From Biker Bad Ass to Middle Aged Lawn Mower

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Thanksgiving weekend Kendall (my significant other) moved back to the family farm after his mother passed away. Apartment life after 17 years had started to wear a little thin. I was so excited for this change, there would be flowers to plant, lawn to mow, more furniture than just a couch to sit on, and the redecorating, be still my heart. Prior to the move we were social butterflies, hitting up the local tavern on Friday nights for a couple of cold ones, Saturdays were reserved for poker runs, benefit rides or on the occasional long weekend a bike trip to the land of Wisconsin. Sundays were for relaxing and recharging for the week to come. This was us the summer before…

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Here we are sitting on a rock, God only knows how high up, smack dab in the middle of the Black Hills. That trip was 3000 miles in 8 days. This year we have ridden a grand total of 90 miles. For the whole summer, got that, the whole summer. What happened?

This happened.

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(Do I think his tractor’s sexy? Meh…)

That happened because this happened.

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That is a shit ton of lawn people, like 8 hours of mowing shit ton. That number does not reflect the weed whacking, raking, or picking up the dog crap because of this.

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She is our resident yard pooper, baby bunny killer, non-fetching, non-barking, I just want to go in the house, lie on the couch and have a treat non-watchdog.

I was tricked into all of this, sure I knew there was a lot of lawn, but I was assured that it wouldn’t need mowed all that often (every 3 days). That the purchase of an almost antiquated Massey Ferguson complete with finishing mower and snow pusher would make the job go so much quicker. We would under no circumstance be getting a dog, and “Hell yes, we will have time to ride, stop worrying.”

What really happened.

Apparently the purchase of your very own tractor equipped with its very own lawn mower, buying a weed whacker that is so powerful it could chop off human limbs and is too large and heavy for me to run longer than 20 minutes without my hands going numb and rendering me incapable of lifting my arms for an entire week. Top it off with a tree trimmer, a 5 gallon sprayer of round-up, 2 new rakes, garden weasel,  shovel, and a wheelbarrow full of grass seed causes your bad ass biker boyfriend to become Hank Hill.

I should have known something was amiss that first weekend of decent weather this spring, which I spent on my hands and knees picking up 3 five gallon buckets of rock that had gotten pushed into the yard during snow moving season. ” We don’t wanna hit those with the mower.” Wanna bet?

Most weekends are now spent on the mowers, or behind a rake, or some other piece of devil machinery that I am unable to properly operate, or throwing dead bunnies into the field, ( baby animal murder is the one game that Ellie excels at). Because you see, my once laid back biker man has developed a lawn perfection gene that has turned his focus from two-wheeled rides admiring other people’s lawns, to having the finest looking yard in all of Benton County, perhaps the whole state of Iowa.

So this happened.

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Because to get to them, you have to move these

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I will admit that the yard is starting to take shape, and really does look nice right after it is mowed. I am getting a killer tan, and not just on my shoulders and face. I have learned to semi operate a riding lawn mower, we didn’t have that luxury growing up, it was all push, all the time, and I have conquered several overgrown forsythia bushes, Edward Scissor-hands has nothin on me. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t praying for another drought because now we need to get a lawn sweeper, Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Red Headed Medusa

Red Headed Medusa

This barn quilt started as a simple sun design, a christmas gift for a friend’s husband. I submitted design after design to her but she kept telling me it needed more attitude. This is what I finally came up with. She loved it, I had several pee your pants moments trying to figure out how to get this out of my head and on to a 4 foot piece of plywood. Three weeks of nonstop painting produced this. I am in love with this. And I am in love with the feeling of accomplishment.

Pink is the new green.

 

A friend of mine once used the phrase “ Don’t get my ire up, woman.” he was referring to his wife and at the time Kendall and I laughed our asses off. He was only joking of course, we adopted the phrase as our own and use it jokingly when we are mildly ticked with the other.

 

Unfortunately today my “ire” is up for real. Has been for a while now. When I was younger I flew off the handle at every little injustice, reality or not, and relished in the tongue lashings that my victims would receive for the minor infractions that they had committed in my presence. Over the years, I have become more tolerant, or at least wise enough to keep my big mouth shut. Don’t get me wrong, I am still quick to judge, and can be pushed over the edge with little more than a shove, but I try to pick my battles and keep the ass chewing to those who are truly deserving.

