Since the world is burning down and many of us are going full on olden days in our bread baking and soap making, why not watch General Conference like in the days of yore? Huddled around our laptops, connecting with a global community of like minded sisters and siblings to cheer and rant and share recipes.
It is good to be together.
Recently Renee asked,
“What *is* a feminist? I love the differences in genders. I love that some responsibilities come more naturally to a woman and some to a man. I don’t want to be a man. I love being a woman.”
Some women, some men. I love being a women too, most feminists do. Who needs testicles anyway, silly ugly little things. Just kidding. Love your testicles, gentlemen. I just don’t want them.
“I find it ironic that people I’d deem as major feminists seem like they want to be men. It seems like some of those women devalue the intrisic (sp?) beauty and responsibilities we already have as women.”
I just wrote a really long post full of the most brilliant stories I have ever told.
More stories from my shameful past like this one.
Then I lost them. Sorry. I was laughing hard at myself, wondering if I should really share my stupidity to a bunch of strangers. But I love you strangers, and I know all of you are dying to hear about the time I put the fear of lice deep into the hearts of several hundred freshmen.
But I can’t retype them today. My humiliation will have to wait for another day.
I can hear my baby in the kitchen. Making happy baby noises. But the fact of the matter is, I think (okay I know) he’s playing with (my euphamism for eating) the dog food. He loves the dog food. I would be open to any creative solutions to keeping the baby out of the dog food.
And vice versa, come to think of it.
Not too long ago I heard a report on NPR about a serial killer who was put to death (in Oregon if IIRC). They played several chunks of testimony from family members of the victims, they were telling the murderer how he deserved to fry, how he had destroyed their families, how much they hated him. Bitter and angry and vindictive.
Then they played a snip of a very different testimony. She was queit and calm, and she had clearly forgiven him. Peaceful. She didn’t hate him, she said, she was sorry for him and she left his fate to Jesus.
I remember feeling the power of her peace, the power of believing in Jesus’ teachings and truly trying to live them. By letting go, she had healed.
I’m a big believer in the forgiveness thing. In fact it’s one of my favorite parts of being a Christian. Also really enjoy the whole judge-not bit. You never know what it’s like to be in those shoes. It’s good stuff. That Jesus guy was on to something.
However.
It has recently become clearer and clearer that one my daughter’s sweet innocent little four-year-old girl-friends is being molested by her father.
And that just makes me feel mean. You know what I’m talking about. Jail is too good for him. I want to shoot him. I want to chop off his testicles and fry them up and feed them to him with canned peas. I want to take an ad in the paper with his picture on it. I want to hire thugs to beat the crap out of him and pull his fingernails out one at a time. I want to call his work and spread nasty (but true) rumors. I want to dispense flyers in his neighborhood. I want to hurt and humiliate him.
I just feel mean.
The police have been called. And we’re waiting to hear what happens next. And it’s really out of my hands now. But is it? Would it be okay to humiliate him with a few well-placed phone calls? Or would Jesus disapprove? Am I hurting myself more than I’m hurting him by hating him so much? And do you know any thugs-for-hire?
What does it mean to forgive? Can I harbor this anger for a while before I’m required to do the Christ-like thing? Can I hurt him without hurting myself too?
I happen to know there are bunch of good (you may define that any way you please) mormon men who read this blog and have not commented about your own housekeeping habits.
Kim isn’t the only guilty man around, he’s just the only one with a wife to push him out of the closet. I expect more from you guys.
I have a hard time asking my husband questions like “When you say the kitchen is clean do you really not see the crumbs on the counter? Then chunks on the floor?” because he will generally take such a question as a criticism. And it is generally meant as such. I don’t like to be a nag. So I just wipe off the stupid counter myself. Is this the plan? I hate to think so. But the suspicion worries at me.
Comments please. What’s going on in there guys? Does your silence imply guilt? I wonder?
