The Feminist Breeder

Who Says Romance is Dead?

...If this conversation doesn't end up on Lamebook, I don't know what will.

Wordless Wednesday

(t-shirt available at http://shop.cafepress.com/design/33641744)

Day Tripping With Some Sexy Bitches

I'm going to write two separate posts about my trip to Philadelphia to visit the GlaxoSmithKline vaccination production facility.  The first post will be about my personal experience with meeting other bloggers for the first time, and the second post will go into greater detail about what I learned at GSK.

I have never met any other blogger, twitterer, or cyber friend in real life before.  For the most part, the idea makes me a bit uncomfortable.  I generally provide full disclosure here, and also write some very opinionated, polarizing statements that I know other people fucking hate me for.  Online, I can simply hit "delete" or "unfollow" if I don't like the 'tude I'm getting from somebody.  In person, I'm forced to be my most diplomatic self.  We (me, my husband, my friends) call it "The Gina Show."  It's not that it's a fake persona, it's just me on my best behavior.  I think we all do this.  When you're a fucking asshole like I (sometimes) am, that can be soooo exhausting.  I also tend to take things pretty personally, and where others can fight with someone one minute and be shaking their hand the next, I don't operate like that.  Yeah, yeah.  I know.  I'm an immature little snot.  Tell me something I don't know.

I certainly had my diplomacy work cut out for me on this trip because I wasn't meeting any bloggers who share my interests, or rant irately about cesareans and breastfeeding the way I do.  I wasn't even meeting anyone whose blog I'd ever read (aside from Kristen, who was present for the tour only, but not at the hotel, so we hardly saw her.)  If I were meeting Melodie from Breastfeeding Moms Unite, or Amber from Strocel.com, or my Cyber BFF from Unnecessarean (or a bunch of others) I'm sure we would have gushed about all the same topics and been brushing each other's hair by the end of the day.  That's not to say we all have the same exact opinions on things, but we are certainly very, very passionate about some of the same things, and that provides a lot of common ground to stand on.  Also, by sheer virtue of having read each other's blogs on many occasions, we all (I think) feel a certain warmth and respect for each other that would facilitate conversation, empathy, support, and instant bonding in real life.  Well, I could be totally projecting my feelings onto those three particular bloggers, but I would be very surprised if they'd disagree with me on that sentiment.

But this was very different.  I had never read any of these other bloggers, and they run in a very different "scene" than I do.  Here's the list of women I met:

Steph at CreatureBug

Cecily at Uppercase Woman (thanks to her for the lovely picture of us all in the GSK parking lot)

Kristen from Motherhood Uncensored (who is 8 feet tall and 10 times hotter in person. Rowr.)

Devra and Aviva from Parentopia

Sarah from Sarah and the Goon Squad

Lori from Avacado8 (who didn't come on the tour, only to dinner, she lives in Philly.)

I was nervous enough about the whole trip, but I was trying to put me crazy-ass social anxiety aside and try to make the best of it.  I was off to a great start too.  As soon as I landed I got a text from Steph at Creature Bug asking where people were meeting.  We agreed to meet at the shuttle and travel to the hotel together.  She was quite friendly, I think we hit it off right away and we had a good 90 minutes of getting to know each other before we got to the hotel.  She had also never been to an event like this, so I didn't feel like I was the only person who didn't know anybody.  I was starting to feel a little more relaxed.  As soon as we checked in, we had to meet the other women for dinner right away.  All the other women we met knew each other very well, and had either been friends for years and years, or were at least very regular readers of each other's blogs and had met at previous blogging events.  They were also seasoned "monetizers" (a word I learned on the trip) meaning that this whole blogging thing was paying some bills for them.  That alone made me start to feel a little out of my league.

We sat down to dinner and before most people had their menus open Devra from Parentopia and I started talking about the GSK tour.  She made a comment about Big Pharma being "evil" (which, in retrospect, I think may have been sarcasm) but also mentioned that they can sometimes save some lives as well.  So I said that I felt the same way about cesareans; I love them when they're necessary and don't so much love them when they aren't.  Oh Gina.  Why don't you just keep your fucking pie-hole shut. (<-rhetorical question.)  So from across the table, Lori says "What was that?" and I am forced to repeat myself, knowing what was coming next.  She immediately stops the table and says "Okay, raise your hand if you have had a cesarean" and everyone except one person at the table raises their hand. 

(hint: If everyone at your table has had a cesarean, and you're NOT at an ICAN meeting, your cesarean-awareness-self is about to be hella uncomfortable.) 

And then of course the table broke into the "but-mine-was-really-necessary" stories and I felt like the Town A-Hole again.  This is where I shut the fuck up.  This is where I know I am not among my audience, and the kind of thing I write about (live, eat, breath, sleep, study, will-practice-law-someday-soon-for) is not going to be welcome conversation here.  Man, it's gonna be a looooooong night.

So I spent the next 15 minutes or so coming down from my social anxiety attack, and found a way to work myself back into the conversation (Gina, don't say shit about crunchy living.)  We ended up talking, joking, and discussing the world until nearly 11 pm, and it was a pretty good time.  I managed to blame my cesarean and formula feeding for my distance with my first son, a non-popular opinion again, but there was no spectacle made of it.

