Dear Hall boys,

So it appears your mother is a special breed of genius who believes the key to raising sons of high moral fiber is to eliminate all “immoral” or “impure” images from their presence (as opposed to just teach them to be of high moral fiber). If successful, your mom will (apparently) eliminate all pornography, nudity and sex in every form of media including but not limited to internet, art, print and film. She will also make sure no scantily clad women ever near her sons, which could get a little complicated given the whole general population and freedom problem. When you all grow up and leave the house, she’s going to, um, well. Not sure. Maybe poke your eyes out and fill your ears with impenetrable wax?

Perhaps this sounds a little far-fetched to you. Perhaps this sounds a little fucking batshit crazy. Well yes, it is. Your mother’s conclusion that the key to raising “boys of integrity” is to eliminate images that fall out of line with “integrity” is insane, precisely because it places PERSONAL DECISIONMAKING on the shoulders of an outside party, of external circumstances, of beings beyond your control.

In other words, it places the responsibility of YOUR morality on the shoulders of others, and that is wholeheartedly idiotic. I mean, how could anybody ever be a decent person if circumstances beyond our control determined what we think and how we behave? It also, incidentally, fuels what we like to call “rape culture,” wherein the girl is raped by the boy because she was a “slut” and therefore “asking for it.” The boy was the real victim because he was rendered powerless by her unprotected vagina and lack of bra. Your mother’s idea that GIRLS need to cover themselves so YOU can behave like a gentleman is the exact same mentality that fuels rape culture, and results in things like Steubenville or 30-day sentences for pedophile rapists.

So your mom wants you to have a “high moral compass.” That’s so great. I want that for my son too. She does not want you to “linger over pictures of scantily clad high-school girls.” She wants you to be a “man of integrity.”

And in your mom’s opinion, the path to this moral compass and integrity is shaming girls who choose to behave in ways that violate her own interpretation of “morality.”

Well, boys, I have some really good news for you: Your moral compass is not dependent upon the behaviors of others. That’s what makes it MORALITY. It’s YOUR morality. It’s within you.

You could just make the decision to NOT “linger over pictures of scantily clad high-school girls.” EVEN IF THE PHOTOS EXIST.

You totally have the power to do that.

I know. Crazy talk.

Dude, you could be surrounded by 17,000 girls in bikinis and you could like, not rape them. You could not disrespect them. You could not even visualize impure things. You could just say to yourself “Wow, there’s 17,000 girls in bikinis around me. GO ME.”

And no worries, boys, if you lie there at night visualizing your female friends naked. Your mom seems really worried about it, but I’m 100% sure 90% of teenaged boys do that. The other 10% are visualizing their male friends.

And newsflash: The teenaged girls? They’re doing it too. Dude. Teenage girls often masturbate and flirt and do all the things you do (including imagining sex with people), and some of them will even want to have SEX with you, but check it out: You don’t have to do a thing. Their feminine ways, though strong and gorgeous and compelling, have no power over you.

Also, you know those pictures your mom put up of all you boys without shirts looking all handsome? Yeah, there’s a good chance girls might see those and have some “impure thoughts” (also known as “budding sexuality”) but apparently that’s okay with your mom because BOYS are not responsible for the thoughts of GIRLS. Girls are responsible for their own thoughts, or they’re assumed to be asexual themselves or only interested in posing with “arched backs” and “pouty faces” to attract you, the innocent boy. Clearly there’s no way a girl would see YOUR photos, “scantily-clad” indeed, and “linger” over that image for a while.

Look, Hall boys, don’t let your mom convince you you’re a victim of your penis. Don’t let her degrade and diminish you like she’s done to the girls on your newsfeed.

Don’t grow up thinking you’re rendered powerless at the sight of a “slut” or pouty face selfies or braless females or arched backs. In the words of your mom, “you are growing into a real beauty, inside and out,” and no matter how many pouty face selfies exist on your newsfeed, you can grow into the man you want to become, with a high moral compass and integrity, whatever that looks like for you.