I don’t want to undervalue his contributions. He works all day, he comes home and he works all night. It’s a rare thing for him to take a moment for himself. He plays with the kids, he puts them to bed and reads them stories. He helps make dinner. But he also spends a lot of time stepping over things on his way through the house instead of picking them up and putting them away as he goes. Does he just not notice that he stepped over ten toys on the way to the girls room without picking up one of them? Does it not occur to him that he could reach his arm out and put the dirty girl clothes in the hamper instead of dumping them on the floor? Is it so hard to put the books back on the shelf instead of dumping them on the floor for me to pick up in the morning when I make the girl’s beds? I could spend an hour making this list: putting the toilet paper roll on the roller, putting his tools back in the garage instead of on the first handy surface nearby, putting my skissors back in it’s storage bin instead of in *front* of it, the cap on the toothpaste, his socks in the hamper instead of on it, the toilet seat down so I don’t fall in it at night, empty the garbage instead of letting cramming it in harder, and WORST of all, pushing the cutting board back in without wiping it off first. That’s just Nasty!
Like I said, I don’t say these things to him. They make him feel badly. I don’t want to do that. I make suggestions every once in a while and it rarely has an effect and it feels naggy.
Am I enabling him?
Now if you’re a man and you’re feeling all self-righteous right now thinking you’re neat and tidy and you don’t test your wife this way, hold back a second. Are you sure? Are you really as much help as you think or is your little women just following you around silently (the way I do) picking everything up before you even noticed it was there? I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt but before you post here about how tidy you are, please ask your dear wife for clearance. If she gives you a funny little look, or pauses in order to form a diplomatice response then your not as neat as you think you are.
I’m serious, you ask first. If you post here all about how clean you are and you haven’t run it by the little woman first I’m going to send fleas to inhabit your armpits and you will regret your hasty words. This is no idle threat. It’s bad mojo to mess with my search for the dirty truth.
And I’d also like to add that this really seems to be a post-children thing. Before kids I do not remember these issues. Maybe because the mess was easier to keep up with and it was either his or mine. Now it’s impossible to keep up with and it’s a collective thing. I don’t know, but the egaliatrian system we had working just fine for seven years before kids flew out the window with the first baby and has never been seen again. Which is interesting fodder for another post.
I’m better now, thank you very much.
My dear husband stayed home Thursday and Friday to take care of us. The two youngest and I were sick and my four-year-old and her dad took care of us. I lost five pounds.
Anyway to get to the blunt point of this post, when I got better, my house was a filthy pig sty. I mean bad news. Terrible. A sink full of dishes surrounded by a counter-top full of dishes, bits of food and ick covering every surface of the kitchen, counters, table, floor. A pile of laundry piled up taller than I am, and I’m tall. The bottom levels was two batches I did just before I was caught in the vortex of hurlation. Toys everywhere. Newspapers, Mail, dirty socks, wet washcloths.
And under it all the floor is still not finished. They guy didn’t order enough pergo. So we wait.
On one level I sympathize with my husband letting the house just fall apart. He had a house full of sick people. On the other hand, if it had been him home in bed with sick kids and me being the responsible party it wouldn’t have been this bad. Not even close.
Don’t get me wrong. I let things go sometimes. Things get messy around here on a regular basis. Sometimes there are dishes in the sink and laundry has been known to pile up on occation. But for the most part this is an orderly home, and clean. I am anti-chunks of food outside of designated containers. I hate cleaning but I hate living in filth even more.
I’m not sure what to think of this. On one hand, I probably wouldn’t be very successful at his job if I was suddenly dropped into it and expected to take over a moments notice. But on the other hand, a trained monkey could do my job. It doesn’t take a lot of brain power, just a butt-load of tedious repetition and a high tolerance for ick.
One one hand, he helped my babies vomit in the toilet and clean up the misses without complaint. He brought me water, when I said jump he asked how high, he bent over backwards so that I could lay in bed moaning in peace and quiet. On the other hand, when I woke up and felt better and walked into the kitchen every single surface was covered in ick. And I cleaned it.
My husband is (and I really believe this) the best man in the universe. I Love him dearly and he has the nobelest of intentions. He works hard, he means well, he is smart and kind and good. And he is the best father ever. My children worship his toe hairs. And he is a feminist, he believes in equality. He doesn’t for a minute think that there is such a thing as women’s work and that I should be doing it. And yet . . .
So what is this?
ralphing, hurling, blowing chunks, spewing, up chucking, puking, barfing, heaving, losing my lunch,
It was fun. Here’s to a better tomorrow!
