Tina Fey - Change of Life Baby

Today, on this very day, I had the rare opportunity to be without children under the age of 25 so I decided to read a book, carefully selected as a last minute impulse buy at Sam's Club.  Can you still technically call it an impulse buy when you've wanted to read it since the day it was released? I am a huge fan of Ms. Fey on so many levels, it's like one of those old fashioned high rise department stores where each area is on a different floor.

First Floor - Feminist issues relating to women in the workplace, working mom's, i.e., guilt. Or breastfeeding vs. formula, i.e., guilt squared.  Which sounds an awful lot like quilt squared but in this case it is important to note the difference.

Second Floor - Normal girl raised with real world values becomes success. She had a kick ass dad she obviously adored but with a healthy dose of fear.  I didn't have that.  My dad was kick ass with an unhealthy dose of fear and an addiction or two to back up the crazy ass shit he did.  Nonetheless, I am trying to act like a girl raised with real world values who becomes a success.

Third Floor - Brilliant writer - enough said. I originally wrote "nough said", but that didn't sound like something Tina would write so I edited it or dare I say Feydited it.  Being a brilliant writer is all I ever wanted to be, or as Oprah puts it, my "ultimate truth".

Fourth Floor - Wife, mother, honest and real. Tough shit - the doubt; always and forever - it simply does not die.  Am I doing the right thing or do I need to save for therapy instead of college?

Fifth Floor - Aging. I am just a skosh older than Tina.  With all honesty, maybe it's more like a tad older.  But I am certainly in the ballpark, sitting right behind home plate. Her references to having a baby at 40, formerly known as "a change of life baby" resonated with me.  I clearly remember my mom and dad talking about the next door neighbors who had a "change of life" baby.  Born 10 years after the elder two, they scoffed at the very idea of it.  I distinctly remember thinking this was a change of life for the worse, which was implied by the mere tone in which it was delivered.  I had the unexpected pleasure of recently connecting with the elder cheerleader daughter via Facebook.  She who had so patiently and graciously tried to unsuccessfully mentor me into cheerleading. To make it perfectly clear, her lack of success had nothing to do with her skills as a cheerleader or as a mentor but more in part because those fucking tryouts were rigged and Deanna Jimboy got in just because she had cool older brothers who were sleeping with the judges and fucking Brenda Gizzi could do back hand spring like her hands were literally HAND SPRINGS.  I was clearly out of my league.

Sixth Floor - Men.  She invades and conquers the planet, Testosterune.  She blazes a path through the world of comedy with a quirky, unconventional style that allowes her to sneak under their highly evolved border patrol, electronic fences, battery of TV remotes and fart gas.  She emerges out of it alive, and fully functioning with actual reconnaissance of how they pee in cups and jars because they are too lazy to walk to the men's room. Early in my career, I recall asking some of the more 'seasoned' women in my office why the men disappear for 45 minutes to an hour each day with a newspaper tucked beneath their arms.  I later dared to go into a men's room in my building, after hours, for proof. Color me repulsed when I discovered they actually had reading bins in there where they would place their used, if not slightly soiled Wall Street Journal or The Daily Oklahoman for example.

I don't need to travel up any further in this particular department store for I've been sold.  I came away knowing I'm not the only woman who dared to have a baby after the age of forty (going a step above, I had twins).  I'm not the only woman to scratch and claw my way through a man's world yet as hard as I've fought, she still found a way to teach me a lesson.  I am all riled up to the point of facing her Sesame Street challenge.  Do I figure out a way to go over, under or through these obstacles placed in front of me?

She pierced through my shroud of guilt for not being able to successfully breastfeed after so much effort, expectation and did I mention effort?  She made it okay for me to dismiss those that shamed me for not trying harder.  All I have to do is think of her aptly named Bret Michael's move (read the book) to know I did everything I could possibly do and then some.

Finally, she left me feeling as if "everything would be fine", no matter what happens with the rest of my life.  Which made me remember that all the cheerleaders who were selected in the 7th grade ended up pregnant by Senior year.  Not that I'm judging, God forbid, because my life hasn't exactly been by the rule book, the good book or otherwise but I just wanted to point that out, you know, how happy I am about Brenda's springy hands and Deanna's sexy as hell brothers.