And I really fucking hope you do, because I have kids who may be the passed-out ones at a party someday, growing up in this world too, taking in the sick-ass backward culture perpetuated by people like your mother.

Oh, and girls on the newsfeed making pouty faces in pajamas with arched backs and sultry eyes, knock that shit off, but not because boys will never be able to burn your image out of their minds, but rather because you look like a fucking douchebag.

And boys on beaches without shirts showing off muscles in a giant man pile, knock that shit off, but not because girls may be imagining you naked for the next year, but rather because you look like a fucking douchebag.

How about we all just use our brains and stop blaming other people for our inner selves, and please, for the love of God, let’s all stop making duck face.

Hang in there, Hall boys. There’s always one crazy in the family, and I think we all know who it is in yours.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Hanchett

Let’s get one thing straight, America: Miley Cyrus is not the problem.

I don’t care how often she “twerks” or humps teddy bears or foam hands. The problem is not that she’s a fucking moron acting like a douchebag on a stage. The problem is that YOU are surprised by it, offended by it, appalled by it and/or overcome with sympathy for her (which is the weirdest one by far, in my opinion).

Check it out, people bent outta shape that “Hannah Montana,” your “daughter’s role model” is grinding the groin of some giant stuffed bear and a dude who lyrically advocates rape (also, funny nobody’s tweaked out about him, don’t ya think?)  – the only dumbass in this scenario is you.  If you are still relying on American media – the ones who created Honey fucking Boo Boo and Jersey Shore – if you are still looking to them for role models for your children, I’m sorry but you’re a fucking idiot and should just stop talking.

If you are not teaching your kids that American media is designed for one purpose and one purpose only – to sell things to the perpetually moronic – then shut the hell up about Miley Cyrus, because you obviously don’t get it.

She wanted publicity. She got publicity. Her act was wildly successful. We’re all talking about it, aren’t we?

Boom. Her job’s done.

She is not responsible for acting in some way that encourages your daughter to use her brain or not rub her nose in the asses of stuffed bears. You, my friend, are responsible for that. If you’ve raised a kid so backward he or she can’t watch the vapidity of that performance and say to himself or herself “What the hell is wrong with people” (okay maybe in slightly different words), then you have some work to do.

Why don’t you teach your kid some critical thinking skills rather than whine about a stranger on a stage?

In case you haven’t noticed, the days when American mainstream media gave a shit about quality, message or substance have disappeared like Miley’s teddy bear onesie (if they ever existed). You want your kid to watch art? Goodness? Stuff with actual substance?

Watch some Leave it to Beaver or Lassie or fucking Ang Lee films or Sundance indie comedies or better yet take them to a freaking museum. Watch old movies. Go outside. Do something.

Listen to Frank Sinatra or the Sex Pistols. Go hear some live music. Analyze some graffiti. Do whatever the hell you want but please, for the love of all that’s holy, stop looking to American media as a guiding light for your child and then acting all surprised when somebody masturbates with a foam finger.

And all you people attacking her, a 20-year-old barely woman, for acting like a slut/whore/whatever you call her, put this in your pipe and smoke it: She can act as slutty as she damn well pleases. She’s an adult.

You know you did the same when you were 20, only she’s making a crapload of money from it whereas you only made an ass of yourself at frat parties and walked home in shame.

I jest. Sort of.

But really, why the hell is she held up to some STANDARD? Whose standards are we talking about? YOURS?

No.

She’s a pop entertainer. She has a whole TEAM behind her telling her what to do and how to do it. The pop entertainment world constitutes the standards against which she is held, and I think we can all agree those standards are LOW.

Her job is to make money. Her job is to pull attention to herself. Do you think this ruined her career? COME ON. With American amnesia and obsession with trash, this merely piques our interest. The question is now: What’s she gonna do next?

My goodness, honey, what’s that crazy girl up to NOW? Let’s turn on the television and buy People magazine to find out!

