Before I dig into this post, can I hear from Audre Lorde again, please?  I know it’s a meme we’ve all seen a few different times, including this post from October, but it’s just too good not to repeat.

Thank you, Audre, wherever you are.

So it’s the holidaze again, and in anticipation, my clever editors at the Minnesota Women’s Press organized the November issue around the theme of SURVIVAL.  For those who feel sorry for themselves that they have to grit their teeth through a meal with relatives who, like Karl Rove, still don’t quite believe that Mitt Romney lost the election, there is a great article about a woman born in a federal women’s prison who is now an advocate for prison reform.  That is some serious surviving.

The cover of the issue is also brilliant, featuring a photograph by Nicole Houff of a glamorous but dead-eyed vintage Barbie in her candy-colored kitchen, holding aloft a beautifully trussed turkey:

Despite great gains for women outside the home, what happens inside the home is another story.  I bet that the record twenty women in the United States Senate are still expected to get a damned turkey on the family table next Thursday.  Whether they cook it themselves or grab it from the deli at Whole Foods, it’s still considered a lady’s business to get that shit taken care of.

In case you’re curious: NO, I am not hosting T-day this year. Let’s leave it at that and move on.

My contribution to the November ish is a column called “My Feminist Survival Kit.”  I bare my soul in this one, folks–that is, if there’s one reader out there who would be surprised by the fact that I prefer Sharon Needles and Snooki to Don Draper and Walter White.

While I declare in the column that “burnout is painful but entirely preventable if we have the courage to make our frustrations known,” I regret that I am still more likely to cook you a fabulous turkey feast than tell you what’s really whirling around in my addled mind.  I remain my own harshest critic, unable to extend to myself the compassionate understanding I so willingly offer others.

But it was ever thus, especially when we approach mid-November.  Here in Minnesota, where the sun dips beyond the horizon at 4:30 in the afternoon, everyone is feeling dark.  One e-mail I opened last week revealed that a woman was leaving her husband, perhaps permanently.  Blogs I follow overflow with spilled secrets, deeply felt pain, suicidal ideation.

Allow myself to quote….myself: “as my Internet speed improves, the cacophony amplifies and multiplies, until it threatens to drown everything else in my head. I’m learning that I can write an angry blog post about Todd Akin tomorrow. Today, however, I can turn the computer off.”

Why, I think I’ll do that.

I’m number two!

I mean that figuratively, for the weeks of the Circle of Moms Top 25 Political Mom Blogs contest coincided with what is always the crappiest (ha) time of year: the dead zone between the last days of school and the first days of afternoon camp.

My children, who thrive on predictability almost as much as I do, go batshit crazy for ten days every June. For an avowed pessimist, it’s odd that I’m never prepared for this. As school winds down early in the month, I find myself irrationally anticipating sleeping in late, heading out to Lake Harriet for a swim, and doing all the “fun” things that we’re not able to do because we have a school schedule keeping us on the straight and narrow. On May 31, I should be calling the pharmacy to bump up all of our meds, but I don’t until it’s past Father’s Day and the damage has been done, to our psyches and bedroom walls alike.

Indeed, the whole mess has taken a large toll on my (admittedly lame) career as a Political Mom, as I found myself utterly unable to juggle personal and professional responsibilities. Not only do I feel like a steaming pile of number two, I have the stamina of an actual two-year-old. Several months ago, I reflected on how my shy temperament complicates my life, in a piece called “The Trials of an Introverted Activist” that is finally seeing print in the current issue of the Minnesota Women’s Press. Sadly, the piece did little to exorcise the anxious, Piglet-like aspects of my personality; I remain a Very Small Animal, unconvinced of my ability to remain steadfast against the two Heffalumps screaming “I HATE YOU!” to me and to each other all day long. I just hope they care enough to publish The Radical Housewife after I’m dead, for that looks to be my smartest publishing strategy right now.

But things are looking up. I fell in love with Jersey Shore. Camp started rough (it’s never good to be phoned on the first day), but it did start. And did I mention that for a moment, I was a real number two?

