Dear Oprah,

I wanted to be the first to tell you that it is time for you to retire from your daily talk show. I know this may seem shocking but it is best that you do it now before it becomes awkward and embarrassing for everybody. You’ve had a long run on day-time television, but that run is over.

Somewhere between Deepak Chopra and Eckhart Tolle you lost your credibility. You have introduced us to and fully endorsed every spiritual guru since the early 90’s and I can insure you that my inner chi is centered. You’ve explored and practiced every dieting trend from low-fat to Acai berry. We’ve met all of your professional nutritionists from Rosie to Bob Greene. And you know what? We’re all still fat, just like you.

As fellow single women we clamored to listen to your relationship advice espoused from every expert you discovered, Dr. Phil to Marianne Willimason. Where most of us got married, you maintained your single status. This was okay until you proclaimed that women get married in order to insure financial security and thus your lack of desire to be married. If you think that financial security is the only reason women get married, well, you don’t understand marriage.

I cannot relate to building a school in South Africa, driving across country with my best friend, or wearing $200 high heels to work. I do not have the money to hire a personal chef, or a personal trainer. I do not have even fifteen minutes in my day to reflect on the importance of my life or what makes me happy. I definitely don’t understand the challenge of decorating multiple homes.

The final straw was your interview with Heather Armstrong (Dooce). Oprah, she is the largest mommy blogger on the internet and you mention her blog in passing – like it is a funny little hobby. As if it is somehow tangential to her book? Oh my.

Oprah, you were my friend. You were my personal expert guiding me through my life, but now, well, you’ve become a stranger. Your life and your problems no longer resemble anything in my own life. We’ve grown apart.

So, it is with a heavy heart that I say goodbye. Thank for the years Oprah, but it is now time for you to slink off into the good night.

Regards,
Your Target Audience

I remember being thirteen years old when the idea of feminism was explained to me. I knew right then that I was all for it. I was a liberated woman. I admired the suffragettes, and the ERA. They were my sisters. The soldiers who blazed the trail before me. I was going to honor their legacy and respect their sacrifices. I read Faludi. I read Steinem. I am woman, hear me roar!

I feel as passionately today about women’s rights as I did then. If anything I have more perspective, more information and a better understanding. I’ve sat in board room meetings and been patronized because of my sex (and youthful appearance). I’ve seen my sister get passed over for promotion. I am aghast as the younger girls behind me seem to willingly allow themselves to be viewed and treated as nothing more than glamorized strippers. I am saddened by the sexualization of our young girls.

None of that passion, determination, or energy left me when I quit my career to be a stay at home mom. And yet, I get the message that I must have abandoned my sisters when I made that choice. Section 1 of the Equal Rights Amendment (which has not yet been ratified and made an amendment) states; “Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of sex”. Equality of rights – my rights – my right to choose. My right to choose a career, a house, a job, a family, a spouse, ownership, etc. I have made thousands of choices in my life. Some of them that would be shocking for a woman to make – especially if I lived in another culture, or another country. I chose what school I wanted to attend. I chose to get a driver’s license. I chose to travel extensively and alone, for work. I’ve worked for men and have had men work for me. I chose my own husband and sometimes I even tell him that he’s wrong. But most importantly, I CHOSE to stay home with my kids. And somehow, that one choice negates all the other choices I have made.

Yet, that one choice is more important than all the others. That one choice insures that the role model my daughter will have in her daily life will be me. The mother who has a graduate degree, and who can also make heart-shaped pancakes. She won’t be determining her value, or her self-image based on the mysoginistic messages she sees in TV and on the internet. She will have her independent, strong-willed mother to be her mirror. My choice is not detrimental to the feminist movement. My choice is exercising the very freedoms the feminist movement fought for me to have. My choice may be different from the choices of other women, at other times in their lives, but that is the power of choice. That is freedom.

When I put my apron back on I did not forfeit my feminist membership card. I became the worst kind of feminist, because I’m raising the next generation.

Mothers develop their own logic, a sort of sixth sense that allows them to navigate the obstacles of parenthood. This logic is beyond what any other mortal can comprehend or understand. Once again, as a service to my audience, let me decipher Mom Logic for you.