And why the hell are people feeling sorry for her? My God if I hear it one more time I’m going to break something: “One more casualty. One more poor girl destroyed by American media.”

Really?

She’s a VICTIM you moron? No. She is not a victim. She is a 20-year-old making more money than you will ever see. She is a 20-year-old privileged asshat playing a game working so beautifully the only chumps are US.

The joke’s on us people.

She gets on stage and bolts around like a tweaked out sex-addict squirrel with a broken tongue and weird hair and all of America responds on cue: The scandal! The shame! The poor Hannah Montana! Center of the national spotlight! Fuck Syria! Fuck Egypt! Miley will ruin all the people!

I just feel so sorry for this young woman who is making millions playing American idiots like a fucking fiddle.

No, no I don’t. I do not feel sorry for her at all.

Do I respect her? No. Do I give a flying rat’s ass what she does? No.

Why?

Because she has no bearing on my life or my kids’ lives and if she does, I have only myself to blame.

If my daughter feels all “let down” by Miley Cyrus, I need to have a serious sit-down with her, explaining first of all: “Honey, thou shalt not revere Disney (Nickelodeon?) pop stars or anybody created to sell shit to tweens.”

Actually, don’t revere anybody famous merely because they’re famous. Watch their art. Is it art? Is it saying something? Or is it insipid contrived drivel? Figure it out, kid.

Is it Hannah fucking Montana or is it Ed Norton? Which one of them played Tyler Durden’s alter ego? Which one of them flipped her hair a lot on television? So…which is worthy of your admiration? Which one is created to sell lunchboxes?

That’s the kind of judgment my kid needs.

I want my kids to EXPECT this Cyrus crap, not stand in awe and disbelief of it. We should be thanking her for being so damn upfront about it, for just saying it outright: I AM A SHALLOW, TASTELESS POP ENTERTAINER. If you have a brain, you will ignore me.

Stop whining, America.

Grow up. When Miley does, she’ll be laughing her ass off at all of us, if she isn’t already, for caring so much about a game she’s played, and played brilliantly, tongue hanging out and all, almost as if she was mocking us all along.

A friend of mine is expecting a baby any day. Thinking about her, about the last couple weeks of pregnancy, the days passing like the melting of arctic sheets (before climate change), each contraction offering hope (“could this be it?”) only to find yourself still pregnant 24 hours later, wondering the same damn thing, feeling like a turtle on its back – so damn powerless – sure you’re the first woman in history who will actually stay pregnant forever.

And all the assholes keep texting: “Have you had that baby yet? My goodness you must be READY TO BURST!”

I’ll kill you in your sleep if you call again, bitch.

So of course I sent her a text about how much the last days of pregnancy suck ass, and she agreed, but also responded with a text that surprised me. Apparently mothers were sending her messages about how hard breastfeeding is.

What the hell?

Why would you tell a woman about to give birth how “hard” breastfeeding is? Particularly if it were something she wanted to do?

Why do mothers feel compelled to “tell their stories” as if it’s universal fact anyway?

For every breastfeeding horror story, there is a beautiful one. Take mine, for example: my mom was a La Leche League educator. She showed me how to nurse my baby. Of course I did it wrong for a while, and my nipples felt like my own personal burning milk volcanoes for a couple weeks, but we pulled through and it was all good and the baby nursed til she was two. Is that beautiful? I don’t know. But I’m sure it wasn’t “hard.” Or maybe it was a little hard, but it wasn’t deal-breaker hard. And then with my other two kids, nursing was the easiest thing on the planet. I love nursing babies. I miss it sometimes.

But here’s the kicker:  that is just my experience with breastfeeding. I don’t know about your experience with breastfeeding. How the hell would I know? Maybe it will totally suck for you, or it won’t work, or you’ll hate it.

I’m not you. You’re you.

I’ve had experience being a wife but I have very little insight on your marriage.

I lived Texas for a while, but I have no idea how your trip to Austin’s gonna pan out.

