Happy Feminist

This week, I'm obsessed with documentaries. In all honesty, I don't watch a lot of TV because.....Toddlers and Tiaras. There is more shit than valuable entertainment on television, so I find other ways to entertain myself. A couple of days ago, my computer wasn't picking up an internet signal so I resigned myself to not working or cleaning or running errands or doing anything else productive. Secretly, I needed a break so I clicked on Netflix and looked up a documentary that someone had raved about on Instagram. Notice how I just used two modern day media forms in one sentence, who would ever guess I'm so old? The movie was called Miss Representation and it was a 90 minute class about women's rights, women in the media and how we are creating an unrealistic female ideal . It set me on fire. There were numerous books I put on my to-read list and when my husband called to see if the internet was back up, I angrily spewed a fifteen minute dissertation on how fucked up our society is, how dysfunctional our idea of beauty is and the fact that I may not make dinner for him ever again. If you haven't guessed, I have a tendency to take things to the most dramatic level possible. For a moment, I even contemplated shaving my head just to prove how serious I was about feminism. I really can't be trusted to consume too much information in such a short period of time.

Today after some Christmas shopping, I came home planning to work on my book, but wanting instead to watch another documentary. In order to justify sitting on my ass and accomplishing zilch, I pretended that my computer was frozen, surfed my options on Netflix and stumbled upon one called Happy. It talks about the genetics of happy, the happiest people on the planet, the most unhappy country and people who are happy despite what many would view as an impoverished lifestyle. Now instead of shaving my head, I wanted to volunteer, learn to surf, move to Hawaii, stop buying crap and start talking to my neighbors. See? I'm telling you, be careful what you show me, I'm a chameleon.

So are you happy? Am I happy? Most of the time, I am. There have been times in my life where I have dealt with depression and almost weekly I need a good cry in order to keep waking up in the morning, but I would say that I am a happy person. Here is where I think some people get backed up with the whole happy thing. "Well, you are happy because nothing bad ever happens to you." Wrong. A lot of shitty things have happened to me, some that I am still working through.
"Well, you are just oblivious to all the horrible crap in the world." Nope, not that either. While I don't choose to follow breaking news or tragic events, I'm smart enough to know that they happen and compassionate enough to know that it's not okay when they do. I can't control these things, but what I can control is how I feel about my life.
"Well you have the perfect life, so of course you are happy." Perfect for whom? It works for me, but it may not work for you. Perfect isn't real anyway, it's a perception that we allow ourselves to believe as fact. Being happy doesn't come from "perfection" or big houses or fancy cars. Happy is a combination of many factors, most of which revolve around community, relationships and doing for others. It inspired me to do more to create happiness in my life and reaffirmed the fact that I really want to live on a beach. Hint, hint, husband. :)

The moral of the story is that this week I am a Happy Feminist. Next week, who knows, I could be a Happy Feminist Vegan or a Happy Feminist Vegan Republican (is that a thing?). It all depends on my documentary options and my computer being broken.

It's All Fun And Games...Until.

                                                               That's me....age three.




We all have stories about how our parents ruined our lives and how they saved our lives. Hopefully there are more of the saving stories for most of us. As I get older I am more able to understand the sacrifice, love and patience that my parents had to put forth everyday in order for me to become an adult. It wasn't perfect and none of us are. I strive to give my kids the best everyday, but the reality of raising kids is that I will fuck up and they will hate things I did as a parent.
The list of what I hated has shrunk the older and, hopefully, wiser I become. They may seem insignificant or enormous depending on your own experiences. I hated that my biological parents couldn't stay married, that we didn't have money for vacations, that my biological dad wasn't in my life, that I wasn't pretty in high school, that I didn't go to prom, that I had to emotionally take care of my brother and sister, that I was held to a different set of rules, that my dad didn't hug me as a teenager, that my mom didn't stand up for herself, and the casseroles. I hated those fucking casseroles. No one advises you before you get pregnant that you will not only have a baby to care for, but a marriage and yourself.  It took the birth of my own children to give my parents the appreciation they deserved all along.
The things I loved about my childhood greatly outweigh the previous hate list. I loved living in the same house for most of my life, having siblings to play with, celebrating holidays, that my mom worked at home, that we were close to my grandparents, that my mom talked to me, that my dad worked very hard, that my parents stayed married, that we were taught a strong work ethic, that we laughed, that we had pets, and that we lived within our means. It's funny to look at both lists and realize that without one we could not have had the other. My mom stayed home to care for us and that meant less money. My parents stayed married because my mom didn't stand up for herself. Those are the tough decisions you have to make as a parent. Will it ruin your kids forever? Probably not. If your intention is pure and you do the best you can, kids are pretty resilient.
I make mistakes. My kids act out. We cry and wonder how we'll get through. I've slept in my kid's beds all night so they would go to sleep. I've served cereal for dinner and forgotten to make lunch. I've raised my voice. I've hid in the bathroom with my phone for a moment of solitude. I've questioned my husband on his handling of punishment. I've thought about leaving. I've turned the TV on for hours so I could get something done. I've held doors closed and locked myself in my room. No one is perfect. I've also done amazing things that I hope my kids will remember for the rest of their lives. I hope they feel loved, cared for, appreciated and heard. I know I do.