 

So what is it that has my panties so twisted that it prompted me to write on this blog that most of you thought ceased to exist. Well, I will tell you, the color PINK.

 

I can hear you now, “ Have you finally lost your freaking mind Blondie, who the hell gets mad at a color?” Especially a color that symbolizes all things sweet and lovely. Sugar, spice and everything nice.

We associate the color pink with baby girls, princesses, cotton candy, honeymoon lingerie, innocence.

 

And. Boobs.

 

Yep Boobs. Now don’t get me wrong I like boobs, I like mine, yours, and even the fake airbrushed ones in Playboy, I especially enjoy back boobs brought to you by the fine folks at People of Walmart.

 

There is a lot of boobie buzz going around now, with October being Breast Cancer Awareness month, retailers are hauling out all of their pink colored gadgets, water bottles, hats, pens, purses, nail polish, makeup, basically anything they can turn the color of Pepto Bismol, to tug at your heart-strings, and more importantly your wallet, with the promise that a portion of your hard-earned money is going to research. The pink push is not limited to only this time of year either, I have seen pink toolboxes on the internet, early this spring I could have bought pink dahlias with the BCA logo on them, even my beloved Harley Davidson retailer, has racks of clothing not in traditional black and orange, but pink, pink, and more pink.

 

Don’t me wrong, I would love to see a cure for breast cancer as much as the next girl, I have several family members who are survivors of this horrible disease. I am fully aware of the need for education, early detection, and regular mammograms.

 

My problem is that pink has become the new green. For every pink product that you purchase, you are making a charitable contribution, however, the manufacturer of that product is also making a profit, and are their intentions as good as yours? How much of your charity is put back into marketing, and not research? Breast Cancer has become big business, and while I believe it’s heart is in the right place, I am not convinced it’s wallet is. How certain are you that the pink item you are buying was put there with the motivation of finding a cure, and not funding a retirement plan or a vacation cruise.

 

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, and I am not discouraging you from purchasing something pink, hey, I am not that heartless, although I am certain that unless you live in remote 3rd world country you are pretty aware of breast cancer.

 

There is no denying that this a truly successful endeavor and has done more for the awareness of breast cancer than any other campaign in history. Who can find fault with that? I can.

 

 

What you may not know is that September is Ovarian Cancer Awareness month. Their color is teal.

Ovarian cancer is a silent and deadly cancer. Do you see anyone promoting this on TV? Do you have a teal ribbon magnet on your car, or a fight like a girl teal t-shirt? Do you own a teal pen, or water bottle, how about a silicone bracelet?

 

With all the talk of going pink, by media, retailers, and celebrities, ovarian cancer is overshadowed by the bubble gum colored and trendy topic of breast cancer.

 

I recently had to have a CA-125 blood test, which can detect ovarian cancer, my insurance doesn’t cover this test, even though I have been diagnosed with ovarian cysts, and my mother died from this horrible disease. The biggest obstacle with ovarian cancer is the lack of early detection, you don’t have symptoms until in many cases it is too late.

 

My mothers tumor was the size of a football by the time she was finally diagnosed, and she was left with a colostomy, the inability to eat solid foods, taking all of her nutrition through a twice daily I.V. She underwent several surgeries, many rounds of toxic chemotherapy and lost her hair 3 different times

 

She endured this horror with a grace and dignity that I can only hope to aspire to. By the time her cancer was detected, there was no saving her, we got to keep her for 3 years, time that I am grateful beyond words for.

 

I can’t help but wonder if she had known what to look for, if there were television commercials, awareness programs and better education might she have sought out a doctor sooner and been diagnosed while the cancer was still manageable, might she have been here to see her granddaughters start kindergarten and this year graduate from high school.

 

Today I am tying a teal ribbon to my wrist, because it is September, Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month.

There is plenty of time for pink in October, all I am asking is equal time for all. Will you join me?

For more information regarding ovarian cancer please visit

 http://www.ovariancancer.org/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the not funny side…

It has been a difficult weekend here in Blondie land. Normally this is the place I go when I want to make you laugh a little, or as I have been recently told cry a little, your words of praise and encouragement have led me here tonight.  It would be a good time in my life to call a friend, or a family member to air my dirty laundry with, but I have a difficult time carrying on personal conversations when it is inappropriate to be funny or sarcastic, this is one of those times.