I’ve lost a shitload of weight doing certain things, but I don’t know what you and your body need.

Um, DUH, right?

Yeah, it seems like “duh,” until you enter the presence of that special person who has just got to share her horror birthing story EVERY DAMN TIME SOMEBODY’S PREGNANT, or mentions birth, or thinks about mentioning birth, or thinks about getting pregnant, or knows somebody who once thought about getting pregnant.

“Oh my God, birth was the most traumatic experience of my life!!!  I was in labor for 9 days. No really. NINE DAYS. I didn’t eat food or drink water that entire time so when I went into the hospital they all thought I was going to die because I was so X, Y, and Z, and then they gave me Pitocin and I was in SO MUCH PAIN but they accidentally put the epidural in my calf instead of my back so I got NO relief. Finally I was at 10 and the doctor was like “PUSH! PUSH!” but there were nineteen interns in the room and I was trying to push but I couldn’t feel anything on account of the leg epidural, so I pushed for 5 hours until the doctor said “this baby is just too big to birth and the heart rate is declining,” so they rushed me in for an emergency ceseran and I passed out during it due to exhaustion so I didn’t even see my baby for 48 hours, which caused me PTSD and night terrors. And now I also have hemorrhoids the size of golf balls and the veins in my eyes are permanently popped and my calf is numb and half a hospital staff has seen my vagina. Basically I had rather stab spend the rest of my life stabbing myself in the eyes with bamboo shoots than give birth again. But good luck with yours!”

Oh COME ON. You know I’m barely exaggerating.

Seriously, what’s wrong with these people? How do we become so self-righteous as mothers that we think we KNOW The Way it Is, failing to recognize that all we know is our own tiny slice of life – a miniscule speck, a nothing. How have we become so self-centered that we believe it necessary to spew our horror stories across America, into the laps of hopeful, brave, capable women trying to carve out their own path in this crazy motherhood gig?

Is it empowering? No, it isn’t fucking empowering.

Does it help anybody in the world? Hell no. (Unless you count the storyteller’s ego.)

And I don’t know if you’ve noticed that these storytellers generally have one kid, maybe two – but probably one. Why do I think that?

Because after you’ve had more than one, you know that EACH BIRTH IS DIFFERENT and each nursing experience is different, and nobody can tell you what to do to birth your own baby.

And most importantly, you realize you don’t know shit.

Not that you won’t tell your birth story. That’s an actual god-given right and addiction and obsession of every mother. It must be done. Can’t be helped. But it can be done in a way that’s like “well, this is my experience,” rather than “This is the experience you will have and therefore this is what you should do.”

[Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I pretty much always tell my good friend Cara Lyn the gory details of all my birth stories, because it’s just so fun to watch her squirm. Plus, she isn’t pregnant. YET.]

But basically, the people who offer unsolicited apocalyptic stories need to remove their heads from their asses and get over themselves. (in my humble opinion – HA!)

Let a woman create her own damn horror story. Or, better yet, not.

Because check it out, psycho-horror-birth-story moms: For every dreadful traumatic birth story, there is a Rocket-birth story…
where you labor 6 hours at home with contractions timed perfectly apart, where you fall asleep (literally) between contractions, and you sway and rock and get in the shower, and you’re riding the waves of a gorgeous blue ocean, so whole and contained in some primal Eden, until your husband says “we have to go,” and you get in the car and drive to a birthing center, where the nurses think you can’t possibly be in hard labor – because you’re so just too CALM  – but they check you cause your mom insists (you could care less) and you’re at 8. You have 2 more huge contractions and forty-five minutes after arriving you get in the birthing tub and push three times, birthing an exquisite 8.5 pound baby boy.

The midwife says “Turn around, pick up your son.” (because you gave birth on your hands and knees)

So you turn and see him there with wide open eyes and outstretched arms, pushing the water like the fins of a little fish, until you scoop him up and pull him to the surface – to you to life and to earth – watch his eyes blink and lock on yours, his petal mouth draw its first deep breath while his body floods pink and your heart explodes then, for him.

