Man Hands



Photo by Victor Bezukov.





 I am attracted to manly hands. For years I believed that you could tell how well a man was endowed by the size of his thumb. I believed that the bigger the thumb the bigger the package. I have spent a lot of time checking out this anatomical detail on men. I would blush around a fellow I suspected of sporting an exceptional endowment and grow sympathetic with one I did not. In fact, I believed this logic to be so exact that I would opt not to sleep with a man simply because his thumb was too small.

I was discussing this observation with a friend recently, as I observed the average thumb size of a guy standing next to us. She chimed in that she had been reading a book recently that discussed this very concept. In the book “The Brain in Love" by Daniel Amen, MD, he reviews the relationship between the size of a man’s digits and the size of his genitals. Needless to say, I was intrigued. It seems that the thumb itself is not the tell tale sign, but rather the relative size of the index finger to ring finger. Amazingly this has been extensively studied in highly respected medical and scientific journals.

The majority of men have a ring finger that is longer than their index finger (the pointing finger). The bigger the ring finger to index finger difference, the more masculine the man, and very likely the bigger his manhood. Interestingly, women are the opposite. The majority of women have a shorter ring finger than index finger. The theory is that the length of the ring finger is determined by the amount of exposure to testosterone in utero (whilst a bun in the oven). Higher levels of testosterone exposure correlate with a longer ring finger. This makes sense as testosterone is closely linked to masculinity.

My friend told me she fit the expectations in that her ring finger was shorter than her index finger. I was curious and checked my ratios as well. What I found was shocking! My ring finger is longer than my index finger!! The implications of this finding are astounding. It seems I was bathed in testosterone as a fetus!

Studies have shown that women with this feature have more masculine tendencies. My God!! This could be the root of my girly-girl challenged-ness! I may be too masculine to be a girly girl. There might be more to it than mere naïveté! I may actually lack the biology for perfect hair and spritely outfits! I was by nature more like Sporty Spice or GI Jane.

As I researched further I found that women with manlike ring finger are good at sports. In fact one study found this trait to be a sensitive predictor of which competitive female runners were most likely to win a given race! The running aspect has something to do with increased cardiovascular abilities which are attributed to the effects of this early testosterone exposure. Those with shorter index fingers, however, are blessed with superior intelligence. This would suggest that most men suffer from inferior intellect when compared to their shorter fingered counterparts. Affinity towards writing, math proficiency and musical ability are also characteristics that tend to relate to finger formation. As you might expect, many lesbians exhibit this trait.

Medically, the length of the ring finger in women has been shown to correlate with increased fertility (the long ones) or increased proneness to cancer (the short ones). Longer ring fingers for example, indicating greater exposure to testosterone, suggest an increased risk for heart disease, while a shorter ring finger, more closely related to estrogen levels, correlates to increased breast cancer risk. Autism has also shown a relationship to this feature.

Since this incredible discovery, I have been frantically looking at hands. Checking out thumbs was so much easier than trying to determine the ring to index finger ratio. Hands don’t hold still long enough for that observation. I would see a girly girl, or a man who was stereotypically gay, and try to see if the finger theory held up. So far all I have accomplished is creeping people out with my staring.

Super Cute!

Photo by (nutmeg).

Women who shop together could be accused of enabling. In general women tend to buy more when shopping with friends than when shopping alone. Shopping “wing-women” can talk their friends into buying just about anything by saying that it is “super cute”. Last night I attended a “Cabi” party. This is the clothing version of the “Tupperware” party. (I seem to be going to a lot of these lately). I realize that the powers that be in these companies have tapped into a brilliant business model- using the guests of said parties, to sell their merchandise.

At the kitchen party I attended (the one where I was dressed like a slut); I bought all sorts of gadgets that fellow potential buyers raved about. “Oh that hamburger breaker-upper thing is awesome! It gets all the lumps out when you fry it”, one guest would proclaim. “Oooh, that sounds amazing! You mean if I buy that I will never have lumpy Hamburger Helper again? SOLD!” Regardless of the utility of my hamburger crusher, there is a sense of connection when I show such confidence in another women’s opinion and buy what she recommends to me. Our generation also seems to thrive on buying. It doesn’t matter what we buy, we feel good, really good, after we buy it.

