Hey. Have you checked out my new blog yet? Now is a great time to stop by because I'm giving stuff away!

The "My Label Maker is broken this week" shirts are ready!

Snort, now that's a party I'd attend.

Oh fuck, Zoot. I know how that goes and I'm hating it along with you.

And more crap news for Julia. This sucks ass.

This week especially, I love this story.

"But fuck, you guys (not 'FUCK YOU, guys')"

Seriously, who links to Dooce anymore? I do! Because she's fucking funny, that's why!

Yay, more drama…

Anal Amigo,

You know I love newborn pictures, and these are awesome.

Guest post by Jennifer Magnuson of Get In The Car!

Like a lot of you reading this, I'm a mom at home with my kids. I happen to have four, so things at my house are usually hopping like Senor Frog's in Cancun during Spring Break. Minus the tequila and table dancing. Okay, just minus the table dancing.

It wasn't always this way for me. Not too long ago, I worked "outside of the home" in a career that focused on helping others. I was a social worker, and I really enjoyed it. Now, I do the same thing, only my family is my biggest client, and the pay isn't so good, but the perks are obviously better.

But I'm still me. I'm still the girl who roller skated to Pat Benatar's Hit Me with Your Best Shot. I'm still the young woman who finished college, married her boyfriend, and in the blink of an eye owned a home in the 'burbs and was amazed that milk actually came out of her breasts to feed the little stranger that had grown inside of her. Because I was pretty sure mine wouldn't do that. I was only play-acting at being a grownup.

Recently I have been thinking a lot about what it means to be a stay at home mom. Aside from the annoying moniker, it amuses, angers, and befuddles me when I consider the relatively stagnant status of women who choose to care for their children in lieu of a career.

I recently reread a passage from Gloria Steinam's Revolution from Within where she writes of her childhood in the fifties and sixties, noting

In my memory of those times and that place, men were valued by what they did, women by how they looked and then by what their husbands did, and all of life was arranged (or so we thought) from the outside in.

Imagine my surprise to read this, fifteen years after it was published, and forty years after her childhood and thinking, "But it is still like this in much of our country."

This, in America, home of the enlightened woman with the same rights, privileges and status accorded to men, right? Riiight.

Not too long ago I was with my family at a function sponsored by my husband's company. He's the "Big Boss" and has a few hundred people working for him, the majority of whom are women. I was standing around with my kids when some woman came up to me and introduced herself as having worked for my husband for some time. She added that he was the best boss she'd ever had and she really enjoyed working for him. I nodded, smiled, and thanked her. I get this a lot, and I am always resisting the urge to laugh inappropriately. As she was about to leave, she turned to me and said, "What's it like?"

"Um. What's what like?"

"You know, living with your husband."

And the way she said it, well, it was nauseating. I don't remember what I said, but it was forced, chirpy and probably something like, "Oh, he keeps us on our toes."

Yeah.

When I'm volunteering in the community, whether by sitting on a board or grading spelling tests at one of my kids' schools, I am always asked the same thing. Are you sure you've got time to do this? You have four kids! They mean it as a compliment, I'm sure, but I am always asked this. Always. Especially if the project I'm pursuing has nothing to do with my family and is just something I enjoy (like writing). I asked my husband if he was ever asked how he "does it" with four kids and a wife. In a word, no. He's not asked because of the foregone conclusion that he has a woman at home tending to the little details that make up the rest of his life.

And the looks thing? It doesn't bear writing about, we are all so aware of how our appearance is our calling card. It's the most succinct way to announce our socioeconomic status, our age, and our self-discipline. It also erroneously labels our intelligence, education, personality and trustworthiness. And while everyone is victim to this unfair mode of categorization, we all know that women are more harshly graded. As for stay at home moms, well, we all know what the stereotypes are.

What I'm getting at is this. How is it that it's 2007 and the words of Gloria Steinam's childhood still ring true for many of us? How can we change this? How can we create another revolution? Because I believe that we can. I believe that if we harnessed the collective creative energies of all the wonderful moms who blog (both working and "non-working") we could change the world. And that includes equal respect for moms, regardless of their career choices, and while we're at it, childcare and healthcare for all! By the way, when I volunteered to write this guest blog, I wasn't asked if I could manage it with four kids. I think Erika knew exactly how I'd get it done. And that, friends, is the first step toward our revolution.

Guest post by Jennifer Magnuson of Get In The Car!