And there isn’t a sound in the room.

There isn’t a single ripple in the entire universe to disrupt the waters of this one moment.

A midwife whispers “how do you feel?”

And you answer with a smile from your belly, “elated.”

OR, you can have a birth like Georgia’s, where you flail around the house screaming like a fucking hyena, wishing you’d die, until you finally, after 2.5 hours of pushing, birth a nearly 10-pound baby in a funky position (in a horse trough in your living room, FYI).

Both of these stories are “truth.”

But the thing is they’re just my truth: small and unique and mine.

You know what I think we should be telling women who are about to become mothers?

Welcome.

Just that.

Welcome.

Welcome to the path that’s never been tread before, leading to a place nobody’s visited, a spot carved out for you and your baby, where the two of you fit, just right – like a motherfucking glove.

[So don’t stress when they scowl at you, muttering “Damn, that looks uncomfortable.”

You got this.

So just keep on keepin’ on, new mama, we’re right here with you, walking our own dusty roads, hoping you’ll steady us as we steady you.

And welcome, welcome to motherhood.

Come on in.

The water’s fine.

Hemingway used to say he had a bullshit detector.

You know what I have? A bitch-mom detector.

No, I’m serious. Within 30 seconds I can tell if I’m next to one.

All she has to do is start talking.

Boom. MAYDAY MAYDAY!! RUN! NOW!

It happened recently at that harvest festival. Georgia, practicing her social butterfly act [and sadly lacking the bitch-mom detector I have so carefully honed] makes a beeline to the offspring of a woman who…well…let’s just say we probably wouldn’t evolve into BFFs.

So Georgie cruises up to this toddler and I notice she’s in one of those $700. hovering Euro spacecraft things. Whatever. That’s not a deal-breaker. I know some amazingly rad rich people. At least I think I do.

At any rate, ya can’t judge looks and money.

There are way better things to judge. We’ll get to that.

Admittedly, however, my Detector started quietly beeping when I observed that this woman was at a harvest festival at a FARM, in the DIRT, looking more put together than I do on my “fancy” days. Full make-up, perfect body, immaculate jeans with a perfectly ironed top, some token “country” item like unused, $400 leather boots… sipping a glass of chardonnay.

Her baby was equally immaculate.

Whatevs. I have an open mind. Open like a fucking parachute.

So she comes bounding up to me all peppy and shit, looking like something out of a BabyCenter ad, and I’m standing there with my ripped jeans and love handles,  questionable attitude and bad hair. Of course, I’m wearing flip flops, because duh. So my feet are black. I’m wearing no make-up.

A win, as usual.

My toddler is equally filthy. Her hair is insane and in her eyes (as always), speckled with various items found on the ground. She’s covered in dust and not wearing shoes. Having just consumed about 75 cherry tomatoes, she has actually managed to create mud on her cheeks and nose. When the mother says “hi” to me, I observe my offspring trying to feed her kid the rock she’s been carrying with her for the last 20 minutes.

I am sure this interaction is going to be a success.

Right.

As I’m fielding Georgia away from choking the toddler on a rock, the talking portion begins:

Her: “Oh, how old is your baby?”

Me: “just turned 2.”

Her: “Oh, wow. She’s so SMALL. I guess I forget how big my baby is!! She’s only 18 months and already wearing 3T clothing!”

And with my forced grin I realized that we were now entering what I like to call “The Female Version of ‘Who’s got the bigger penis?’”

It’s like a game show for mothers, only usually there’s only one contestant who wants to play.

I try to pull Georgia away, mumbling “yeah,” and something about finding my other kids.

She says “Oh! You have other kids here? Me too. I have an older one, but she and her friend are totally bored with all this art stuff. They go to a school where all they do is art, so they’re like ‘yeah, whatever, we do this every day.’”

