What a difference a country makes


Seriously, guys. Canadian guys. I say that instead of my general blubbering about North Americans because I know how that’s always a touchy subject and we all know how much more awesome Canadians are (and hey, I haven’t even received my landed immigrant yet, so I’m rather safe than sorry folks).

What is up with your underwear for boys?

All the cool stuff like Spider Man and all the good guys, Transformers, heck, even Iron Man? Only briefs. The coolest boxers you can get for a 5-year old are camo and I sincerely dislike where this is going. Are you trying to tell me something? Are we rednecks because we buy our boy boxers? Are nerdy boys (and seriously, at that age almost every boy likes comic book dudes) doomed to wear uncomfortable briefs forever? What is UP with that?

And then I wandered. Oh boy how I wandered. Never, ever go to the little girls section at Wal-Mart I beg you. I have never worn skirts that short when I was that young and I managed to become this screwed up individual anyway. But hey. If you want to let your 8-year old skip around in short denim skirts, be my guest.

Then we stopped by a local diner, something we never really did in Germany. At least not this often. The kid would get a burger once a month or when he managed to talk his grandma into buying him one and I will not get into how easy that probably was.

While I tried not to look at young mom of two busy texting on her shnazzy smart phone while her little boy locked himself and ran around the parking lot… A girl walked in, maybe twelve. And I did a double take when I saw her shirt, my husband chuckled and told me it wasn’t my size anyway. I asked him how that little girl could get SOA merch and I couldn’t. “Because somebody loves her.” I had to let her know that her shirt is awesome though, because I remember being that age and loving it if older people commented on my Nirvana shirt. Before I could speak up she sat down next to me, grinning.

“I love your hair.”

“Thanks! Your shirt is awesome.”

“I know, right. Jax is my favorite, he’s so hot. Who’s yours?”

I dropped my burger at that point and my husband choked on his coke. When I was her age I had a vague idea that liking Knight Rider just because his car was awesome wasn’t exactly good. But I also thought horses were way cooler than boys and my one attempt at writing a letter to a guy from my class I thought was cute ended when the boys found it and laughed at me. Quite a few of them went home with bleeding noses. But I did not swoon about a dude on a TV show centered around a MC that tends to shoot people and beat the crap out of them. But ah, times change. And I hope she didn’t really watch the show. She was suspiciously well informed, though. When I rattled off a list of characters she nodded approvingly or shook her head. Apparently I have a taste for the creepers and weirdos but that is nothing new, now, is it.

My son bought his first shirt on his own today. An Avengers shirt. Sadly it is lacking Hawkeye. He put that one down again when his dad pointed at me and my slightly deranged grin saying: “Your mom used to look at me like that.” Which I would like to protest vehemently. I never looked at my husband like that. Because he is not Hawkeye. Or Jeremy Renner.

Anyway. My son also picked an Optimus Prime backpack for kindergarten and I sincerely hope they will not fuss about that like they would have in Germany. And he has never seen the Avengers movie, read any comic books or seen anything from the Transformers Franchise. It’s just something kids think is cool and as they grow up a little more they might or might not appreciate the comics behind it. Just like that little girl might one day maybe get involved with bikers watch Sons of Anarchy. I did both and I can only say godspeed her.

Anyway. Seriously, retailers. Get some decent underwear out. And while you’re at it, the girlie shirts shouldn’t all be “Talk nerdy to me” and all that junk. We want comic book prints, too. I already have a bunch of men’s shirts all cut up to fit. It’d be nice to have one that I don’t feel like ripping and bleaching for a change.


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