Mom Logic #1
Apple pie or other fruit confection is fine for breakfast

From the outside this may look like I am feeding my child dessert. However, when the alternative to apple pie is either a Pop Tart, breakfast cereal, or a frozen waffle a piece of apple pie is actually a nutritional improvement.

Mom Logic #2
Any pacifier/rattle that has fallen on the floor can be picked up, licked clean by mom and returned to child.

I recognize that the saliva in a mother has never been scientifically proven to contain anti-bacterial components. However, my immune system is far stronger than my child’s immune system. My patience is far weaker. As a result, I’d rather lick as many germs off as possible and then give it back to my child in order to prevent a further melt down or tantrum. No harm no foul.

Mom Logic #3
If all is quiet something is wrong.

This kind of thinking is not because mothers are inherently negative, cynical party poopers. No, this logic comes from too many experiences discovering that your child has found a new way to entertain themselves that includes one of the following; washing their face in the toilet, unrolling an entire roll of toilet paper, smearing all of your make up on the wall, or putting all of your underwear on their head as a jaunty hat. (yes, I have experienced all of these things personally).

Mom Logic #4
Worrying insures that the outcome will be positive

You can tell a mother a thousand times that worrying is not productive and she will look at you like you are an idiot. This is because mothers know, for a fact, that worrying prevents bad things from happening. Why? Because if we worry a sufficient amount that means we have thought of, and prepared for, all possible problems or outcomes. If we have prepared properly than nothing bad can happen. However, we can only plan properly if we have worried sufficiently.

Mom Logic #5
Always make too much food

This always appears as if mothers are incapable of judging the proper amount of food to cook for their family. This is not the case. Instead, mothers have learned that whatever food they make for child A will also, spontaneously be desired by child B, even though child B has never eaten or shown a desire for that food before. As a result, mothers must cook extra food to account for any, and all possible meal combination. (see Mom Logic #4).

This post was supposed to be for a blogging contest, but I missed the entry deadline. Oh well. However, I still liked the idea so I wrote the post anyways. I’m sure I would have won.

When I was in fifth grade I wrote a series of stories about a squirrel and knew that some day I would grow up and be a famous author. I went on to study creative writing in college where I realized my dreams far outstripped my abilities. I wrote lots of bad poetry and even worst fiction. However, as time has gone by I’ve learned to appreciate those young attempts at creativity for what they were – honest yearnings. I stretched beyond my own ability to communicate.

Recently, my father sent me one of those early poems and ironically said “I think you wrote this when you were 14”. No Daddy, I wrote it when I was 21. Although emotionally I was probably closer to 14. This poem will not win me any awards or accolades, but I did think it was a sweet tribute to my own father. With sheer terror in my heart I have decided to share it with my gentle readers (if you are not gentle, please don’t read).

Father

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions
And if it is “we’ll cross that bridge when we get there”
Math is just shorthand for English
And science is applicable to your everyday life
What are you going to do with that English Degree?
There are girls boys date and there are girls boys marry
Here’s 5 dollars who ever heard of a poor princess?
Don’t tell me how to operate the VCR, I’m an engineer
Who doesn’t know the name of Grant’s horse?
I believe I said NO, what didn’t you understand?
Go ask your mother
Spouting feminist dribble again? -Good
What have you learned in school? What do you know?
Actions speak louder than words
Mother — she’ll be just fine — let her go

David has been working very long hours. The kind of hours that breeds family dissatisfaction. This afternoon as Lucy and I sat in her pop-up princess clubhouse, discussing the many sides of Barbie, she said to me, “I can’t wait to party with Daddy tonight”. When I passed this along to David he felt obligated to bring “the funk” tonight. He declared that we would go to Chuck E Cheese. Now, I recognize that for most families this is a special event, but this took on even more significance in our house because this would be our first visit. Yes, at five years old Lucy has NEVER been to a Chuck E. Cheese.

