Last night I went to the hockey tournament.
This is a conversation I had with a northern Minnesota conservative small town hockey mom sitting in the row ahead of me:
Mom: (turns around) Is that a real tattoo?
Mom: Because it looks painted on
Sarah: Yeah, it's pretty neat ink.
Mom: (turns back to face the ice. After a moment turns back around facing Sarah and says) I wasn't staring at your chest or anything.
Sarah: Oh, that's ok, if you were I'd be flattered.
Mom: (Gets a disgusted scrunched up "ew that woman must be a lesbian hitting on me" face and turns back around. Woman doesn't turn away from the ice for the rest of the game. After the first game she changes seats.)
Funny. It seems that both men and women spend a large amount of time staring at women's chests every time we go outside, turn on the tv, or open a magazine. We're inundated with women's chests all the time, why should mine be different just because they aren't "perfect" (inset joke here) HA! I didn't think anything of it, and I really don't care.
A young mother and her daughter are sitting behind me. The daughter is young enough to barely be able to stutter out a sentence in her mousy little voice.
Girl: Mommy, sometimes when, when, when I play hockey the, the, the other kids they hit me on the head with their sticks. It hurts real bad.
Mom: (obviously not listening) Oh that's funny sweety.
Girl: They hurt me
Mom: yup, that's funny.
Girl: (In a sad quiet dejected little voice) No it's not.
Seriously? Now that poor girl is scarred for life because her mother is siding with the bullies. Sad.