The next day we all boarded into a van and made the 2 hour trip up to Marietta PA for the GSK tour.  We had a lot of time to talk and joke about everything under the sun, and I was feeling more and more comfortable.  Perhaps I fit in after all.  I mean, these are moms, I'm a mom, we all have at least that in common, right? 

Well, don't worry, I put myself right back outside the circle when the GSK hosts asked us if we had any questions.  I asked about whether they had tested the vaccinations in groups, and if so, where could I find the results of that testing.  I asked about Thimerosal, why it was included in the Influenza and H1N1 vaccines.  I asked if they were aware of the study recently published that showed some devastating effects of Thimerosal, and I asked if they had been made aware of the recent findings by the Canadian Government that the flu shot was making people more susceptible to acquiring H1N1.  Of course GSK wasn't super jazzed about those questions, and I believe nobody else seemed to share my concern on those points.  (Oh Gina, you're such a trouble-maker.)  That line of questioning was talked about on the long 3 hour van ride back to Philly, and I was made even more aware that I was the only person in the vehicle who was still quite skeptical.  I was also the only person who felt that, if there was a real risk for autism, that should be enough to change the way vaccinations are made and/or administered.  The general consensus that I felt was that vaccinations save lives and there was no need to question the science.  Of course, being the advocate and analytic mind that I am, I say question everything.

Now, we all know I vaccinate my kids.  They've never missed one.  I do believe they have saved millions of lives and that vaccinations are a matter of public health.  But, I am also a die-hard believer in informed consent, and am sensitive to the reasons why some people don't vaccinate.  I would never suggest to one of my very best friends that it was okay her kid got autism as long as a bunch of other kids' lives were saved.  I think one case of vaccine-induced autism is too many.  I have a deep empathy for those who are raising special needs children, and I want to keep examining the science behind this until we know why this is happening to children, and we have stopped the epidemic.  So I spent a lot of time feeling like the only dickhead in the car who was beating up on those poor nice GSK folks (they were very nice, and I'll talk more about that in my next post.)

In summary, my first experience with meeting other bloggers was certainly a very interesting one.  I learned that I can participate in hours of conversation with mothers who are nothing like me, and I will not die of a panic-attack-induced stroke in the process.  I learned that until I know if everyone at the table has had a cesarean, maybe I should hold my cards closer to my chest while I test the water on that topic.  Not everyone can (or wants to) rattle off cesarean and infant mortality statistics the way I can.  And finally, I discovered a whole new subculture of this female/mother blogger community that I didn't even know existed, and in doing so, my awareness has been expanded.

So a big thanks to David Wescott for hooking me up with these women.  And stay tuned for the next post where I will put my head on a directly on the chopping block by talking about vaccinations.  As if people didn't have enough reasons to leave me nasty comments already, I'm gonna go and open that can 'o worms.

Duht-Duhnt-Duuuuuuhhhhnt.

________________________________________

(and so you now, GlaxoSmithKline paid every dollar of this trip for me, so thanks again GSK)

It's Possible That I'm Being Punk'd

So I’ve been invited to fly out to Philadelphia next week, courtesy of GlaxoSmithKline, to tour their vaccination facility. The trip is unbelievably terrible timing seeing as I have 5 (yes FIVE) cakes due the day after I come back, and two classes that will need to be skipped, making my professors none too happy.

Going could not be any more inconvenient or impossible.  But I’m trying to make it possible.  I think it will be hugely educational (how often does one get to visit a major pharmaceutical facility anyway?) and the fact that it’s fully paid for by them means I have no real financial excuse to skip it.

Plus, some of the cool kids will be there. 

They’ve invited a small group of “influential” mom bloggers (don’t ask me how I’m included in that), which means I’ll finally get to meet some of these gals you see banging around the interwebs.  It looks like Pundit Mom is making an appearance, as well as Kristen Chase.  Kristen is the person that inspired me to take The Feminist Breeder to the streets after I discovered her through a Podcast wayyyyy back in 2007.  I’m pretty sure she hates me ever since I called her white (oh, wait until she sees how white I am! The husband says I glow in the dark!) but maybe she’ll forgive me if I bring her a pair of high-heeled Crocs.  Isn't the gift of Crocs the universal way of saying "Sorry I was being a cunt that day"?

They haven’t sent me the plane tickets yet so we’ll see if this thing really pans out.  I’ll be skeptical until I’m actually sitting on the runway.  It almost feels like all the head cheerleaders devised a plan to invite me to the prom, only to have me show up at an empty warehouse while they lay waiting in the bushes, filming the whole thing as a YouTube prank.

Oh, there goes my self-loathing narcissism again.  I doubt the head cheerleaders even care enough about me to play a prank.

Anyhoo, if there really is a vaccination facility in Pennsylvania, and I'm really on the guest list, then I’ll write all about the experience – don’t you worry.

Mothers are like Vampires...

No...really.  Think about it.

Mothers are nocturnal.

Mothers can sense when their loved ones are in danger, even if they're not in the same room.