There are several reasons why I dislike Chuck E. Cheese; the lack of teeth in the people taking my order, the unease that somebody is spitting in my food, the fear of hidden child molesters, bad pizza and the proliferation of germs on every hard surface. However, all of these could be overlooked if it wasn’t for the suffocating air of pathetic suburban living that seems to envelope me when I walk in. They should hang a sign above the door that says “Abandon all hope of ever being cool ye who enter here”. Chuck E. Cheese is a flash point of all things that are terrible about living in the suburbs. I’m eating bad pizza, on paper plates, watching a 16 year old dressed as a giant mouse make unruly children scream and march around a giant indoor park. I’m being charged $40 to play carnival games that are rigged so my kid can’t win, but instead receive 10 tickets that they can redeem for an equally tacky trinket that will be in my garbage in less than 24 hours. There is absolutely nothing redeemable about the experience and during the entire time you feel even more pathetic for having been sucked into this vortex of mediocrity and bad taste.

There are good things about the suburbs. I don’t worry about my kids playing in the backyard. We have a backyard. The house we own is about a 1,000 sq feet larger than what we could afford if we lived IN Dallas. We have safe, good public schools. I’m a five minute drive from anything I could ever want or need. However, my house looks like about 75% of the other houses in my neighborhood. My husband has to drive an hour to work. I can’t walk to anything except the doughnut shop and the middle school.

Unfortunately, sitting in Chuck E. Cheese I feel as if I’ve disappointed the younger more idealistic version of myself. As if I have finally sold out and perhaps this is what bothers me most. Sitting under those fluorescent lights with the odd combination of grease and disinfectant wafting in the air I feel embarrassed. I’m better than this. My kids deserve better than this. And all of this self-loathing and contemplation is spurred because of Chuck E. Cheese and their terrible pizza. That is why I doubt we’ll go back.

In this brief video Lucy tries to explain why things are going missing in our house. Specifically, she is concerned about the sudden disappearance of Max’s last pacifier. Hmmm……..

** sorry about the poor lighting. See what happens when an amateur is given a camera?

It took David and I several years to find our church. David has a degree in public speaking and a background in music, and so finding a pastor who was a great speaker combined with professional music was challenginge. Plus, we aren’t exactly the “dress-up” kind of people. I don’t even own a dress and David only owns the required wedding/funeral suit. I recognize that our church is not for everyone. If you are looking for a choir in robes, or Easter bonnets, well our church is not it. One of the things that really appealed to David and I was how hard they work to make the word of God accessible. Our pastors, who both have Phd’s in theology, are about as humble and hip as you could find. They are on Facebook, they have a blog, they post podcasts, they take questions via text message. Last night David and I were talking about the bible and had a question. I posted the question on Facebook, and in less than three hours I had a message back from one of our senior pastors. How cool is that? Our Easter service (which you can listen to HERE) was very unique. They opened up the service with a DJ spinning and the rapper Manafest performing. You can see Manafest’s video HERE. At any rate, instead of listening to the “what” of Easter (the resurecction) we heard about the “so what” of Easter. Once again, making me leave our church feeling empowered for the week ahead.

At fourteen my parents began openly cursing in front of me. From that point on swearing became a staple in our household vocabulary. Ironically, my parents also stressed that people who cursed were just showing their own limited vocabulary. As a result, I became a young adult who cursed but hated the fact that I did. Once I hit about 25 I began making the yearly resolution to give up swearing. It didn’t really take until I moved to Texas. Living in the bible belt REALLY makes you self aware of how much you swear. Although my vocabulary periodically trends to the colorful, as a rule I keep it clean. But what about the blog?

Deciding on the subjects you write about on your blog and how you go about doing it is a personal choice for each blogger. This reminds me of that quote from Jerry Seinfeld who said that using profanity is a “comedy shortcut”. When I look at bloggers that I find particularly funny, Dooce and The Bloggess, I wonder if it is because they use the f-word in relation to motherhood. Is it their frequent use of shocking language in conjunction with the banality of motherhood that actually makes them funny? If they didn’t swear would they still be funny? That doesn’t mean that I’m somehow superior because I try to go for the joke without the use of profanity. (I would only be superior if I was actually funny or if my jokes actually worked). Is The Bloggess funny because she is blatantly offensive to EVERYBODY or because she is truly witty and talented? I don’t know, but I’d sure like to see her write a post without the f-word and see how it works out.