Fuck That Shit...It's Friday!!!

It's Fuck That Shit Friday!!!! I wish everyday was fuck that shit day because I am constantly coming into contact with people and situations that deserve that label. Homeless dudes bumming smokes from me on my break. Fuck that shit. People yelling at their kids in a grocery store. Fuck that shit. Putting away laundry. Fuck that shit. Waking up in the morning. Yeah, that's a given.
I'm really interested in this recent craze of bloggers who are trying to convince us that they have their shit together and need to do a daily brag about how much they get done in a single day. A day that, just like yours and mine, is made up of only 24 hours. That's if you don't sleep which I have decided, they don't. How is it possible to bake ten loaves of bread, clean your whole house, cut all of your twelve children's hair, make three meals from scratch and workout for three hours? Are these women on crack? Possible. I think  the more likely conclusion is that they are meth heads, Lortab addicts or take anti-anxiety pills for fun. It's hard for me to believe that like the rest of us, these women need naps or ever have dinners that include sugar cereal and toast. They must be cut from some special cloth that enables them to never have a mental breakdown or feel the overwhelming desire to take a potty break that lasts for the entire showing of Monsters, Inc. I have taken that poop break before and it was completely necessary in order for me not to strangle the people I love.
I can't be entirely pissed about seeing their life play out like a Friday night sitcom because I for one am guilty of stealing their recipes, appreciating their decorating ideas a little too much and feeling more motivated to take my kids on an outing. Mostly out of guilt. I convince myself that their must be something seriously wrong with me if I can't live up to these unreachable standards. In turn, I attempt to do it all and then get so overwhelmed that I can be found rocking myself to sleep in the corner of my bedroom with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Smoking isn't allowed in my house, so then I get in trouble.
If there had been Internet when my grandma was raising kids, she would have been that blogger. She was smart, funny and good at everything. When I say everything, I mean everything. She baked everyday, had a garden before it was hip and at one point had five kids who were preschool age or younger. She was Superwoman. There was one way to wash clothes when she was raising a family and it wasn't in an energy efficient washer that did all the work. It was by hand. She ground her own wheat and for awhile, had a goat that she milked daily to feed one of her babies who was lactose intolerant. Beat that, raw milk bitches!!!The fact that she never sat down and possibly never slept has been well accepted by her children and the many people whom she took dinners to, visited with on their death beds and ran marathons with. Yeah, she was an athlete too. If these blogger bitches want some real competition, they need to go back about 50 years and meet up with a real homesteader. I love all the hipster terms for going back to the basics of growing food and eating healthy. You fucking hipsters.
As I have noted in previous posts, I am not doing it all nor do I want to. I am doing only what I can mentally handle today and sometimes not even that. If you follow me on Instagram (which you should) you will see pics of my kids without their hair combed and backgrounds of my house with dog hair growing out of my sofa. Our Christmas card photo was an impromptu pic of my kids in our dining room and I had clearly not decluttered my house for many months. I am sure people who received the card wondered what  I was thinking sending out a photo from an episode of Hoarders to celebrate Baby Jesus's birthday. What I was thinking is "I don't have time to do a proper photo op today and if I don't get these fucking things in the mail now, it's not going to happen until Easter." That's my reality. Usually I remember to feed the dog and sometimes my toilets get cleaned but I will never be organized or efficient enough to have a mommy blog about my perfect life. And if I ever try, please slap me while simultaneously handing me some liquor. And by some, I mean a bottle.
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