Let’s back up a bit, to Monday, June 13, when the Circle of Moms contest officially closed, with the conservative Political Mommentator in first, followed by Veronica Arreola’s Viva La Feminista, Gina Crosley-Corcoran’s The Feminist Breeder, and yours truly, The Radical Housewife. It was suggested that it was really too bad that the Mommentator’s legions voted out of their concern, expressed by the Tator’s husband, that the “feminazi” Crosley-Corcoran might win instead.

Yeah, he went there.

Women on the right, I beg you: please do not tolerate the use of this slur. Ever. Do not allow the men in your lives to defend you by calling other women “bitches.” DON’T DO IT. Disagree with us about politics all you want. Call us loony, call us dumb, call us late for dinner if you want, but don’t put up with sexist stereotypes. They’re bad karma in addition to bad form. Circle of Moms agreed and disqualified Mommentator from the contest.

Then, inexplicably, Crosley-Corcoran posted on the TFB Facebook page that she was dropped from the contest herself, for somehow not being “political” enough. I don’t think they read her older posts, about raising her kids gender-neutral or her take on feminism and pornography, instead focusing on her recent posts about attachment parenting her VBAC newborn Jolene. What’s not political about that? In my confusion, I realized that with TFB out I was literally NUMBER TWO. Whoa.

But I don’t want to be, either literally or figuratively. All cliches aside, I am honored just being in the company of some of my favorite online writers, including the two mentioned above, as well as Joanne Bamberger, Katie Allison Granju, Gloria Feldt, the collectives behind MOMocrats and Moms Rising, and many others whose writing I would not have discovered without this peculiar competition. Feminist mom writers are one hell of a group. I’m very happy to be in their company, and I’m grateful to all of my readers who buzzed over to the CoM site for the votes. Feminists are one hell of a group.

A group that includes Crosley-Corcoran, of course! In good news, it turned out that she wasn’t dropped from the contest after all. In bad news, it’s because she has a psycho stalker. * Isn’t that just the way with moms? A little good, a lot of bad, all in the service of the toughest job you’ll ever love and sometimes really hate.

*though I would like concrete proof that the stalker isn’t a RWNJ. I’m conspiracy-minded like that.

Don’t fret that I’ve been recycling old posts. I may have gone around the bend and back, but rogue? Not yet. I’m working my feminist tail off on a number of wonderful projects, all of which are distracting me from preparing for my son’s poorly-timed tonsillectomy on MLK Day. First up? NETROOTS!

This Saturday, while The Radical Hubby strips the Richfield SuperTarget of its ice cream and pudding, I will be moderating a panel at Netroots Minnesota. The theme? “Feminist Activism in a Gone-Rogue Age,” a concept pitched long before that shooty-killy thing in Arizona (how’s that workin’ out for ya?). The panel description, lifted directly from Netroots Minnesota’s sessions page:

Feminist Activism In A Gone-Rogue Age

2:10-3:00 PM

Sarah Palin once tweeted that feminism was “hijacked by a cackle of rads” who dared question her commitment to women’s rights. Palin has successfully exploited rifts in the feminist movement to her and her party’s advantage. Feminists appear fragmented in their response, rather than a united force for broad-based (pun intended) social change. This panel will lead a brainstorming session on how Minnesota feminists can unify their messages in an increasingly hostile political landscape. Groups such as the Minnesota Family Council. Minnesota Majority, and even the Minnesota Chamber of Commerce are itching to roll back the hard-fought civil rights gains of the last twenty years. It’s going to take some strong and sustained cackling to stop them.

PANELISTS: Shannon Drury, Farheen Hakeem, Ami Wazlawik, Solome Tibebu

I’m very excited to discuss how feminism is a vital part of the larger movement against oppression in all its forms, as well as how the progressive movement still has to work to combat sexism within its own ranks.

WHAT, you say? Progressives can be sexist?! Hell, even some women are sexist. Cackle, cackle, cackle.