This clothing party featured a variety of women. Different sizes, shapes, ages and budgets. The representative for the products begins by following a company catalogue and shows each featured piece. This portion of the evening gets the frenzy started, with each women calling out progressively more complimentary statements. “That is cute!” That is really cute!” The ultimate cuteness rating was then shouted out, “That is super cute!” It’s the one-up-manship of cuteness comments! Unconsciously, as the cute rating is established, the women in the group would reach for their pens and circle the item, intent on capitalizing on the guaranteed cute factor.

Once all of the clothes are revealed, the women in the group quietly rush to the rack to be the first to try on the cutest clothes. As each shopper returned to the room after having donned her selected pieces, the rest of the women in the room would begin telling her how she looks. This is the part that resembles a dysfunctional relationship. The more we can get our friends to buy, the easier and more acceptable it will be for us to buy. “That jacket looks amazing on you! When I saw the colors I thought they were hideous, but on you it looks fabulous!”. “You really think so?” the temporary model asks. “Oh absolutely, it is super cute on you! You should definitely buy it!” Cha-ching! Sold!

This scene repeats itself until each women has added a number of items to her personal shopping list. Very much like my hamburger smoother, many of these clothes they were brain washed into buying, will end up buried in their closets, as the colors of that jacket are indeed hideous, and whatever possessed her to buy it in the first place?

When I shop I like going with friends who I know will absolutely tell me the truth about what I try on. These shopping buddies are not motivated to cover up their own expenditures with my much larger ones, but are genuinely interested in my level of cuteness. Select your shopping sidekicks wisely as you must trust that they are unbiased or motivated by such factors as man competition. In this case they may try to sabotage you by encouraging you to buy highly unappealing clothing. “My, my! That glitter pant suit looks wonderful!” “Really? Don’t you think it is a little tight?” “Oh no! Camel toes are in right now!” Cha-ching!

As FTC (Fashion Tacky Cop, our fashion advisor) recommends, know your personal style! You must mentally prepare yourself before these peer pressure sales parties to resist the super cute sales pitch. You must have a clear and unwavering idea of what you are looking for and and what you are not. Like any great plan it will only succeed if you stick to it. If your defenses break down, you can pull out the emergency reverse cuteness move, by saying “This would look way-super-cuter on you!”

Motherhood Sucks!

Photo by bbaunach.

I ’m feeling for my sister. She is back in the throes of new born baby-dom. She welcomed her second child a few short weeks ago at a petite 9 pounds 4 ounces…and she did it without drugs. No joke! Word was that awestruck women throughout the maternity ward spread this incredible achievement along the hallway grapevine as they walked through their labor pains. She became the stuff of legend. I think it is safe to say her feat inspired more than one woman that day to deliver her own baby au natural! (I am sure later they cursed her, when they realized it was too late for the epidural).

The birth of a child is a miraculous time, where the joy and blessings of the new baby flood the mother with love and bonding. The natural pleasure of breastfeeding, so easy and comfortable, is a cherished moment for both child and mother. Adjustment to motherhood is seamless, as the woman’s instincts take over and she easily sacrifices her own needs for those of her child. Wearing long flowing nightgowns and dancing gleefully with flowers in her hair, small rodents and chirping birds, gather around her, celebrating her happiness!

God were we ever sold a load of bullshit! I swear our parents told us how great it was to have kids, just so they could sit back and laugh their asses off as we lost our minds! “Oh please, please give me grandbabies!” (wink wink, nudge nudge). My sister and I appreciate the ability to speak candidly about the realities of parenthood, so I hope y’all won’t mind.

I got a great text from her the other day, “Motherhood Sucks”. Hardly the leave it to beaver version of motherhood that we were led to believe was normal! Honestly, I’m no June Cleaver, I like my sanity far too much.  Memories of sleepless nights, endless crying, days that dragged on for what seemed like eternity, incredible feelings of isolation, crying for no apparent reason and husbands who just look at us wondering what we've done with their wives, highlight those early months.