This weekend I tried to commit my son to the psych ward. He is a drug addict, and an alcoholic, he is 19 years old.

 Saturday evening he had gotten into a fight with his father, over some pain medication he that he had stolen, he called me to try smooth things over with his dad and to stop him from pressing charges and having him arrested. This is not a first time occurrence, he calls me all the time to run mediation between the two of them. This time was different, he called me from his cell phone while on a break from work, and told me he was sitting in someones van , he had no idea whose, no idea where he was and was drinking Four Loco, and had been all day. He had also told me he had taken several hydrocodones and was stealing the van and was going to kill himself. He was crying and hysterical. I convinced him to get his ass out of the van, and tried to get him to pour out the booze, I heard him chug it and shut the van door. He told me he was going back to work. I told him that was a good idea, just go back and stay there. I called his dad, who was much closer than I was and told him to go get the boy, pick him up and take him straight to the hospital.

Reilly could not comprehend why he was at the hospital, and tried to use his usual manipulation techniques to persuade us to just take him home, it wouldn’t happen again…blah blah blah. After a blood and urine test, and telling the doctor that he had in fact tried to kill himself earlier in the week, and had recently started smoking crack. He was released due to the lack of a bed. There were also no beds available anywhere in Cr. Waterloo, or Dubuque.

 He is now thrilled because he thinks he beat the system, and is probably getting high again as I write this.

So my blog friends, any ideas. He will not agree to rehab. He can leave a hospital situation in 24 hours. I do not know how to help him. If anyone out there has dealt with this or can help point me in a direction to some other resource I be so grateful. I do not want to lose my son, and he is in pain.

A List Before Dying

 

Elizabeth Edwards death hit me hard. I cried when I heard the news, and tears welled up every time there was another tribute to her running across the airwaves. I have admired her for years, even before her terminal cancer diagnosis, I was a big John Edwards supporter way back when he was on the ticket with John Kerry, part of me loved her because John and those kids were just so damn beautiful and Elizabeth was normal, not unattractive, but not gorgeous, she had a few extra pounds just like me, and yet she was captivating in her own right with her own clear ideas and voice. Her ability to stand by her man when he turned out to be a complete douche made her even stronger in my eyes.

Losing my mother to cancer when she was just 54, certainly plays a role in my admiration for Elizabeth, the women that fight the good fight with grace and optimism never fail to capture my attention. In the end Elizabeth was a mother, the political ambitions ruined by her cheating husband, the reality of her own mortality brought into sharp focus the those things in life that truly matter, family, and leaving a legacy for her kids in the form of an ongoing letter left incomplete yet filled with instructions, advice and pieces of herself for children to hold on to forever.

I have said in the years since my mother has passed, that cancer is often a gift. In its excruciating, slow, and painful journey through your body, it gives you time. The time to say what you need to say, and leave no loose ends. I was given that gift by my mother in the few months we had after she was pronounced terminal, I asked all the questions that I needed too, she was open, honest and giving with me. I have never felt for a moment that I was not truly treasured and loved by someone unconditionally.

I have days now that the need for more answers arises, but there is no one to ask. That makes me sad, I miss my mom, she was my closest confidant, I can deal with that, the worst part about losing her is that I lost my guide, the person who walks through the hard places in life, then takes your hand, pulls you along and shows you the path that is easier. At 33 I asked the questions that were relevant at the time, my children were small, I had no foresight into the fact that I would be older, my kids would someday be on the verge of adulthood. I was selfish and scared when she was dying, focusing on losing something, instead of paying attention to her uniqueness and learning all there was to learn about her life as a woman until that point. I live my life without regret, except for that.

I have no illusions that I will live a long life. As I write this I am eating Christmas cookies for breakfast, smoking a cigarette and slugging Diet Cokes. No regrets. My daughters were five when they lost their grandmother,they are turning 17 this weekend. We have a wonderful open relationship, they know that nothing is forbidden to talk about with me, no matter how uncomfortable it may be for either of us. We have no secrets. And yet in the spirit of Elizabeth Edwards, and in fond memory of mom, I am going to start a life list for them, not because I think I have a ton of wisdom to share, or even that I am a particularly good mother, but because I know what it is like to have a piece of a person that you loved to hold  after they are gone.

