TryckPony
07-11-2002, 05:26 PM
My philosophy on family tends to be similar to that of Roseanne on her sitcom. Thinking this I must be a failure.
I love my kids. Medium rare on a good day. All the other days I'd prefer them well-done after a few shots of tequila. I love my husband. When he's not around me all the time and in doses to fit my moods. I like my life. Now that I've eliminated all those things that drive me nuts. I quit worrying whether my whites were the whitest they could be. I no longer cry if my vacuum fails to pick up all the cat hair. I feed my family healthy if I am up to it and the rest the time they fend for themselves.
I finally have decided that my childrens popularity is their problem, not mine. If they want to be popular they will have to find another way besides me spending my last dime making it possible for them.
My sex life hasn't changed now that I've quit spending the last hour before bed trying to squeeze into that uncomfortable Victoria's Secret teddy thing, putting on long-lasting, no smudge, won't wipe off make up, and prancing around in spikes to attract my husbands attention. If he wants sex I could be wearing his underwear, it wouldn't matter. I now know what Victoria's secret was--she's gay. That can be the only answer.
I do not win the Martha Stewart home decorating contest either. My sheets and bedspread do not match, and last year the centerpiece for my thanksgiving dinner table was the turkey. The napkins were paper and the glasses came from a gas-station give-away. Mine was Donald Duck I think.
What it all boils down to is this. I got tired of all the media that was intended to make me feel guilty if I didn't conform to some ideal of what they think I should be as a mother, wife and homemaker. I used to believe all that crap. I wanted to wear a size 6 all my life, be the best cook in town, keep my house spotless and my kids perfect little models. Now what do I want? I want to see tv commercials that are geared to selling women the sleek, fast, sporty car. I want a car that can kick-ass on the street. I want my kids to grow up being individuals and as normally neurotic as was acceptable when I was growing up. I want mechanics tools with MY initials etched on them. I want to relate to my husband on more levels than how did your day go and ain't it a bitch that the price of milk went up. I have learned that I can root for my favorite football team even if it isn't his, and even if only because I think their asses look better in their uniforms. I figured out that he went to school and can read. Therefore cooking instructions are not beyond his comprehension. Same with household appliances.
If I get a Victoria's Secret Catalog in the mail, I pass it on to him. Let him look at the pictures. I know when I look good. I damn sure don't need some dumb catalog telling me I need to wear something that is gonna come off in the end to validate me. I don't have to be June Cleaver and some days I am allowed to draw my kids a map to the nearest freeway for them to go play on. Dr Spock can kiss my ass. The day he comes to take care of my kids he can use corners for time-outs. For me closets work just as good.
In the meantime, I donated to a hit put out on Marth Stewart..
I love my kids. Medium rare on a good day. All the other days I'd prefer them well-done after a few shots of tequila. I love my husband. When he's not around me all the time and in doses to fit my moods. I like my life. Now that I've eliminated all those things that drive me nuts. I quit worrying whether my whites were the whitest they could be. I no longer cry if my vacuum fails to pick up all the cat hair. I feed my family healthy if I am up to it and the rest the time they fend for themselves.
I finally have decided that my childrens popularity is their problem, not mine. If they want to be popular they will have to find another way besides me spending my last dime making it possible for them.
My sex life hasn't changed now that I've quit spending the last hour before bed trying to squeeze into that uncomfortable Victoria's Secret teddy thing, putting on long-lasting, no smudge, won't wipe off make up, and prancing around in spikes to attract my husbands attention. If he wants sex I could be wearing his underwear, it wouldn't matter. I now know what Victoria's secret was--she's gay. That can be the only answer.
I do not win the Martha Stewart home decorating contest either. My sheets and bedspread do not match, and last year the centerpiece for my thanksgiving dinner table was the turkey. The napkins were paper and the glasses came from a gas-station give-away. Mine was Donald Duck I think.
What it all boils down to is this. I got tired of all the media that was intended to make me feel guilty if I didn't conform to some ideal of what they think I should be as a mother, wife and homemaker. I used to believe all that crap. I wanted to wear a size 6 all my life, be the best cook in town, keep my house spotless and my kids perfect little models. Now what do I want? I want to see tv commercials that are geared to selling women the sleek, fast, sporty car. I want a car that can kick-ass on the street. I want my kids to grow up being individuals and as normally neurotic as was acceptable when I was growing up. I want mechanics tools with MY initials etched on them. I want to relate to my husband on more levels than how did your day go and ain't it a bitch that the price of milk went up. I have learned that I can root for my favorite football team even if it isn't his, and even if only because I think their asses look better in their uniforms. I figured out that he went to school and can read. Therefore cooking instructions are not beyond his comprehension. Same with household appliances.
If I get a Victoria's Secret Catalog in the mail, I pass it on to him. Let him look at the pictures. I know when I look good. I damn sure don't need some dumb catalog telling me I need to wear something that is gonna come off in the end to validate me. I don't have to be June Cleaver and some days I am allowed to draw my kids a map to the nearest freeway for them to go play on. Dr Spock can kiss my ass. The day he comes to take care of my kids he can use corners for time-outs. For me closets work just as good.
In the meantime, I donated to a hit put out on Marth Stewart..