I am sure for some psychotic woman they love every tortuous moment of sleep deprivation and engorged breasts! Yes sir, may I please have another! Who wouldn’t miss the days when our infants screamed if we put them down or bit our nipples? I am still recovering from the sleep torture my son subjected me to, much like a released prisoner from a Japanese war camp. We would have sold him to the lowest bidder during the dark days, as that period in our lives has come to be known. When anyone messes with my sleep now, they are met by a wild and frenzied woman, incapable of kindness or empathy. My wraith is terrifying, “Woe to the man or child who wakes my ass up!”

I am headed up there in a couple of weeks to help her out…support her so she can get through another week without losing it. I remember the great gift it was for someone to just be there to make me feel connected somehow to who I really was, as I got lost in the mayhem of parenting a newborn baby. Having access to a sympathetic ear while I slapped my breast pump on for more solitary confinement was like a beam of sunlight shining through a trapped door.

The highlight of this time will be when I take the baby for a night time stretch so her and her husband can sleep for more than 45 consecutive minutes. The baby will be about 5 weeks when I get there. I realize I could probably charge them for this, as I am sure they would pay whatever I asked. When she had her son, I offered her this nighttime treat for the first time in 11 weeks. It turned out better than expected, with him stretching through his next feeding, and sleeping for nearly 6 hours. I remember vividly her sleep drunk husband stumbling out of their bedroom, completely disoriented asking “Where’s the baby?” When you are this exhausted your body laps up sleep like a water starved camel! I will be her slave. Having been in the trenches myself, I know the agony of those days.

Parenting is the hardest job I have done or will ever do. At the same time, it is the most inexplicably rewarding. In time, the worst days and moments are forgotten…and all I remember are their smiles, giggling laughter and profound innocence. There even comes a day when bizarrely I miss those days- sour baby smell, nuzzling cheeks and hard won successes of their deep slumber. I hope my sister can find some time to see and enjoy all of these things. I hope she can learn to ignore all the presumptuous bitches that offer their condescending, unsolicited advice. Perhaps a nice visual to distract her throughout the day, would be her freely pummeling each of these know-it-alls about the head with a baby monitor! (God I hate baby monitors! At the first opportunity, I threw mine out the window! Really! I threw it out the fucking window!!!!)

I wish I lived closer to her, so that I could be there more to support her and help her beat off her mother in-law with a sharp stick. She and my older sister both came to my rescue when each of my children were first born and for that I am eternally grateful. I will do my best to breathe some life back into her to help her through the next several months. I am ready to jump back into the trenches (at least for a week). Hang in there sis, I will be there soon!

Promise Me You Won't Smile!

Photo by nostalgia.2009

For many of us, looking in the mirror is a hazardous activity. The hottest, thinnest or most athletic woman among us, could instantly name her greatest body flaw, if asked, without a moments hesitation. A woman with a healthy body image is a rare creature indeed.

In the blog, Object to Ugly, I discussed a phenomenon called “Objectification”. In short it is the increased importance placed on the external appearance, often with comparison to a perceived ideal of attractiveness, created from the cumulative experiences and messages received throughout one’s life. When we look in the mirror, we essentially wonder “What will other’s think I look like?” and on a deeper level, “What do I think I look like?” (compared to what I think I should or wished I did look like).

There are certain aspects of our appearance that are beyond our control, many attributed to chance inheritance from our parents. If you have curly hair and hate it, if you are 5’1” and want to be 5’8”, or if you have dangerous hips, that with the slightest weight gain, will explode into monsters, thank your parents. I have my personal body enemies, and until I see myself in pictures or stand next to much smaller people, I don’t even see them. The first time I realized I was overweight came when I looked at my sister’s wedding photos (I was in the wedding party). I was horrified! Who was this woman in the photos? In my mind’s eye I see myself as I once was…thin, athletic and young. What I see now is overweight, soft, and middle aged. Looking in the mirror at developing wrinkles and sagging parts make these day to day comparisons that I make to who I used to be, a daily beating of my self esteem.

Where can I find the strength to embrace who I am and stop comparing myself to yesterday or to an ideal that I can’t possibly achieve? Until my early 20’s I was never even aware of my weight or size. I feel on a relative scale, that is pretty late in life for a woman to start worrying about how she looks. A friend recently told me that her 8 year old daughter has begun comparing herself to her thinner classmates and wondering what she can do to look more like them.