As this is a website dedicated to the female gender's words, read the damn book.  If not for any other reason than to arm yourself with the perennial, "I don't care if you like it" philosophy. It's called Bossypants.  Don't let the cover put you off.

And you, Tina Fey, Greek Goddess of Baby Poop, conveyor of classically, funny shit shall live with or without a great deal of anxiety.  Tina, I loved you, even before I knew you existed. Rock on, you pear-shaped, overrated troll, for the rest of us apple-shaped overrated ogres will follow you knowing our journey will be made easier as ogres are not required to think of clever riddles.

My childhood neighbor's change of life baby went on to become a successful doctor, noted for changing the lives of countless patients. I suspect Tina Fey will be resonating with me in the weeks and months to come as I strive to be a brilliant writer and a guilt-free mom.  Whether I have to go under, over or through, I wonder....which one of these things is not like the other, which one of these things just doesn't belong. And that is the essence of the book.

They both do.

Confessions of a weary feminist

I'm not in an egalitarian relationship. The division of labor in my household is a bunch of bullshit, it always has been. As we speak, there are dirty dishes in my sink, overflowing garbage cans that stink, unmade beds, coffee cups with solidified coffee rings inside them littered throughout the house, a list of groceries that need to be bought, meat that is going to rot if I don't make that stupid stew already and here I am typing away hoping to get through this post before I am asked what we're having for dinner.

When I have conversations about this with other women, I often say things like "but he's a really good cook". I say things to protect my image as a feminist and to protect his image as a good husband because I have these expectations for myself that I want met, and sometimes settling for appearance is the only way to make me feel like I'm winning.

But today I'm admitting to you, shamefully, that I'm losing and I'm not even throwing punches anymore. In a few minutes I'm gonna get off my ass and clean my house and he's not even gonna hear a peep about it. Because I'm goddamn tired.

There I said it. And I don't say it to vent, where we all shrug at the end and say "Oh, that's a man for you!" and then the next girl tells the story about how her hubby puts his wet towel on her pillow every day after his shower and then we move on to talking about shopping. That's probably more respectable than what I do, more contented. I say it cowering slightly behind my screen, eyes slightly squinted fearing the blow of judgement of other women I respect, but most importantly of myself.

And this brings me to what I find to be the most difficult thing about being a woman: never fucking measuring up by anyone's standards anywhere ever. In one way or another, I just don't make the cut and I'm weary in failure. You see, I have all these yardsticks I've been collecting over the years. They're the tools with which I measure myself against which have, without exception, told me I didn't quite cut the mustard: yardsticks of the family I was born into, the religion I grew up in, academia that I was formed in, the family that I married into, the working world that I'm immersed in, and the yardstick of knife-and-fire-ball-juggling women around me with their clean homes and ironed sheets and fulfilling careers and impeccable children, and finally my own yardstick that I've built out of feminism, the one that slaps me and shames me the hardest when I don't make the grade.

The thing is, I am finally starting to realize at 33 years old that the game is totally rigged, no matter the path I choose. But at this point I'm really out of breath and my muscles ache from all the race running and scoreboard watching. My path will always be the losing one. The only thing that can temporarily make me feel like I haven't failed completely is to effectively project an image of egalitarian perfection to those around me. But fuck, I'm not fooling myself, and I'm running out of air. I'm close to having burned all the yardsticks I've come across. But my own nags at me that I'm giving up the good fight by opting for peace in my home with the person I love.

But right now? I'm trying desperately to find balance and you know, live. You know, life?

'Jimmy, you know what that is? It's the shit that happens while you're waiting for moments that never come'.*

This is what I want now: to bear hug the life I never anticipated without suffocating the shit out of it while letting go of the tethered and discarded morsels of self respect I've clung to that have not allowed me to get a firm grip on happiness. This requires burning all my yardsticks, not just the ones that leave me liberated and enlightened.

I'm a feminist. I was one before I met him. I question how true I am to it now and the guilt towards myself that I carry for not fighting harder, a fight that may have eventually broken us as a couple, is harder than I ever imagined. But feminism was never meant to make anyone happy until it's goals were fully achieved. Right now, it's a war. And fuck, right now I just feel willing to make compromises for a peace treaty already and hope that the next generation can pick up where I left off.

*quote from The Wire