Mothers can move faster than the speed of sound to snatch a falling child out of mid-air just seconds before they hit the ground.

Just like Vampires.

And today, I decided there's a new trait.  After trying, and failing miserably, to refresh my appearance, I've decided it's not even possible.  In the same way that vampires cannot change their hair, neither can I.

I went in to the stylist today and asked for my punk rock hair back.  I used to be cute.  Before people came out of my vagina, I looked like a rocker.  I looked on the outside what I felt like on the inside.  You could tell by being in the same room with me what I was about.  You could tell by looking at me that I played in a band and lived an exciting life.

But not anymore. No matter who I get to cut my hair, I cannot look like anything but a mother.  It's impossible.  Look at that haircut.  Could I LOOK anymore like a soccer mom?  I asked her for Punk Rock/Joan Jett in 1978 ---- DOES THAT LOOK ANYTHING LIKE JOAN JETT IN 1978?!?!!?!?!?  I would insert many, many expletives here, but I know some Christians read my blog so I'll spare y'all the blasphemy.

Apparently I will have the "Mom Bob" for the rest of my natural life now.  It's inevitable.  People will never again look at me and think "oh, I bet she plays guitar" or "oh look, it's that girl who played in those cool bands!"  Nope.  They will look at me and think "I wonder how many kids she has" or "yeah, she clearly never did anything even remotely cool in her entire life."

And with that, I will leave you with this video. It is hilariously, painfully true.  There is no avoiding it. Time to mix up some oxycotin and Jack Daniels, then drink away the pain of assimilation.  I'm a mom, and there ain't nuthin' cool about it.

The Storm Before The Calm

Jesus.

Shit is crazy.

Work is nuts.
School is nuts.
Cakes are nuts.
Kids are nuts.
And I have a bad cold this week.

If I make it through this week without maiming someone, it will be by the grace of God-the-Mystical-Sky-Fairy.

This is what it looks like when you cut off a chicken’s head, and its body keeps running around the barnyard.  I’m beyond overwhelmed.  Besides all the stuff I HAVE to do, I really WANT to finish the ICAN of DuPage startup materials so I can get that out of the gate before our September 14th meeting. 

And then there’s this blog.  Oh poor blog, you have been neglected so.  No, of course I don’t have to write, but if I don’t write for a few days, it nags at me – like the feeling of having to go pee, but being too busy to do it.  If you go too long, you’ll end up with a bladder infection.  In my case, it’s a “too-many-words-in-my-head” infection, and the catharsis of this blog is often my only relief.

So, like I said, I started school again last week, and these are certainly the two hardest class I’ve had so far.  One is a political philosophy course with a 101 year old teacher whose rules are the bible and who, I can tell already, will be very hard pressed to give anyone in the class anything higher than a C because that’s how hardcore, old-school philosophy professors operate.

This oughtta be fun.

The second class is an ECON 201 course (Microeconomics) and (let me put this in big, bold letters so you understand I’m very serious) – I SUCK AT MATH.

I know the math teachers of the world are gasping in horror now, but those are the facts.  I’ve gotten through my whole life without ever learning how to multiply a fraction, or plot a grid.  But now, if I want to pass this class, I’m going to have to learn how to do both of those things, and a lot more, in the next 7 short weeks.  I had to buy graph paper for the first time in my life last week.  I found it in the “back to school” section, next to the crayons and glue sticks.  Is this what my life has come to?  Shouldn’t I be buying these things for my own children?  Aren’t I beyond this?

Apparently not.

If I don’t get a break soon, I might lose it.  I really might.  I wrote many, many expletives in an email yesterday to my fucking boss, and only had the good sense to delete them about 3 milliseconds before I hit the Send button.  The Husband took me out to eat last night to calm my nerves, and before we left I overheard him begging the 3 yr old to please be on his best behavior because mommy is not feeling well and she might get all screamy if certain people couldn't act right in the restaurant. Sad.

But tonight I won’t get home from work/class until 11:30 pm, at which time I have to decorate 4 dozen cupcakes in the theme of “Ralph’s World” for an order due tomorrow morning.

And then there's more class. And more cakes due. And these kids won't give me a break.

Have I mentioned that I haven’t slept in a couple of years?

September 15th.  Please, please September 15th, come as fast as you can.

***now where did I stash that few-year old bottle of Zoloft?***

Trust ME Twitter Friend, You Don't Need That Cesarean

I think many of us walk a fine line between wanting to know what’s going on in the world, and being sorry we ever asked.  Thanks to the power of Twitter, I have been able to cyber-witness mothers everyday in hospitals all over this country being rolled off to the OR for their cesareans – all Tweeted live by the expectant father.  It’s not hard to tell by a quick glance at the blinkies on the side of my blog that I am no fan of cesarean deliveries, and I’m not one to hide my feelings on the matter either. Science and evidence are on my side, and I know it.  I realize this means I’m putting myself in a challenging position by exposing myself to certain Tweets in Twitterland.

Oh, they just make it too easy.  If you have a nifty application like TweetDeck or Seesmic, you can perform a quick search on any word, and it will open a column that is continuously populated with tweets that contain that searched word.  Right now I have a column open for the term “BFing” (or breastfeeding) and one for the term “cesarean.”