Is this innate or learned behavior? Do we instinctively strive to be attractive to assure ourselves of scoring the best mate we can or do we learn that there is always a better way for us to look through cultural conditioning? I am amazed at things like boob jobs. I find it hard to imagine that one’s self esteem can hang on the size of one’s breasts, or that a man truly will find the same woman more appealing as a C cup versus a B. This is sort of like a Seinfeld episode relationship I once had with a guy who felt he couldn’t date me anymore because my teeth were too yellow. I asked him, “What if I promise not to smile?”

A saleswoman once told a friend and I, whilst we shopped in her store, “We don’t have many clothes here for pear shaped woman.” What the hell does a pear shaped woman look like? Was being a pear a bad thing? Her tone suggested I would have to seek out a more pear friendly store were I to be successful in finding clothing that fit me. Did I have other fruit choices? Could she perhaps have been mistaken, and might I in fact be a banana? As I try and embrace my body and find confidence within it, I thought it necessary to find out exactly what body shapes were out there, and if indeed I am a pear.

There is one classification of body types I am familiar with. There are three body frame types that are used in this classification, and they are ectomorphic, mesomorphic and endomorphic. Ectomorphs are super thin and lean, with small bone structure. Mesomorphs have larger bone structure, broad shoulders and are muscular. Endomorphs have larger body types, with big bone structure and often times are overweight. It is pretty simple to classify my body type within this construct. It is also apparent from the way that these classifications are defined, that these factors are purely genetic. No amount of aerobic workouts will make my bone structure shrink. I will never be a size 2 because I am not an ectomorph. I am a mild mannered mesomorph, who has briefly moved in and out of endomorph territory.

Fruit and random object classification go further than these three subtypes. Various sources discuss body types, and most help you use this information to buy the most flattering style of clothing. A pear, for example, is someone who is small up top (narrow shoulders, small breasts), but has full hips and thighs (often the site of weight gain). I now know the incompetent saleslady was mistaken. I am not a pear.

My shoulders are not narrow and my weight is gained throughout my body. This in fact makes me a cross between an apple and an hourglass! An apple has broader shoulders and chest, with the upper body being slightly larger than the lower body. I feel I am not quiet fully apple-ish and so include the hourglass, which is characterized by a balanced top and bottom, with a defined waist. I don’t give myself this classification fully either as my waist is not clearly defined at this time in my life. My waist disappeared after pregnancy, and I have been searching for it ever since. Other classifications include rectangle (stick legs, flat backside, short waist, large rib cage). You can be an inverted triangle, a diamond or a full rounded figure. Bananas don’t make the list.

Armed with this information, I seek to remedy my misguided expectations of how I think I am supposed to look, and search for acceptance in how I actually look. Glancing in the mirror I come to grips with the fact that I am an apple-shaped, hourglass, mesomorph, and begin to find peace. I will never be the ectomorphic, slim/athletic, hourglass I dream of being! It is physically impossible. Best case scenario, I can drop the apple and just be a mesomorphic hourglass. Worst case, I wind up an endomorph with pear-like rectangular features. Time will tell how things shape up.

First Kisses

I miss kissing. Not a peck on the cheek or a quick kiss in passing, but real, deep, passionate kissing. I miss the anticipation of the first kiss…when the attraction and sexual tension are building in a new relationship, before that line of intimacy has been crossed, before anyone has been touched. I can recall some amazing first kisses…passionate and thrilling, all consuming, complete with head grabbing, hair mussing, full on lip locks. You know those times, when you can’t get close enough and the need to kiss is all you can think about. Your body feels the electricity of the slightest touch and every nerve ending resonates with want of more. You will do anything and everything, your energy to resist stripped away.

I am long married now, and we don’t kiss that way anymore. There is still desire, but for some reason passionate kisses have long disappeared from our partnership. For women, kissing is one of the most important ways that a partner can demonstrate affection and desire. Its’ lack in a relationship is a significant loss of this form of intimacy. It therefore has become my biggest fantasy…having those moments back again. These fantasies seldom lead to sex…they stop at the first kiss…just far enough to feel that feeling again, to be wanted and to want right back. I think if I were ever single again I would gorge myself on first kisses…breaking off these affairs the moment that “moment” had passed.

