spicy tilapia.

Heaven.

(Blogger's note: this post is sponsored by The Invitation Depot, via Blogvertise)

My Take on Mylot

Okay, so I admit I was fueled by greed. Who wouldn't? The prospect of earning in the currency of a first world country with one of the highest per capita incomes in the world would whet anyone's sense of avarice.

And so I signed myself in and started. It was as simple as pie: start a discussion and earn points (moolah...moolah...I'll be skipping to the bank!). Respond to discussions and earn points (here comes the dough..!). Refer friends and get a quarter of what they earn (so spam all friends with my referral url asap!)

But lo and behold, I was captivated by all the discussions going on: my take on God and religion (avid), my opinion on modernity and declining morals (tepid), my views on Iraq supporting the war on Iran (d-uh?), and above all, everything I wanted to “rant and rave” about - kids and family and parenting. I was hooked.

So never mind the online income streams from referrals and frantically accumulating points from user discussions and responder threads. Never mind that at all. This is interesting. As in highly! I've never come across such diversity of opinions, dissenting or otherwise, since those drunken debates and weed-inspired conundrums from college eons ago. Alright, so all this actually reminded me of my youth - that fleeting bit of flotsam that I still take pains running after. And all the pretensions of the academe which find no footing at all in the real world. But still.

I have nearly come to virtual blows with rabid atheists and cuss-riddled aggressors, but oh, the fun I've been having! I'm addicted, that I am!

What am I talking about? Why Mylot, of course!

My inbox is filled with messages alerting me to discussions that my mylot community friends have started, and although I have the werewithal to pick which ones I respond to, I chose to respond to all in the vain hope of getting my rotting grey matter to work. And gadzooks, the mush that fills up ¾ of my cranial cavity actually does! If my 9-red star rating (and counting) doesn't prove so, I don't know what will. And this has actually done wonders for my wpm (words per minute, to the uninformed) speed. I believe this is the right time to post an add: I type at the speed of lightning (thoughts included). So hire me.

Mwahahahhah!

See there, I was just ranting and raving about the benefits of mylot, I have actually not stopped and read this entry for cohesion and typos. Forget it. I'm having so much fun. That is to say, this is not an endorsement of mylot (although the link does have my referral url – I'm still greedy, so shoot me). Think of this as one of my “rants and raves”. My intrusive opinion on the matter. A workout for the tired old brain and my arthritis-ridden typing fingers, so to speak.

But wait, I have to check my inbox again today. There might be a new and interesting discussion to shove my nose into. And if I'm not conversant on the topic, I'll read the threads and put in my two (or half a) cents' worth. I so love it when my mind and fingers are working. It's orgasmic.

Hmmmm....mind and fingers...that has a right ticklish ring to it. Might have to try that with the husband. Find out if it's still worth the effort. And doesn't this just sounds like the beginning of another mylot discussion topic? Later, blog...gotta log in to mylot before this idea escapes me...

People Like You, Madam...!

One morning, I led Woog into the compound of his school. As we walked past the preschool's administrative division, he broke into a smile and paused as if to chat. But he was running late and I urged him onward with a goodbye kiss (“Have a great day, Woog! 'Wuv-wuv! God bless!”)

Woog's first day of preschool at age 3

A lady in one of the desks asked: “He's in kindergarten now, isn't he?”

Ever the proud mommy, I nodded in the affirmative.

“Why did you send him to kindergarten for,“ she reproached me with a belittling smile, “he's too young and doesn't have enough sense.”

The grin curdled on my lips. Was I hearing correctly?

“Do you know,” she continued with a (fake?) chuckle , “no matter how late he is, he just has to stop by and talk.”

Like it were a sin!

Trying not to lose my temper, I tried to tame the snarl that was forthcoming.

“He's a people person.” I retorted, praying I'd say nothing more. Praying my dominant hand wouldn't decide to tear up the credit card receipts she was sorting out on her desk (a personal business during work hours, if there ever was one.) and fling them in her face.

I left immediately, rabid thoughts seething through my mind as I made my way out.:

I'm a paying client, gosh darn her! But would she have given Woog a hard time if I chewed her out?

So he's late a couple of times. He's four years old, for crying out loud!

And if he's in kindergarten, so what? Don't his grades prove he belongs there?

And Madam, it is people like you who make it impossible for little kids like him to develop the self-esteem to be the persons they're meant to be.

A pox on you, a pox! May you have the fleas of a thousand camels...and all that....

I alternately congratulated (don't react, pro-act!) and castigated (you coward, why didn't you say anything?) myself on the way to the car. What a price to pay for the privilege of living in civilized society.

Atch had his own no-nonsense take on the incident: “That's why we're sending him to school. So he'll have enough sense. That's what you should have told her.”

And so I should have. I resolved to send her a dream that night. And hoped she would wake up screaming.

They don't burn witches anymore, do they?