The Jobless Goddess

This may be uncomfortable for some, but when did breastfeeding become so ridiculously in vogue?          You’re going to take something women have been doing since Eve and make it some kind of crazy badge of honor? Put pictures of it all over the Internet and chastise the crazy people who are offended by it? Has it really come to this? This is what we’ve come up with?          There’s the pumping and the lawsuits and the magazine covers and the celebrities. What happens to those women who just can’t for whatever reason nurse their babies? Are they now supposed to feel less mommyish or just less in general? Seriously, we’ve come to the point where we just make up shit to judge people by.          That’s where we are.          I’m not big on the judging. Oh I’ve done my share, believe me. But the older I get the more I fee...

             Thankfully, I’m experienced in the ways of the unemployed because it just happened again. Believe me, my first response was, “Lord, I’m getting too old for this shit.”         I kept that to myself, however, when they took me downstairs away from everyone else to tell me my job was being “eliminated.” I’ve never liked that word. It sounds a lot like getting rid of something distasteful. Like waste or vomit or something. So, I just sort of sat there wondering how I was going to drive home and tell my husband. I've always left a job on my terms. I’ve never been eliminated before.        My husband was a champ. He said all the right things like he’ll be glad I’m home so he can see more of me. Don’t be hasty. File for unemployment and relax for a little while. Now I can help him with his upholstery work. I shouldn’t feel bad; it’s not my fault. He loves me. We’ll be fine.   ...

   Mother’s Day. Wow. If that doesn’t fuck up some women, I don’t know what will.    My own mother, she was a goddamn stark-raving, strong-woman cursing kind of saint. She didn’t play. You ask anybody, they’re all still scared of Doris and she’s been dead for almost eight years.     She always looked good. She had great legs and she damn well knew it. She was all of 115 pounds and maybe 5 foot 2 on a very good day. Then there was my dad of course. They must’ve met when she was like 15. Love at first gonad or something. They met, they married, they procreated. They fought. They loved. They taught us stuff and then they fought again. Their engagement photos stare down at me as I type now.    Honestly, if you asked any of my cousins, they’d all be a little bit afraid of both of them. Imagine what their children feel. A bit of awe and a bit of fear that maybe they’ll come down from whatever world Jesus allowed them to enter and still...

    I've won every pie-eating contest I've entered. Granted, it's only been twice.  This happened two years in a row at the Arnold Park picnic. I'm not entirely certain but I think I was about 10 or 11 at the time. The second year, my little brother Eric won in his division.     What I do remember clearly is that we buried our faces in Hostess cherry fruit pies set up on picnic tables under the burning mid-western sun. The winner in each age category was rewarded with several Hostess products and a $25 savings bond. I could use that $25 about now.    We had to go to the picnic every year because my dad was on the park board or something really important like that. Plus, there were rides and games and tons of junk food, hence the cherry fruit pies.   That picnic was the mainstay of our summer vacation. The fact that my little brother managed to excel at pie eating and win alongside me was just icing on the cake for our family. Eric even...

I’ve got a legitimate question. Why is it that no matter how many grape tomatoes and kale salads I pack in my lunch, my middle still looks like I swallowed the Michelin Man? I’m beginning to look like a preschool drawing; a big circle with twigs sticking out of it. I realize I have the Guinness family to thank for some of this, but surely after months of never-before-attempted consistent exercise and more steamed broccoli than a pack of wild vegetarians could possibly consume, I should be able to add pants with zippers to my wardrobe by now. It could be genetics, and if so, then why God, didn’t I take after my mother? I don’t think she ever wore anything with a double digit. Of course, she did eat like a bird, except when it came to black jelly beans and her morning doughnut. The only thing I can come up with is that I’m over 50 now and I have stretched my skin so far over the years that it has to accumulate someplace and it decided to hang out right at centerfield. What’s...