Almost every day I see a tweet or two come in from a dad in a delivery room somewhere in America’s heartland, saying something to the effect of “labor’s a bust, we’re going with the cesarean.”  And of course, being who I am, my heart drops just a little.  I can’t not say something (more on this later).  So here is the transcript from yesterday’s encounter:

TheDad: Thank god for the epidural. She's in labor getting close! Exciting!
TheDad: Doing cesarean in bout half an hour after no progress from baby with 2 hours of pushing

(Here's where I come in)

Me: Get rid of the epidural, and she probably won't need the cesarean (they r bad news). Seriously. That's what worked for me.

TheDad: it's only bad whentoo strong to feel anything. Babies head toobig nothing to do with epidural

Me: it's bad when she can't move to reposition the baby. If she was able to move, baby's head is likely to fit. Avoid cesarean.
Me: and btw, "big baby" and "big head" are good excuses for docs to cut, and 90% of the time they are wrong about size.

TheDad: of course she can move to reposition the baby. Epi doesn't mean handicapped. It's not rocket science. Some heads are too

TheDad: big and some hip bones are too small and don't move.

Me: i'm a small woman who birthed a 10 lb baby after the doctors said I never could. Doctors love cesareans. Very sad.

TheDad: great for you. Unfortunatelynot all womens bones cooperate

Me: we always blame the woman's body. Our bodies are not a lemon. Good luck with baby, I wish Mom a speedy recovery. Ican-online.org

Now, I realize that it seems completely ludicrous that I would expect some stranger to take my advice over Twitter.  I am under no delusion that this man is going to turn to his wife whilst she’s being prepped for the OR and say “Honey, unplug the spinal, this woman on Twitter says you shouldn’t have a cesarean.”  And I’d surely die of shock if she actually turned to him and said “Really?  A stranger on Twitter said so? Okay, unhook me Doc! I’m delivering this baby through my vagina instead.”

No, no, it’s not like I really think that’s going to happen. So why do I bother?  Why do I upset myself, and undoubtedly upset this expecting dad on the most important day of his whole life?  I promise this is not nearly as selfish as it sounds.  Or at least I hope not. 

Yes, I understand that I don’t know any of the details about this couple’s unique situation.  Maybe there was a really, really good reason why she needed a surgical delivery.  The issue is, though, this situation is hardly “unique.”  If people only knew how their cesareans played out like scripted screenplays, they might feel cheated and lied to.  The Business of Being Born did an excellent job of creating a cartoon out of this all-too-common situation.    Everyone thinks their cesarean was “necessary” and an “emergency” when in reality so few of them really are.  I want people to know this. I want to help them avoid this.  I want them to avoid the pain and trauma my cesarean caused me. 

My intentions are pure – but you know what they say about Intentions and that Paved Road to Hell…  The truth is, I can’t help it.  I have always felt some unshakeable urge to convince others of my argument, especially that which I am passionate about, even if it may not be the appropriate time or place for such an exchange.

Ten years ago I wrote and recorded a song called “The Joke’s On You” in which I announced to a (then) unrequited* love that:

I have two things
A big mouth, and bad timing
But I have something
You can’t admit that you need
Oh, oh, oh, the joke’s on you.

It seems not a lot has changed in the last ten years.  I’m a different person, arguing about different things, but my need to be right, and/or save people from certain doom (whether that be a major surgery, or the sin of not loving me back) hasn’t shifted much.  And now that I think about it, I may have been like this since I was a child.

I once held a sleepover in 7th grade.  You know, the kind that you invite all the popular girls to in an effort to improve your social status.  For some reason these sleepovers always consisted of a crying session, in which girls would sit in a circle and take turns telling some tear-jerking tale. We would all sob and hug each other – the general purpose being that all this emotion-sharing would bond us, like, 4-ever.

I remember at this particular party, one girl, let’s call her “Lydia”, used her turn to tell the story of her uncle who was dying from cancer.  Very sad indeed.  Everybody loaded onto the Sympathy Train and listened intently to Lydia’s sad story.  She came to a point where she told us all that she visited her uncle in the hospital, and he had lost all his hair.  Lydia informed us that the cancer had made him bald.

I looked at Lydia with the typical level of care and concern that an 11 yr old girl is capable of, and proceeded to correct her.  “No Lydia,” I said, “the cancer itself didn’t make your uncle lose his hair, it was the chemotherapy – the treatment for the cancer that did that.”  Big Mouth.  Bad Timing.  Even at 11 yrs old.

Lydia screws up her face and shouts back at me “No! It was the cancer! He said so!” and wails a little harder.  All the other girls rush in to hug her, glancing over their shoulders at me with daggers in their eyes, like I’m the biggest dickhead in the whole world.  They think to themselves, “Ughgh, there goes Gina again, being an argumentative ass. It’s no wonder none of us really likes her.  We only came to this sleepover because she promised that there was an old liter of vodka stashed in the back of her grandparents cupboard.” 

What?  I was right about the Chemo.  But I guess that’s no excuse for saying so.