Things to Know Before I Go

Do not smoke. EVER.

Brush you teeth every single day.

Music makes every awful task that you have to do, better.

Education really is important.

Always have a book in your home that you haven’t read yet. Just in case.

There is never a bad time to eat bacon.

Or chocolate.

Be honest with yourself and others even if it hurts a little.

Don’t be intentionally mean.

Some people are stupid, you can’t fix it.

Do not buy cheap macaroni and cheese. Not worth it.

Bridges are tricky business, proceed with caution.

You are beautiful.

You should exercise, it really will make you feel better, don’t follow my example.

It is wonderful to have a man in your life, just don’t make that your only goal.

Use your manners.

Dress up for church, weddings and funerals, no jeans are not appropriate.

Vinegar makes stainless steel shine.

Don’t use bar soap in the shower, it is gross, slimy, and am pretty sure it’s full of germs.

Drugs WILL fuck up your life.

Try to find a guy with a Harley, or learn to ride your own.

Stand up for what you believe even if it pisses people off.

Not everyone is going to be your friend or even like you, that is OK.

You don’t have to drink milk.

Share what you have with others, but be careful about who you lend your books to.

On the subject of books, never, never, dog ear the pages. Really.

Keep your house clean, but don’t be obsessive about it, a little dust boosts your immune system.

It is perfectly fine to take a mental health day and waste it entirely on something that makes you calm and happy.

Always wrap presents pretty, no one likes a crappy wrapped gift.

That whipped frosting shit is bad, butter-cream is always the best choice.

Good grammar.

Do not have cats unless you enjoy cleaning shit out of box.

Miracle whip is fake mayonnaise and should not be eaten. Nasty.

Pugs are the work of the devil, do not own one, or I won’t visit.

Don’t be afraid to do your sexy dance.

Kid Rock. Makes you happy. Every. Time. ( May cause a craving for Bud Light) .

Don’t be late. Just don’t.

If you HAVE to be late. CALL. No exceptions to this rule.

Keep your reflexes NINJA fast.

Orange lighters are really the only ones that work properly and aren’t dorky.

Don’t drop onto furniture with thunderous abandon, sit, don’t plop. It is not ladylike.

Find a pair of jeans that make you ass look fabulous, never mind what they cost. Worth it.

You should probably smoke pot a few times, cause really it is kinda cool, just don’t make it a lifestyle.

You have been loved since the moment you were born.

Don’t bother wasting time with people who piss you off continually.

You don’t have to be needy to be needed. This is a big one.

Drama is for insecure people, that demand attention, no one likes that guy.

Tequila really will make your clothes fall off.

It is OK to flash your boobs once in a while, but remember, there are cameras everywhere, use caution.

Beets are disgusting and taste like dirt, don’t eat them, you will be fine. Same thing for pears.

No blinking lights on Christmas trees please. Unless you enjoy being tacky as hell.

I intend for this to be an ongoing list, as I continue to think of wisdom to share, and although some of this is for comic relief , that is part of what makes me, me. When I am gone, I hope my kids will remember most that we laughed and loved as much as possible.

Feel free to leave a comment and add to my list, I can’t possibly remember everything to tell them.

What is it that you want to make sure your people know about you when you are gone.

M&M’s and Stating the Obvious

 

I am not a morning person. By nature I am not an early riser. There is nothing I like better than burrowing under the covers and grabbing another hour after the alarm goes off. Kendall in contrast is one those happy morning people, his eyes pop open 5 minutes before the alarm goes off, jumps up, clothes on, teeth brushed, ready to start the day, leaving me free to sprawl out and revel in the whole ocean that is his water-bed.

Yes I said waterbed, that is a story for another day. And satin sheets.

So a few weeks ago, I am lounging around in the bed, half awake when I smell bacon frying, this is my cue to get up, because this man is sweet enough to cook breakfast for me every morning on the weekends and mostly because I really like bacon. And I am starving, okay, I am always starving.

I drag myself out of bed, and this is more difficult than it should be. Considering it is a water-bed, my ass sinks a foot below the side rail, and I am barely awake and have to hoist myself out. Instead I just grab my wrinkled up clothes that I threw on the floor the night before and lay back down dressing myself by rolling around in the sloshing bed and the now messed up sheets and blankets. Finally fully clothed I manage to heave myself up and out of bed. It is not always easy being a curvy (fat) girl with bad knees. Bacon is a pretty decent motivator.

