I ambushed a small child yesterday, and took her cookies (in exchange for money).
It’s Girl Guide cookie season, and they’re selling the GOOD cookies (not the chocolate mint horrors). In Canada we only get two kinds of cookies – the awesome sandwich ones, and the ones that suck (unlike you Americans who have untold numbers of fabled deliciousness that we can only imagine and get confused with savoury Indian pocket snacks every time) – so when the good cookies come around, it’s time to celebrate.
Unfortunately, those of us who are not “yummy mummies” (more on that later) do not have access to small children in Girl Guides who want to sell cookies to us. We dried-up barren skanks (who don’t deserve to be called women) aren’t blessed with the preciousness of fertility and sacred bonds; keeping us from fulfilling our purpose here on earth – and as punishment, no cookies. We have to go elsewhere for our fix (much like we do to scratch our slut itches): dark alleys and street corners (familiar grounds to us prostitutes on birth control); office buildings and supermarket parking lots.
I don’t know how this post about cookies turned into an angry feminist rant, but these things happen sometimes.
Back to the cookies. I’ve been trying to get my hands on some for weeks; ever since Heather and I saw them being sold on corner of Hastings and Nanaimo. We were driving past and didn’t think it a good idea to entice a small child to our car by holding money out of the window, so we drove off without cookies but with a powerful hunger for expensive treats that we could easily find on a supermarket shelf for half the price but without the Girl Guide logo stamped into them. I’ve kept an eye out, but haven’t seen anyone selling cookies .. until yesterday.
I was downtown for an appointment and on my way to meet Ed when a small girl joined me at the elevator. She was carrying two cases of Girl Guide cookies; the siren song of which is so powerful that it overthrew my natural tendency to avoid children at all costs. I asked if the cookies were all for her, or if she was selling them – and like magic, a parent appeared and said they were selling them. Hooray! I even had cash on me, so I happily forked over $10 for two boxes of deliciousness and went on my merry way. Success! And the small child was not at all traumatized by my obvious baby-eating ways! It’s a win for everyone involved.
So hey, what the fuck is up with referring to yourself or others as a “yummy mummy” ? I get that you may want to feel attractive after giving birth (see, I’m getting better – I didn’t say “pooping out a child” or “becoming a human feed bag”), but something about the phrase “yummy mummy” just squicks me out. I don’t like how the words sound together, and it’s just the whole damn thing – it’s .. like .. trying to be sexy by infantilizing it, which clashes with the very idea of being sexy in the first place. It’s icky. Unless, of course, by “yummy” you don’t mean “damn I am a hot piece of ass with this giant diaper bag and baby wipes tucked into my bra” but “I am a delicious meal”, which could be taken in several different ways (most of them hilarious).
Also – and here’s the big thing – the dictionary definition of “mummy” is:
- the dead body of a human being or animal preserved by the ancient Egyptian process or some similar method of embalming
- a dead body dried and preserved by nature
- a withered or shrunken living being
- a dry, shriveled fruit, tuber, or other plant organ, resulting from any of several fungous diseases