I don’t know.  Perhaps I am a dickhead.  Perhaps my habitual urge to explain the truth to others indicates that I harbor some clinical form of narcissism that could benefit from a little old-fashioned shock therapy.

I prefer to believe that I am a Defender of The Truth.  I think this is what will make me a great lawyer.  If I wasn’t willing to take one for the team, how could I ever help anybody?  I suppose it is my destiny in life to be a little bit hated by some, but appreciated by those souls I can actually get through to.  I may not have saved that woman from her cesarean, but maybe I planted a seed?  I hope, very very hard, that’s what happened.

Though most days I think I ought to delete the columns from Tweetdeck, and surgically remove the part of my soul that aches from these un-truths. 

It is just so much simpler not to care.

~TFB

_______________________________________________

*We went on to date for two years, and are still very good friends.  That relationship remains one of the most important relationships either one of us has had to date. See?  I was right.

Okay, nobody panic…

...but I woke up with something missing this morning.  Everything seemed normal, aside from this ridiculous cold I have in July.  But there I was, drying off from the shower when suddenly I realized: I’d been burglarized.

My boobs are missing.

Just a day or so ago, they were there.  The same C-cups I’ve had through the last 2 years of pregnancy and nursing.  Not even 48 hours ago I stuffed them into a swimsuit I was trying on.  I remember them being there.

But today?  A cups.  I’m truly not kidding.  I’m not even exaggerating.  These are the kind of A cups that make people wonder if you may have been a Man at one point in your life.

I feel like I should file a police report.  So, I consult the husband:

Me: “Do you notice anything missing?”
Him: “Like what?”
Me: “My boobs are gone.”
Him: “Oh yeah, I know, I noticed that yesterday.”
Me: “WHAT!??!  You noticed!?!”
Him: “Yeah, it was strange – it only took about 2 days, but they went away.”
Me: *Gulp*

So I’m not just imagining it.

Add this to the column of Totally UnGodly Yet Perfectly Natural Weird Ass Things That Happen to A Mother’s Body.  Apparently my chest got the hint that I wasn’t nursing as much as I once had, and it decided to lay off at least 80% of the Milk Production workforce.  This comes as quite a shock to the system.  Just when I thought I had gotten used to my body doing all sorts of unexplained things, it transforms itself completely overnight.  I give up.

The most frustrating part of course is that I need to go drop money on all new brassieres now.  Though I suppose "they" are so little now, I might be able to get away with wearing only a couple of Band Aids and a tank top.

It’s a really good thing my husband is not a boob man.  I had A cups when he met me, so he knew the Baby Boobies were probably only a temporary toy.  My rear end is the reason he married me.  But I swear if I woke up tomorrow missing my booty, he’d probably have divorce papers messengered over to me by the close of business that day.  I suppose if there's a silver lining in this anywhere it's that, thankfully, I’m the only one of us who cares that my chest took off and left me.

Of course, now I’m wondering if all my recent weight loss only came from the upper half of my body.  That sure would explain a few things...

Being a woman is just all kinds of bat-shit crazy.

“Bad Mommy” The Finale: Things I Don’t Want to Be Called

I started to talk about this in the comments section of another blogger’s post, but I already promised to complete my thoughts about this here, so here goes.

Yes, it is true that for thousands of years, philosophers have been discussing the true meaning or concept of “Good.”  And yes, it is true that language is inherently ambiguous, meaning that the society utilizing the language decides on the meaning of that word, and there could be many completely contradictory meanings of any one word.

But is there really any question in our minds what constitutes a “bad mother?”  Sure, there are varying degrees of “bad” – ranging from the “leave-your-baby-unattended-in-a-hot-car” type of Bad to “carelessly-feed-them-junk-until-they-develop-diabetes” type of Bad.  Only one of those things will actually get you thrown in jail, but I think we can all agree that neither of those actions is “good.”  I’ll completely sidestep the obviously demented and psychologically unstable “drown-your-kids-in-the-bathtub” type, because to me that has gone far beyond “bad” mom to “clinically insane” mom.

So, knowing what our society generally accepts as the definition of a “bad mother” – why are so many GOOD mothers lining up to label themselves “bad?”  The answer has been attempted to be justified by some of the most popular mom bloggers out there today, but not one of them has convinced me of their case.  Here’s why:

Some years ago toward the peak of my rocker days, I had to deal with quite a bit of jealousy because of the unique opportunities I received.  Lesser people talked, as they do, and accused me of sleeping around to get the things I wanted.  Some of them just accused me of sleeping around for no reason.  It made them feel better about themselves to try and drag me down.  And while I was in no way a prude, or even a good girl, my life behind closed doors was nobody else’s business.

So one day I got sick of all the chatter, and I decided to take back the power!  Go Gina!  My band was headlining a big show, so I got a T-shirt made that said, in big bold letters simply, “Dirty Whore.”  I wore that shirt proudly and thought to myself “Oh yeah! You want to call me a dirty whore! Well, I beat you to it!”  I felt so witty and clever.  That’s the benefit of immaturity – it makes you think you’re so brilliant while everyone else is simply embarrassed for you.