Obligatory Post-Flood Update: Tile is in. Carpet is in. Pergo is on the horizon. I sure hope it is all in by the weekend when I will be celebrating anniversary number ten. And dear Hero, the mighty weiner dog, will have birthday number three.
After a short vacation the ick returns . ..
WARNING: TMI ZONE. GO AWAY WEAKLINGS. You were warned.
Confession time. I’m not particularly qualified to speak on the subject. You see I don’t really suffer from PMS much. It’s not that I’m not crabby when the time comes around, it’s just that it doesn’t come around often for me. First there’s the whole three kids is three years and nursing in between. It’s been a good four and a half years since I had a period at all. And (you’re going to hate me for this) even before that I only had periods a few times a year. Doctors would tell me it would be difficult to get pregnant as I obviously didn’t ovulate much. They were wrong.
But anyway here are some issues we could hash out:
First: It’s somewhat verboten to discuss PMS and/or menses at all. Good thing or Bad? I can’t see how it would be a moral issue to remain quiet on the subject, yet it does remain largely off-limits. I can’t see that some frank talk now and then will harm anyone. Am I wrong?
Second: Is the subject somehow different than other bodily functions we don’t discuss much, you know the ones, things that smell bad, things we pretend don’t happen, things we refer to using polite euphemisms. Is there anything about menses the makes it more important and/or more interesting in a discussion than say . . . flatulence?
Third: Is menses a purely earthy experience, or does it have larger implication about the nature of the eternal female body? There are references in the Bible, but none in the BOM or modern scriptures that I am aware. I have no idea on this one, and it may not matter. The question just occurred to me.
Fourth: It’s a little personal, visceral, physical, icky and all that. I don’t care if you discuss the ick here. Go ahead. If you can’t sludge through some of the ick on the internet, where can you? But then if you disagree with me on number one and you’re still reading this then you should go away now.
Fifth: The discussion of menses, especially the emotional PMS component, it seem to me, can be considered (often, maybe, sometimes) anti-feminist. To imply that women are ruled by our hormones makes my feminist antennae quiver. The whole menses-eats-their-brains-away thing was used as an excuse to oppress women since the dawn of time. And yet . . . feminists get PMS too. How do we balance the physical truth of hormonal rage (not that *I* ever experience such a thing) with the belief that this hormonal rage does not make us weak-minded or
Fifth: I once heard that men too have programmed hormonal emotional upheavals. Can’t remember where or when I heard this but I remember thinking it sounded valid at the time (isn’t that helpful). Men’s bodies have their own cycles, but they’re just less obvious because they are not accompanied by bloody discharge. Anyone see/hear/know any truth in that?
Sixth: How and under what circumstances is it okay for men to talk about PMS. I don’t think we modern women are nearly as sensitive talking about the physical issues as about the emotional ones. Maybe because the physical issues are often easily quantifiable and attributable and clearly out-of-our-control, pain, bloating, and blood, (nothing we can do about that) versus the vague short-tempered crankiness that we think we should be strong enough to resist. But often can’t.
I’m sure there are a million, billion, gazillion more issues on this topic but I’ve got to go to bed.
Raise new issues.
Hash out these ones.
Be short tempered and crabby.
Do whatever you want. I’m sure you all have brilliant things to say as usual.
When I come back, I should be in a fabulous mood because I will no longer be walking around on sub-flooring. Yipee!!
My social skills aren’t very finely tuned. Not a soul dared venture in, and suddenly I’m thinking I crossed the line. Ick. Well, I’ll be back on Monday, meanwhile, peace and joy and new floors!
I know, it’s not good to make blanket statements about an entire gender, half the human race and all that, but it’s just true sometimes.
I have a question.
I get really antsy and cranky when men talk about women’s issues. Check out this thread over at Times and Seasons, or pretty much any other one like it in that predominantly male watering hole. Do you feel it too? That vague feeling that something just isn’t right.
Why do I feel this way? What is it about a group of men (even with good intentions, even if I agree with them) talking about abortion or underwear practices or female priesthood or motherhood or childbirth or whatever that makes me feel kinda queasy and taut.
And another question, is there any opposing equivalent? Do women have discussions about male issues in this manner? And how do men feel about it when/if that happens?
Feminist Mormon Housewives 