I believe you can tell a lot about a person by the way they kiss. I used to announce this prior to the first kiss, in hopes that I would encourage “their best work”. Some kissers were oddly disappointing- hot guy, crappy kiss. One fellow thought aggressive lip sucking to be desirable and sucked my lips so hard I could feel my lips swelling and getting puffy. By the end of the date I lisped, “Thankspth I hadth a greathpt timepth”.

I once had a wonderful make-out buddy in college. Every evening would end with a first kiss moment. We didn’t date, but were good friends. We would go out clubbing all night and by the end of it we would be snagging action on the dance floor. We always knew it was coming, and that added to the anticipation…who would kiss first and when would it happen.

There are the soft lipped kissers…not so passionate…kind of feels like kissing a brother or relative. Hard to get super passionate when the lips melt away under the slightest pressure. There are the tongue invaders who force their ram rod stiff tongue as far into your mouth as they can. With these kissers I found myself turning away at the moment of lip lock to avoid this intrusion. I imagine a great French kiss as a tease…soft, with a little thrill from the touch of tongues, surprising and erotic.

There are the sloppy, wet kissers. I remember early make out sessions when none of us knew what we were doing, that would end with drool rolling down our faces. We didn’t pull away to dry off, because we thought that was the way it was supposed to be. I guess we kissed so long, hours on end it seemed, that we neglected to swallow.

Great kissers are the rarest kind. When your lips meet with a great kisser, you know instantly that you have found a kindred kiss spirit. One of my greatest first kisses came from a friend who I believe was intuitively aware of the first kiss anticipation. I was so desperately attracted to him, but that line from friendship to something more had not been crossed. We were spending more and more time together, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. We were out late one evening and sitting in my car, saying our usual goodbyes. I was using every subtle trick I had to keep him in the car. Finally, as the tensioned mounted, he leaned over to me, and very slowly kissed my forehead, then my right cheek, then my left. Slowly, so close I could feel his breath move along my face, he kissed my mouth. He paused there only for a moment, drawing slightly away, inviting my reaction. I leaned into him, and we locked into an amazing, passionate kiss. He told me it was my choice if I wanted to stay with him that night. Needless to say, I did not go home that evening.

The kind of kiss a man gives you can also tell you what kind of lover he will be. The best kissers have been the best lovers. It is sort of like dancing, if a man can dance, chances are you will have some great sex. On the other hand if he dances erratically and out of rhythm, lovemaking will probably be a lot like that too. I used to enjoy sitting at bars with girlfriends, checking out guys on the dance floor, and describing how he might have sex based solely upon his dancing ability. If kisses are impatient, sloppy, or wimpy, likely that’s what you will get in bed. I might suggest asking him to dance before you kiss him, as the first step in the “What kind of lover are you?” screening. If he passes the dance off, give him a kiss opportunity.

I am not sure you can recapture the first kiss feeling in a long term relationship. Passion and intimacy transform somewhat with the comfortable rhythms of our lives. Our love is mature and solid, we know what to expect, what the other wants, and our needs are met. I sometimes tell my husband, “Let’s pretend we are on a first date!” Remember when we were courting? We were adventurous and giving and trying to do “our best work”. Sometimes we find the energy to “bring it”…and sometimes we settle for that more comfortable version of ourselves we have become. There is nothing wrong with comfort and security…but man, I would love to kiss him for the first time again...

Girl's Night Out!

Photo by JohnONolan.

Time out with gal pals comes too infrequently for my liking. My children are getting a little older, and as my husband and I like to say, we are finally “out of the woods”, allowing more time to reconnect with our former lives. One such area oft’ neglected these last years are the coveted “girl’s night out”. It is a rare occurrence when more than one of my girlfriends can find a mutually available evening to get together. Unlike men, who seem to have an innate sense of entitlement for boys trips, poker nights and marathon golf outings, women being in general, less selfish, seldom indulge in nights dedicated solely to fulfilling their needs of female bonding. “We should do this more often!” has become a common mantra chanted inevitably at the end of these infrequent occasions.