Breakfast devoured and now awake for the day we head to Menards for some shopping. We love to go to Menards and wander around, dreaming up projects for the house that we don’t own, surprisingly our tastes are pretty similar mostly because it is easier to agree with me than to try to win an argument. About 20 minutes into our gawking around, I am going to die from heat stroke, for some reason it is 108 degrees in that damn store, could be a hot flash, I unzip the hooded sweatshirt that I am wearing to disguise my curves, and find that the t-shirt that I threw on that morning while wrestling around in the bed is on inside out. And it is way noticeable. Hmmmm. I zip it back up, and just start bitching about the temperature and store managers trying to kill people, So Kendall, says to me “ Take your sweatshirt off dumbass”. Hmmmm.

“ I can’t”

“why not”

“because I can’t “

“ you are being stupid, just take the sweatshirt off “

“I don’t think you want me to do that”

“what now”

I unzip it a little to show him my mistake, and he busts out laughing like the ass that I knew he would be.

“ Jesus, do I have to help dress you now.”

Hahahahahahahahahahaha.

“ you can suck it.”

We then proceed to walk around for another half hour just to make me suffer.

I think about trying to find the bathroom and fix my shirt, but I never can, because they magically move from the place that you are, to the other side of the store, wherever you are, the facilities are always at least 6 miles away, and then Kendall wanders off and I spend another hour trying to find him, I am pretty sure that he does this on purpose, and I don’t find it amusing.

As if I am not uncomfortable enough, we get to the checkout and I am confronted with my biggest rant producing, pet peeve of all time, the slow checker. There are few things in life that piss me off more than standing in line. I have zero patience. None. I am sweating horrible now, and we get the friendly checker, one of the worst, she feels the need to chat with every customer that comes through her line, about the weather, what she is having for lunch, how many drinks she had at the bar last night, her whole fucking life history, she also feels the need to ask about every purchase and add her useless commentary, and moves like she has taken a bottle of Qualudes, how hard is this job, scan, take my money, have a nice day. Our line is progressing so slowly we would have to drive stakes to see if it was moving. I am pissed, hot and beyond cranky by the time we get out the store.

Once we get in truck, it is cooler and I am feeling better, and he asks if I can make it through Target without having a breakdown. Of course, I love Target, and their checkout is pretty fast. I also know that we are going there to buy our weekly 12 pound bag of Peanut M&M’s. I perk up immediately.

Target is wonderful, air conditioning on, cart full of miscellaneous items that I had no idea that I needed, and the M&M’s. Kendall picks the checkout lane with the no line, I love this man.

We get to the cash registrar, and the checker is, and I don’t mean to be unkind, SLOW, as in just stepped off the short bus slow. I uncharacteristically bite my tongue and say nothing. I swear it takes 20 minutes to get the stuff checked and bagged, I am pacing, but quiet. As we make our way to the exit, I say “ Are you kidding me” and begin my little tirade, Kendall looks at me, laughs and says…

Blondie, at least he had his shirt on right side out.”

Point taken, shut up and open the M&M’s.

Stand by your man…

 

I read an article recently, touting the expandability of men. At first glance, I agreed. Women of our generation probably don’t need men, with the exception of sperm production, and I am pretty sure that particular substance can somehow be manufactured in a lab. And if it can’t be yet, I know plenty of men who are willing to donate just for the sheer pleasure of touching themselves, they do it all of the time anyway.

Women are capable of making a decent living, maintaining a house, and firing a gun. We are able to provide for ourselves, food, shelter and god knows clothing, and have the ability to protect ourselves thanks to advances in tazers, pepper spray, and cute little firearms that fit in your purse. We can bear and raise children without a man, look at Octomom, 14 children, without getting near a penis. Women change tires, fix leaks, unclog toilets, and even open jars every day without the help of a man.

Feminism has given us the right to perform all the duties of men, and get paid for it. We have become equals. That’s what we fought for and what we wanted, to no longer be stuck in the kitchen, barefoot, pregnant, wearing just an apron. HOORAY, score one for the ladies.