Who is this proud Minnesota political nerd? Why, your Radical Housewife, of course!

…I got it. Bad.

Once I get over the flop sweat and panic attacks, I will be posting more frequently.

Until then, I am listening to Al Green and drinking valerian tea (when I’m not drinking something stronger).

Hello again! Did you miss me?

Whats follows is a post from my ancient MySpace blog, published on Friday, April 3, 2009. I thought it might be appropriate to revisit, as my thoughtful essay for Literary Mama that grew out of it is due to be published any day now.

Just like mom & daddy did.

Even before I scored Sylvia Plath on the “What crazy bitch are you?” Facebook quiz, the recent suicide of her son has been on my mind. The good ladies of Jezebel.com used the occasion of Nicholas Hughes’ death to open a discussion on whether those with mental illness feel it’s appropriate to have children, given the likelihood of the disease being passed on. The commenters fell out predictably.

PRO-KIDS: good lord, no one knows what combination of DNA you’ll pass on. Don’t be so hard on yourselves. Parenting is a big fat crapshoot. So breed if you wanna, and don’t worry about it!

ANTI-KIDS: good lord, I am miserable enough without taking on this load of guilt. No way would I hang this noose around my own child’s neck. This dies with me.

It should be noted that Nicholas Hughes left behind no partner and no children. Sylvia, on the other hand, had been suicidal since her college years and still had two kids. Why?

A few days ago I dug out Paul Westerberg’s second solo album, Eventually, and thought about this some more as the song “MamaDaddyDid” came up. From the lyrics:

Decided not to have any part of
Wonderful lie of (life) love

Decided not to raise some goddamned kid

Just like ma-ma-mama daddy did

Yes that was their way no it ain’t mine

Guess they did ok at least they tried

This record came out in 1996. Paul and his wife had a son named Johnny two years later. His lifelong struggles with alcoholism and depression are well-documented.

Former Playmate and current Jim Carrey date-mate Jenny McCarthy is out with a new book about what causes autism and how it can be “healed.” (I find many of her opinions to be utter bullshit, and I believe that having a son on the spectrum gives me some authority on the matter.) This book tour, however, she’s trotting out a doctor who says there’s link between mental illness in the family and an increased risk for autism. Hmmmmmmmm.

Liz’s birthday is coming up in a few days, so she has been in my thoughts more than usual. Before she died, she fretted that her daughters would have to start getting colonoscopies in their twenties and would forever live with the fear of inheriting what killed her. I never asked if she regretted having them. I think I could guess her answer.

I suppose I picked a side when I had a biological child nine years ago, but the decision was not an educated one. Would I have listened to a reasoned argument on the matter, though? Did someone try to talk some sense into Sylvia Plath? She seems like a pretty clear-cut argument for not procreating. But who am I to judge what makes a life worth living? Sylvia’s daughter seems to be doing okay. Nicholas Hughes seemed okay too, until he quit his professorship to become a potter, then hanged himself.

Parenthood is so terrifying.

As it happens, I lost that writing contest I complained about yesterday to this guy:

…. is a Jewish survivor of Hitler’s Germany who has recently been writing about the Holocaust experience and coming to America…..

To misquote Charlotte York, “I have no hope of winning against someone who brought up….the Holocaust.” I wrote about average, everyday death, y’know, from boring old cancer–not genocide, for cryin’ out loud. Jeez.

I feel a little better.

I’m going to print this on every social network available to me (and there are many):
I’M NOT A “YUMMY MUMMY”–I’M A MOM WHO’S THE BOMB!

“The Stories Bodies Tell,” Minnesota Women’s Press, June 2009

Note to People magazine, regarding female celebrity weight loss stories:

Give.
It.
A.
Fucking.
Rest.

No more bikinis and shame, please. I’d rather you give the cover to the philandering anti-Semite or the Reverse Mullet. Didn’t the Jonas Brothers do something this week? Did Tori Spelling not leave her house? Is Adam Lambert holding out for more money?

Just stop it. Stop it now.