Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Leah McLaren, Let's Be Pals!

Okay peeps - I wrote this ages ago...and I forgot to post it.  Why?  Well, it could be for the same reason that I walk up the stairs and have no idea what I'm looking for.  I blanked.  But I thought it was worth posting:

I just had about 4 minutes of glorious peace: A latte from White Squirrel (they make a good to-go), an oven-warmed croissant from Clafouti (as I waited for my husband to fry my complimentary egg) and the arts section of my favourite newspaper. It's almost a law in our house that if you are in the midst of eating your weekend breakfast with the newspaper you are permitted to pretend you are sitting at a cafe by yourself. To find time alone in a house with two children under the age of four is not a luxury, it's impossible. So our only hope is to go into an almost deep trance of denial. My husband goes as far to make us believe he has a hearing problem from all those club nights in the 90's but we know he can hear us...and our requests to be served more egg. On this most recent Saturday my location denial was disrupted by an article called:

 "Why women aren't as funny as men: maybe it's our material" :

I was hesitant to read it because I like the author, Leah McLaren, and I was seriously hoping she'd have a fresh perspective on this (it's starting to get boring) topic. I didn't agree with half the things she said. Yes "Baby Mamma" sucked but it was also written by a man and not by the two brilliant female comedians who starred. Okay yes, the man in question has four children which doesn't make him completely ignorant to the pain of child birth - oh wait a minute, I take that back, yes it does. So scratch that.

I think she looks sad because her friends are boring.

But McClaren sums up by really going for the jugular: 

"Here's my conclusion: Yes, I think, on average, women are less funny than men and I think child-rearing might have something to do with it"

Suggesting that the women she knows talk in hushed tones about cracked nipples while their other half are outside making fart jokes. And you know what I felt?

A bit worried.

Every story I've ever told at a dinner party about my post-pregnancy circled my brain.  The ones I told, loudly.  Like how I  used to roll up a towel and casually gnaw on it to overcome my hemorrhoids: I could read an entire magazine with a roll of terry cloth in my mouth.  No problem.  But this technique led to the creation of my "Save Your Ass" shower gift that I've been giving to people for years: Some people give onesies - I give stool softeners. Is that so wrong?  I only do it because I care about your bum.  I really do.  You know what's not funny? Hemorrhoids.

As a newly minted mother of another daughter should I have by-passed down-loading Atomic Fart on my iPhone (I know this sound so incredibly immature - but don't knock it till you've tried the the drum kit)?  Was I supposed to be whispering about this stuff in hushed tones? Should I have packed up my jeans and shopped for an A-line skirt and peach apron?

Who the hell is Leah McLaren hanging out with?!  They sound awful.

So let me put this out there:

Leah McLaren we can TOTALLY be friends.  I won't speak in hushed tones about cracked nipples.  I promise.  As long as you promise to never write another article perpetuating the ongoing conversation that women aren't as funny as men, or worse, that losing ones sense of humor may have anything to do with raising children. Trust me, when you have kids you'll realize that having a sense of humor is what gets you through the day.

I may even buy you a latte from White Squirrel if you keep your end of the bargain.  They are seriously good.

Now can we all move on and start talking about something else?

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