In doing so, we have somehow made a joke of men. Man bashing has become the norm, we make fun of their Neanderthal ways, and send them to the basement, lovingly (?) called man caves, we make light of the fact that our partners aren’t as enlightened or emotional as we are, that their hobbies are silly and useless, their housekeeping skills non-existent, and their personal hygiene is deplorable. We have reduced them to ball scratching, fart producing idiots who are good for nothing except a paycheck handed to us to spend as we wish.

I am the first to admit that men frustrate me, I have made them the butt of my jokes, and insulted their intelligence. In response to all of this man hating, we have created the metro-sexual, the guy who isn’t gay but looks like he might be. He douses himself in Axe body spray and shaves or waxes his body hair, he gets in touch with his feminine side. He eats his vegetables, and watches chick flicks with you.

He drives a hybrid foreign car and shops at the mall. He carries a satchel. He moisturizes. Good Lord what have we done to men. Where has all the testosterone gone.

I am all for equality, I don’t believe that one gender is superior to the other, but we are different, as we should be, I don’t want my man to become a woman. Just because I don’t need a man a man does not mean for one second that I don’t want one.

A real man, a man with all of his body hair still intact, who drives an American made truck, who wears Levi jeans and cowboy boots, who wouldn’t be caught dead in a mall, unless it is to buy me something from Victoria’s secret or the jewelery store, a man who goes to work and is not afraid to get dirty, who does not know what a mani-pedi is. A man who grills meat and drinks a beer not a glass of white wine.

I want to lie down at night on a broad shoulder,be held close and feel safe. I want a man to protect me from the things that go bump in the night, to get up at 2:00 am to wander at around a dark house in his underwear looking for the origin of the thump that I heard, because that is his job, and he wants to do it.

I want to have children the good old-fashioned way, not with a turkey baster and a test tube. I want razor rash on my face from making out with a face covered in stubble. I want a man curled up behind me while I sleep because really is there anything nicer than waking up in the arms of someone you love?

I want a man who will listen to me, and nod and let me cry, and just shut the hell up about it, I don’t need him to talk everything to death, I have girlfriends for that. I want him to grab my ass in public every once in a while, because it makes me feel hot, and sometimes I want to objectified as a woman, because that is what I am, I like the fact that a man will appreciate you sometimes just because you have boobs, why not, not everything in this world has to intellectual, can’t we just get by on instinct and nature once in a while.

I can plunge a shit filled toilet, open a pickle jar from hell, I can dig a hole, or read a map but I don’t want to, I can walk in the rain, but I would rather have a man drop me off at the door, I can kill a mouse, or clean a fish but it’s not my first choice. I will never be comfortable backing up a vehicle with a trailer. Men are hardwired for that kind of thing, let them have it I say.

I want a man to take my children to ball games, and car shows and scary movies, I want a man to teach them honesty, loyalty and respect, because a good man excels in those qualities. I want my daughters to feel loved by their father, so they don’t go looking for it somewhere else. I want a man to show them how to treat a woman. Children need fathers, if that were not true, there would be no such phrase as “ Daddy Issues”. Every adult I know has a story about their dad that made them the way they are.

There is reverse discrimination going on here, we are committing the same offense that we as we woman fought so hard against. Is that what we wanted. Watch any television program about families and the men are portrayed as fools, useless and unnecessary, the joke is always that the woman is smarter, when did men become little more than comic relief, do we really feel that way about our fathers and our husbands, I don’t think so. It has become fashionable to humiliate men. If you have a son or a brother, is this how you would want his wife to think and behave? Since when is it OK to trivialize any part of the human race. It is not acceptable to use the N word or R word, or really any word that sets off someones sensitivity trigger, but it seems perfectly unobjectionable to say that 50% of our population is expendable.

We are different for a reason, I want to be a strong capable woman, but I also want to embrace my femininity, in the grand design of things women are the bearer of children, the caregivers, and men are hunters, gatherers, and protectors, I am fine with that. When we reduce men to cartoon characters in our lives, we diminish ourselves, superiority is not pretty on anyone.

I am going to stop my man bashing, my father, my brothers, and my sons don’t deserve that. I have been lucky to have a few good men in my life, and a few bad ones too, the same can be said for women. I have learned something from each of them, and knowledge is never a bad thing, For the man in life now, I am keeping him for as long as he will have me, and appreciate every ounce of testosterone that courses through him and embrace all of his ball scratching manliness, because my life would certainly be less without him.

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