I have enjoyed some epic girl’s nights this summer. I mentioned one such night earlier this summer in “Are My Labia Too Long”. Most recently, I connected with some newer friends for a “support” dinner for one friend who had undergone some appallingly unfair treatment in a very important professional evaluation. Her husband sensing her need for a degree of support he could not provide her, wisely enlisted a group of like minded women, to whisk her away, for an evening of martinis and girl talk.

I have always enjoyed engaging in conversations whose topics are limitless and whose participants hard to offend. It took me many years to finally get my college roommate and best friend to talk about sex (a favorite conversation topic of mine). She had never really talked about it much prior to meeting me, and so was highly private and uncomfortable with detail sharing.

I also really appreciate a group that I can swear around. I am Canadian, and swearing is part of our everyday vocabulary. The “F” word is a common first word for a child, and our word collection box in Kindergarten was rife with profanity. When I hang with one of my friend’s pals, I literally have to ask if this is a swear party or not. I have become quite adept at shutting off the cursing flow on such occasions, as I truly fear offending people. I generally let someone else in the group drop the first f-bomb. Once it is out of the bag though, it’s like a heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and I begin to swear away, loving the freedom of uninhibited speech!

(Warning: the "C" word is coming!) I once subjected an annoyingly self centered first date to what later became known as the “Cunt Test”. This word is universally agreed upon as being one of the most offensive words in the cussing vernacular. I, who love to swear, never use it, and it is a word that can even offend me. Much of our dinner date had been spent with me listening to him expound on the benefits of himself, complete with an anchovy fiber stuck to his lips. I zoned out repeatedly during his diatribe, but could never quite take my focus away from his mouth, as I watched this fiber of food, dance with his every word. At some point in his lengthy monologue he finally turned to me and said, “Tell me a little something about you?” There are only a few occasions where I have been ever so proud of myself, for saying something truly glib and inspiring, and this was one such occasion.

Without batting an eye, I proceeded to tell him that I was a pretty easy going lass, who was hard to offend. “For example”, I said, “Take swear words. To me these are just words. They mean nothing to me. The word “cunt” for example...just a word like any other. “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!, it doesn’t offend me.” Needless to say, he was stunned into a welcomed silence! (Subsequent suitors were subjected to the “Cunt Test” to see if they were worth a second date.)

This latest GNO (Girl’s Night Out) included all of the ingredients I truly enjoy. Someone dropped the F-bomb early, so my filter was off, and it wasn’t long before we were comparing our bikini waxing preferences and telling stories of objects removed from crazy people’s asses. My husband is fully aware that any aspect of our relationship is open for discussion with my peeps, and that I will likely spend most of the time, when he is the topic of discussion, telling them only the very worst things he does in our relationship. This is the joy of girlfriends!

A college friend sent me an email today that inspired this post regarding the benefits of a good GNO that I heretofore had not known. Apparently the relationships women have with each other have fringe benefits. According to a variety of studies, friendship can increase your life expectancy, reduce your risk for heart attack, make you sleep better and eat less, slow aging, prevent illnesses like the common cold, and enhance our memory and learning capacity. Very few activities that I participate in can offer so many health benefits! A Swedish study reported that lack of close friendships compared equally to smoking as a risk factor for increased cardiovascular disease! Women’s relationships with each other are an even more powerful wellness tool than men’s friendships with each other. Seems that because our topics of discussion are limitless we are able to offload much of our baggage and find support for a variety of issues.  Apparently, talking about sports does not accomplish the same thing.

Hanging with the ladies helps our bodies release serotonin, the substance intimately linked to all of these great side benefits. In her email she quoted a psychology lecturer from Stanford as saying that “the best thing that a man could do for his health is to marry a woman whereas for a woman, the best thing she could do for her health was to nurture her relationships with her girlfriends”.

My friend in need of support that night, found it. All in the circle were there to build her up and diminish the influence this particular fat, misogynistic, bastard, evaluator had had on her life. Serotonin was a-flowing and we were like a psychically linked coven! I am sure we all slept better that night and years were added to our lives!

The GNO has taken on a new meaning for me. I am now aware that my very health and the health of my most cherished martini buddies hangs in the balance! It is therefore my duty to promote many more GNOs to make sure that we support each other in optimizing our health and wellness!  How about next Thursday?