Now I get to explain to my children why there’s a picture of their mommy on stage wearing a shirt reading “Dirty Whore.”  Not exactly one of my finer moments.  In my capricious youth I thought I was taking back the term.  Now, I realize I just sank down to their level.  Now, at 31, I realize that I gave others permission to define me and my style by derogatory terms, instead of breaking the mold and redefining what it meant to be a female artist.  How incredibly short-sighted of me.  I had a great opportunity to change attitudes, but instead I accepted defeat, accepted their label, and tried to convince myself it didn’t hurt.

And these Proud Bad Moms are no different.  They’re shirking the “mainstream” expectations of them by labeling themselves “bad” – as if “bad” is the new “good.”  Well, all I know is the real “bad” mothers are still “bad” and I wouldn’t want to be associated with that category of people no matter how hip and rebellious it seems.  What exactly is wrong with broadening the scope of what it means to be a GOOD mother?  Perhaps that’s a little more work, and wouldn’t garner as much attention and blog hits.  But Bad attracts Bad – and It won’t take too long before the truly Bad moms arrive on their blog’s doorstep telling “funny” stories of how they locked their kids in the trunk of their car because they were yellin’, and now The Good-Bad Moms end up in the precarious position of separating themselves from the Good bad and Actual bad.  And then who gets to decide what's "Acceptable Bad" and "Unacceptable Bad?" And even if everyone knew they were being “tongue-in-cheek” this is still nothing more than accepting the opinions of others rather than redefining what it means to be doing the Right Thing.

Let’s remove this from the Mommy Wars for a second and apply this to other unique groups.  Do you see educated, respectable African Americans proudly calling themselves racial slurs just because some other ignorant people do?  Hell No.  They will not sink to that level. They work to redefine what it means to be a strong black person in American Society instead of accepting defeat and assimilating into the ignorance.  Barack Obama has been called a “Terrorist” and “Communist” on a million occasions, and I don’t see him out at the press junkets saying “Yo, Yo, yeah, I’m a terrorist, what!  Terrorists are the new cool!”  Sounds ridiculous doesn’t it?  But couldn’t we argue that the word “terrorist” is just as ambiguous as “bad” and Barack has the right to redefine what it means to be a terrorist?  I know, I know. That’s just silly - about as silly as this whole "Bad Moms are really Good Moms" thing.

All I know is that Good is still Good, and no trend will undo that.  I align myself with the Good Mothers because that’s the example I want to set for my children.  Unfortunately, it’s a little too late for that “Dirty Whore” thing.  I can only hope that one day, when my kids come across that picture, it teaches them a lesson about immaturity and the long-term memory of the internet.  In the meantime, I'm trying to straighten up my act.

Things You Should Read Thursday: Vol. 4

Wow, I can’t believe I’m already on Week Four of “Things You Should Read.”  I hope everyone is enjoying it as much as I am!  I’ll have a much, much more personal post later tonight or tomorrow.  I’m still working out my feelings about that one.

First Up!

Lois Rogers: Mothers stay trim with drug to stop breast milk
This first article is so rage-inducing as a feminist and a mother that I can hardly stomach it.  It's an article about how some British women are taking a drug to stop lactation to "stay fit" because breastfeeding is such an ugly and useless thing, according to them.

“My breasts are for my husband,” said one 35-year-old French mother of twins who lives in Britain. “He wouldn’t like me feeding the babies and I don’t want to end up with a chest like a cow.”

Aaaaaaaaaaand, what do I always say again?  Right.  Women Are the Problem with Women.  I suppose my vagina is my husband's property too, so why not just let him do whatever he wants with it?  Perhaps I can make it removable so he can take it on business trips with him.  I mean, after all - it is HIS vagina.  We wouldn't want it sitting around getting bled on and peed on - not when I signed over papers to him on the day of our wedding.  "Here you go, Husband, here is the deed to my breasts and vagina.  I will refrain from using them without your sole, expressed permission..."

Ughgh.

Moving On!

Morgan Gallagher: The Case Against Reasoning
Another rebuttal to the Rosin article, but this one takes a bit different approach.  It's looooong, looooong, looooooooooong, BUT it's worth it just for the pictures alone. Oh, how we forget that doctors were advertising cigarettes just a short half-century ago.  This collection of adverts is both hilarious and horrifying.  I've only managed to read it in pieces, but it is highly intelligent and thought provoking.  I've heard Morgan called "The Quintessential Lactivist" by some Tweeters, so if you're a lactivist, get acquainted with her blog.

Happy Reading!

Cloth Diapering (a.k.a.) Making my Brain Bleed Again

Cloth diapering keeps coming up in my world.  A friend who lives half a world away from me just started making her own (and they're freaking adorable.)  Then a discussion came up on my Mommy group about them.  And the more they get brought up, the more I want to try to make the switch.  They are just too cute.  The problem is:

A. I cannot figure out how people afford the start up cost.  This is goddamn expensive compared to the $30 a month I spend on Luvs. John and I have already been in a fight today about me spending the money on them.  He just does NOT want to do it.  And if you know John, you know just how miserable he can make my life when I spend money on something he doesn't want to spend money on.  We don't have a wedding video or a SINGLE PICTURE from our wedding because of him.  Was that stupid on his part?  Well, he thinks so now... but there was no convincing him at the time.  Oh.. I could really go off about that... but moving on...