Whoa, that's quite ballsy. I'm thinking that long-term it is for the best. The short-term sure sucks though.

Go read it. Today.

And another bit of news you can use.

The importance of strangers in my life comes out every day in blogging too. Nice to see it in person.

Fabulous giveaway!

SNORT!

And everyone's favorite slogan is now a T-shirt. Get one now!

Guest post by Anonymous

Once upon a time there was a lovely young girl. She was very smart and quite lovely. She spent too many years knocking around with the wrong men but was pleasantly surprised to find the right one after so much time wasted with those not worthy of her attention. Mr. Right soon became her better half and in short order they bought a home, planned their family and had an essentially fun and satisfying life.

They were blessed before long with several children in rapid succession. The lovely girl was a terrific and caring mother. She made parenting seem second nature and anyone looking in from the outside would have believed her to be born with a babe on her hip. She was an amazing parent and rarely lost either her temper or her enthusiasm for raising her children.

The lovely girl though had a history of back pain predating any of her pregnancies. Having several children with little relief for her body exacerbated the inflammation. She went the the Doctor, several even. Living though in a place were medical care was scarce as the condition worsened was really unfortunate because instead of ever being examined, the Doctors addressed the pain with prescriptions. Many, many prescriptions.

The lovely girl then moved to a place where medical care was thankfully more thorough and found a neurologist who discovered what she had actually been dealing with was an extremely compromised and damaged disk. The kind Doctor was easy on the prescriptions, heavy on recommending physical therapy as corrective action. Sadly, as thorough as was his attempt, he didn't ask all of the right questions. Or possibly he did and was lied to; of that I can't be certain. Because as sure as they breathe, addicts lie.

My sister is addicted to pain-killers. My sister is currently in a methadone program wherein she drives thirty miles from home every morning at 530am to get her daily dose. She then returns home to the suburbs and attempts to resume her life as an awesome mother while at the same time living with the crushing guilt and shame of being an addict.

My sister is an addict. My sister takes methadone. My sister was spending a metric ton of cash and fully half her days scoring her fix on the street. My sister is a mother. A wife. An otherwise productive and contributing member of society. Nobody you would fear leaving alone in your home, with your kids or with your medicine cabinet. The only significant distinction between my sister and a crack-head is that she is living in a suburban home and there is viable medical treatment available for her drug of choice.

I've long suspected something was wrong. I questioned, I shouted, I guilted. I cast aspersions on her parenting skills, looked askance at her husband for not helping more, for not being more supportive. I blamed. I yelled. I insulted. I accused. But, like the Doctor, I didn't ask the right questions. I didn't get the right answers. I didn't suspect what, in hindsight, should have been obvious. With addiction and recovery comes shame, embarrassment, worry, anxiety and none of that is exclusive to the person driving to get methadone every day just to survive.

I'm not petty or self involved enough to make my sister's addiction about me. It's not something I caused, something I can cure or something I can even speak to with any convincing degree of knowledge. I only just found out today. I had to tell our parents (with my sister's permission but with the caveat they cannot mention it, ask about it, inquire about it or make reference to it until my sister brings it up). I may not be able to control her behavior or the addiction but I can find out as much as I can, fortify myself with facts and resources and focus on being as supportive and kind as I have been suspicious and callous.

I want my sister to recover. I want my sister's kids to be not robbed of their fantastic mother. I even want my brother-in-law to have again the wife he loves so dearly that he lived the torture of being aware of the problem but being unable to speak of it or ask for assistance. As is usually the case, he wanted to protect my sister and her secret. As usual, the exposure of the secret was a great relief to all involved; my sister had the weight of secrecy lifted, her husband had the weight of being sole support and caretaker lightened and my family had the salve of questions answered. Addiction is mired in shadows of deceit; recovery should be out and proud and broadcast to the world. There is no shame in being an addict seeking treatment; the shame of it is when treatment isn't available or sought and the addict feels hopeless, helpless and strapped with desperation.

Once an addict, always an addict, as the saying goes, right? I prefer to think of it as once my sister, always my sister. And we will, eventually, live happily ever after.

If you or someone you know is facing a problem with addiction. Please call 866-575-8188 or visit TreatmentFinder.com.

Guest post by Anonymous

Thanks Melanie for passing along the tragic story at A Pile of Dog Bones. They just lost their 5 year old son in a swimming pool accident. I would imagine that words of support are appreciated, and there is also a way for you to donate to the family if you would like.