And as she’s talking, I realize she’s doing bitch-speak: certain words are coming out of her mouth, but what she’s actually saying is something completely different. She’s saying “My kid goes to art school;” what she MEANS is “I’m rich and I need you to know it.”

I felt like saying “Yeah, wow. My kids think this is the best thing in the world, because they go to a public school with other poor people where they do worksheets and take standardized tests.”

But I didn’t, because that would require further involvement. I smiled and picked Georgia up, trying to book it the hell outta there before my bitch detector became audible. I said “have a good time, see you later.”

Mac saw the interaction and commented “You didn’t look like you were loving that.”

And I spent the rest of the day translating bitch-speak in my head.

Because I’m a weirdo.

But you guys have to feel me on this one…you know, those moments when mothers get all competitive, engaging in these weird, complex pissing matches, but ALL IN CODE. We do it, but we do it in bitch-speak. And this chick walks up to you all nonchalant, acting as if she’s sweet like honey, when really she’s interested in eating your young and using you as the pathetic backdrop to her own excellence.

It’s BITCH-SPEAK, and it’s REAL.

To illustrate, I made a chart. Please enjoy:

Bitch-Speak Translation Chart

And the best part is, we get so good at it, the bitch-speak translation, that we don’t even hear the actual words…our detector goes off and we’re OUTTA THERE.

As fast as we came.

And then, we call our friends, and translate together.

But don’t get me wrong. We’re all bitches too. We just don’t say it in code.

We say it outright, as it is. And then, we laugh like hell.

Cause we know who’s got the bigger penis.

AND WE LOVE IT.

[OMGI’mdyinglaughing. And you have to tell me about your translations. I can’t be the only one who does this.]

Have you ever noticed that some of the most terrifying mothers out there are the super-pumped eco-friendly ones? They’re like MEAN. But not with their mouths. Only their EYES…

But they still say it:

What? You don’t dress your kid in all organic hemp?!?!? What is wrong with you? They should call CPS.

Are you driving a freaking EXPEDITION? What are you, Satan? Where are your horns? Where’s your hybrid? Your Prius? Your bicycle, Goddamnit.

Do I detect a PLASTIC BAG in our presence? I’m sorry. We can’t be friends.

Um, your baby is holding a non-wooden rattle. Aren’t you going to DO SOMETHING? DO SOMETHING NOW BEFORE SHE DIES!

Not all of them. Obviously. But some. You know what I’m talking about.

Sometimes I feel this grip of fear when I pack plastic Pampers in my bag, headed to a mother’s group, for fear of the eyeballs that may bore down into my soul — oh my god. The landfills. THE LANDFILLS PEOPLE.

And I know they’re right. But still. No need to be a dick.

Some of us are horrible people who can’t be eco-friendly ALL THE TIME.

And some of us are perfect.

You know who you are.

Recently I Googled “eco-friendly party favors” because Rocket’s 7th birthday is coming up and I would like to not buy a plastic goody bag full of plastic crap made in China that costs too much and nobody wants or plays with anyway. I’m trying to do my part, people. I am.

Anyway, I found a blog post on the topic and read through the comments. One of the comments was this one:

“NO, my son does NOT come home with green favors, not even from parties given by hybrid-driving, organic eating folks. And, I’m somewhat well known for my “Just Say No to Cheap Plastic Crap” post about environmentally unfriendly party favors. So I just stand there at the parties, trying not to look too exasperated or to be impolite…judge not….but yikes, it makes me crazy what my son brings home.”

And I was thinking “holy hell, lady. That’s so uncool. But I know you. I’ve met you. And you suck.” and then I thought ” Mother Earth called. She wants you to stop being such a douchebag.” But I changed it to “asshole” because I thought maybe that’s more appropriate.

Ha.

Because here’s the thing. Even if your cause is hip and noble and right, if you walk around belittling and dehumanizing people for not backing your cause completely – or not doing it well enough – you’re still a dick.