B. All the washing instructions I've seen make this look like a full time job... and I do not need ANOTHER full time job.  If this was so easy, then why does it take every single site I visit an entire long ass-page to explain how to wash a simple little diaper?  TOO HARD, I say!!!!

But I can't help the fact that I know it's better for the environment and all that jazz.  I also know it would probably save us money in the long run if we have some more kids (although I'm not convinced that the diapers would even last through a couple of kids because I keep hearing people talk about needing to replace theirs with the same baby, and eff that noise.)

I don't know... this just seems like one of those things I should be doing... just like all the other "granola" things I've come to find important.

The first time I heard of someone doing cloth diapering I laughed my head off... "Wow, now that is effing stupid!" I thought to myself.  But... I also had the same reaction to breastfeeding, natural childbirth, and making baby food --- all things I'm huge a believer in now.  Contrary to popular belief, my mind CAN be changed about things... as long as I'm presented with evidence.  I might be stubborn and passionate, but I'm not stupid.

This is somehow different though.  I keep trying and trying and trying to understand it... but I keep coming up empty handed.  As far as I can tell, getting started with Pocket Diapers (the only kind I can figure out AT ALL) would cost about $400 MINIMUM.  I mean... WTF?!??  Who has $400 sitting around?  I have some school money coming in soon, but if I spent $400 of it on that instead of paying off a year old Circuit City bill, not only would John have an aneurysm, but I'd also be paying 19% interest on that $400 too.  Spending $30 a month on Luvs seems FAR more affordable.

Here is what I need:  a button that says "Click here to buy the perfect cloth diaper that will work for your family and fit your baby all for a price your husband can swallow without losing his damn mind."

No button... no cloth diapering for me, I 'spose.

Ever have the feeling you're being Cyber-stalked?

Thanks to Typepad.com's dashboard features, I can see where my referrals come from, meaning how people found my blog.  Whether you clicked on my profile in Ivillage, or you did a Google search for me, I know about those things, and my "stats" are recorded and stored so I can analyze my traffic.

Now I can also see what city the referral came from, which leads me to believe that I'm being cyber-stalked by ex-friends.  You know, those friends you don't speak to anymore (probably for a good reason) but they insist on keeping tabs on your life.  I think "they" just like looking at pictures of my kids.  Or "they" like to listen to me bitch about pumping or periods because it gives them fodder for gossip with the other people I don't talk to anymore.  Maybe they're sad because they still don't have the babies they want.

Now, you may think I'm paranoid, but I have been cyber-stalked before.  One particularly nutty ex-friend admitted to me a couple years back that she used to hang around my family website (wayyyyy after we were no longer friends) to keep tabs on Jonas.  Well, I took that website down.

So... is this happening again?  The world is a weird, weird place.  This is why I always try to leave comments on the blogs I visit; so the writers don't feel like there are strangers lurking around their business for no reason.

But, it's the internet... whaddayagonnado?

Afraid I'll Never Have Sex Again...

Okay, I'm not actually afraid - I don't think I want to.  Ever.  Ever.  EVER again.  Somebody brought up birth control today and all I could think was "here's my birth control - there is no fucking way he's ever putting that thing in me again!!!"  I am totally traumatized.

I can't even bring myself to look or touch that area.  From what I can tell it feels like raw meat stitched together with piano strings.

John's seen it, and he says it looks exactly the same as it always did, and while that may be the case, I can't imagine it ever feeling the same.

I'm convinced that my cervix/uterus (along with most of my internal organs) are hanging right out of there.  I dunno... maybe I wouldn't feel this way if I hadn't torn wide open.  And for the record I TOTALLY blame the tearing on that retarded ass position they had me in.  While I was laying there, I kept trying to tell the staff that I did NOT want them holding my damn legs behind my head, but I couldn't catch my breath long enough to say anything.

Anyway.... I lost most of my whorish sex drive after Jonas came... I'm not even sure how we got knocked up the second time to be honest.  But this time it's worse.  I think I'd really be okay with never having sex again for as long as I live.  I'm just done with it.  We have two babies... no need to mate any more.  I'd probably be okay with John employing those services elsewhere, so long as he came home afterwards and helped me with his kids.

Hmmpphh.

I have absolutely no shame

Have you ever been standing outside your car in the seemingly deserted Jewel parking lot at 9:30 at night, with your hand shoved a good 5 feet up your ass crack, scratch-scratch-scratching away because the Jumbo-Normous maxi pad you've been forced to wear for the last 3 and a half weeks has given you something akin to an itchy diaper rash, when suddenly you realize there is an old man sitting in the parked car directly in front of you, watching you scratch your ass like a hillbilly with his jaw hitting his steering wheel?

Well, have you?  No?  Then perhaps you have an ounce more dignity than I now have. 

Take Everything With a Grain of Salt.

Here I begin my journey into posting my thoughts in the open market.  I've been blogging on Myspace for 3 years, but they have been private so no one but my priviledged friends can read them.  There they have been safely tucked away from the prying eyes of the public, future employers, and the Nobel Peace Prize committee.

The secrecy is over.  Perhaps.  If I can take the heat of releasing my (sometimes) disturbing thoughts into the public sphere.

I am retroactively posting all my Myspace Blogs to this page, so you'll start see posts dating back from 7/2/05.  Boy, how my life has changed in two short years.

Here we go.  Hang on tight.

Governmental Pregnancy Conspiracy

Today, after learning yet ANOTHER person I know is pregnant, I have decided that the number of pregnancies that have occurred in the last year is far from coincidence.

I have hardly ever known a pregnant woman in my life, let alone two pregnant women at once. Currently, I know at least 7 pregnant women, no, make that 9, not including the billion celebrities whose expanding bellies we have all bared witness to this year.

Babies are so in right now they are the New black. A burgeoning belly is a more fashionable accessory than a Coach handbag.

As far as I can tell, there is nothing happening in the world that would justify or cause a baby boom. Furthermore, I know that most of these pregnancies were unplanned.

This leads me to only one, fairly obvious conclusion.

---The government must be putting fertility drugs in the water.---

Or maybe they're teaming up with the Pepsi Corporation to lace our soda with fertility treatments. Either way, I'm sure they're behind it.

The only question is: Why? Well, if the government has somehow devised a way to cause not only spontaneous pregnancy, but also genetically-programmed political party affiliation, then G.W. Bush may just be forming the next generation Republican Army.

Dont fool yourself. These pregnancies are not a series of happenstance events. Count how many pregnant women you know right now, and you'll see that I'm right.

And to the new and soon-to-be Moms: While it may already be too late, try your very best to deprogram your child and teach them to rebel against any and all Republican thoughts or affiliation. Oh, and stop drinking Pepsi.

230 North Dearborn is spared my wrath......

That is one less government building that I need to blow up.

To my surprise and delight, this morning I got a phone call from a very nice man at the Lost & Stolen Passport Center who helped me with my passport situation. He told me that everyone else I'd spoken to had totally misinformed me, and he called the Chicago Passport Agency and told them about my situation so they could help me. So I went down there and less than two hours after receiving this man's call, I had my passport in hand! TWO FUCKING HOURS!!!! And the guy at the National Passport Agency told me there was nothing anybody on this earth could do to get me my passport. Actually, that guy was such a fucking idiot that he told me that they wouldn't be able to get my passport from WASHINTON to CHICAGO by the end of this week. THEY DON'T MAKE THE PASSPORTS IN WASHINGTON!!! They make them at the Chicago facility, so that shows you how totally fucking stupid this guy is. After I went to 230 Dearborn, it took them 30 minutes to make my passport. That's it!

All it took was one person who knew what they were talking about, and who actually has a sense of humanity, and now I'm going to Paris again. I feel like I should send him flowers or something.

Je vais a Paris!

Why I am going to start blowing up government buildings.

It appears that I will NOT be going to Paris this weekend, as we had planned for the last 5 months. I have not received my passport and according to the National Passport Agency dickhead, it doesn't look like I'm going to.

See, I had a passport and I lost it. So, when I applied for the new one I specifically asked the stupid fucking bitch at the Post Office if I needed to report it lost or anything like that. She flat out said "No", and John is my witness to this. Well, it turns out that she's a dumb fucking hooker because I DID need to report it and because I didn't they won't process my passport application. I FINALLY got ahold of the National Passport Agency dickhead who told me that I was basically shit-outta-luck because they wouldn't be able to do anything about it now. So I paid $160 in fees, not to mention the $2000 we spent on the Paris trip, and I will not be able to go, all because of some dumb fucking hooker that obviously can't do her job right, and because of some dickhead who doesn't give a shit about my trip and couldn't be bothered to help me.

John is at Kinko's right now Fed-Ex'ing my Lost or Stolen Passport form to Washinton D.C. just in the hope that they might be able to finish the application in two days. So not gonna happen.

Paris was supposed to be our pre-wedding honeymoon since we both have to work and go to school right after the wedding. I guess I knew all along I wasn't going. I could just feel it. And if I didn't think they would hang me by my toenails, I would march down to that post office and strangle the life out of that fucking hooker who totally misinformed me and fucked up all my plans. Then I'd go to Washington and drag that little dickhead out of his cubicle and strangle his ass too.

Wow, I'm pissed. I'm mad enough to spit nails, and it's not pretty.
________________________________________________________

Editor's Note: I finally realized why I keep calling the dumb bitch at the Post Office a "hooker". I went to her place of business and she fucked me. There you go.

Owe.

Cramps fucking suck.  THEY SUCK! 

I think I have PMDD (Premenstrual dysphoric disorder.)

I have tons of homework and midterms to study for, but all I wanna do is lay in the bottom of the shower and cry.  When they're this bad, I fantasize about cutting out my uterus.  After all, when the dentist pulls a tooth, the tooth doesn't hurt anymore.  The hole heels up relatively quickly, and it's like the tooth was never there.  Surely this will work the same for my stupid, aching, hemorrhaging uterus.

*sniff*  owwwe.