And in my opinion, there is nobody more annoying than an enlightened dick.

Because it’s the jerk shrouded in education, depth, profundity. It’s Asshole with an Edge. It’s mean people with data and goodness and “progressiveness” backing their game.

I just vomited a little in my mouth.

Standing there at somebody’s birthday party clothed in an impenetrable air of superiority, looking down on the miserable specimens handing out crap plastic party favors, makes this woman part of the very problem she claims to be working against. To me, there is no difference between the snobbery displayed in the materialistic label-whoring types who figure earth can go fuck itself because we’re all here to grab what we can and die… and that of the super-powered eco-friendly attachment parenting Nazis. It’s self-centeredness and judgment and superiority. Period.

Allow me to illustrate:

Woman 1: “Oh my God. Your purse isn’t Prada. Your car is cheap and old. Your kid is dirty and dressed in Old Navy. I’m so much better than you.”

Woman 2: “Oh my God. Your purse isn’t recycled materials. Your car is not a Prius. Your kid is eating non-organic food and wearing Old Navy. I’m so much better than you.”

You see? Same damn thing.

New label. Same douchebaggery. New angle. Same ego.

And I happen to have evidence that the good Mother Earth thinks these people are douchebags. How do I know? Because she told me.

She told me by pouring her rains on the eco-friendly and the polluters alike. Her flowers don’t shun the faces of those who choose “plastic” at the check-out line. Her oceans cool people who eat fast food and Whole Foods, without regard. And her mountains call to the SUV drivers just as clearly as to the Prius drivers in North Face and Tevas, eating homemade granola from locally sourced oats. Or whatever.

Oh yeah, I said it. I geeked out on you, completely. Damn hippie. But I love this planet. I believe the earth is the source of my soul and my spirit and someday I’ll return to her arms. To me there is no division between the words “god” and “earth” and “love.”

What? You didn’t know I was a total and complete freaking hippie? That’s probably because there’s Dawn on my kitchen sink and not the biodegradable stuff. Whatever. Dawn gets the stains out of my wool carpet. DON’T HATE.

Is it hypocritical for me to say I love the earth while driving an SUV? Maybe. But check this out. I’m also just a flawed human. I am hypocritical and contradictory and confused and lost and just trying to make small changes one minute at a time, slowly do a little more a little better. And in the process, I’m trying not to be an asshole.

I have a friend, Penny, who is very passionate about her family not being exposed to chemicals. Rather than use plastic bags, she like made these wrapper things out of muslin and beeswax…she’s created all these super inventive ways to not use chemicals. But you know what? When she tells me about the shit she’s doing I feel inspired, enlightened, empowered. Like I’m being taught something, shown something new and exciting and compelling. She doesn’t judge me for using Ziplock. She doesn’t stare at me in disdain when I whip out the Cheetos. She has chosen to live her life in a certain way and if I want to hear about it, she tells me about it, without hatred or pretense.

And that, I think, is what makes change. We do our best in our small circles, create ripples in the waters around us, lead by example, teach with patience. And when we’re standing there at a party and some kid hands our kid a goody bag full of junk, and he’s smiling and proud to be giving that gift, we take it, with genuine joy in our hearts, because we get to be there with humanity and live and receive…and we redouble our efforts. We love a little harder. We devote ourselves more to the cause we know to be true and right. And we trust that our efforts are making some difference, somewhere. Or they will, someday.

Cause I’ll tell you what. I want to be more like my friend. I hear about her super interesting solutions for bathing and cleaning and eating and I’m like “Dude. Janelle. You should try that. She’s telling you how to do it. Try it. See what happens.”

Mother Earth called about her, too. She said “Rock on, sista’. That’s what I’m talking about.”

Really, it all gets back to my trusty comment policy and life philosophy: Try not to be a dick.

And by the way, I found a great idea for cheap, “green” party favors. We’re painting little clay pots during the party and putting plants in them for the kids to take home.

BOOM.

Take that, evil party-favor lady.