Hello…FTM Friday! Remember me?

Yeah, I don’t either. Whatever.

So this week we’re going to A.) Move away from body products (but only temporarily! I have way more recipes people.) and B.) Pretend like it hasn’t been three weeks since I did one of these posts.

Mmmkay?

And now you must get really, really freaking excited, cause I’m going to share with you a recipe for laundry detergent. Now, most of the recipes here on FTM Friday are of the chemical-free variety. This one is more of the cheap-as-hell variety. Check it out: Since January, I’ve spent approximately $8.00 on laundry detergent. Put that in your pipe and fucking smoke it.

(the concept, not necessarily the laundry detergent.)

Anyway I haven’t done a bunch of research on Fels Naptha or Zote soap, borax or washing soda, so I really don’t know how many chemicals are in them. I do know, however, that I cannot afford the organic chemical-free kind (can anybody?) and I’m SURE there are fewer chemicals in this stuff than the cheapest brand at Costco (which is the alternative for me).

So this stuff is super cheap, works well (my husband is an ironworker. The man is dirty.), and does not destroy HE washers. I did research this stuff in advance to make sure it works for HE washers, and everybody said “yes,” but I wanted to give it a few months so I could report back to you.

Anyway here’s the recipe. DO IT.

Stop being a lazy ass and fucking TRY IT.

(I got the recipe from this website, which is rad by the way, but I double the recipe and added a bit of essential oil, cause I’m wild like that.)

Homemade Laundry Detergent

–          2 Bars (14 oz) Fels-Naptha or Zote Soap

–          4 C Arm & Hammer Super Washing Soda (not baking soda people)

–          4 C Borax

–          Some lavender essential oil (I dunno, 40 drops?)

So the first thing you do is get your food processor out. Apparently you can grate the soap by hand but SCREW THAT NOISE. I’d rather pay the extra $20. Anyway I’ve tried both Fels-Naptha and Zote soap. I prefer the Fels-Naptha because it grates easier in the food processor. However, the Zote is pink. So honestly, it’s a bit of a toss-up.

Also, this recipe makes enough detergent for a few months. I’m not interested in getting my food processor out every 2 months, so that’s that. Cut it in half if you just want to try it.

Anyway cut the soap into three of four pieces and use the “pulse” setting to grate them. Make them small (see photo). I don’t know, like steel-cut oat size? Whatever. Then stir it up with the borax and washing soda. Then use it. I use 2 tablespoons for standard nastiness and up to 4 for “What the fuck happened here” loads.

Also, I also used a recipe that was 1 to 1 to 1 (1 bar soap, 1 cup borax, 1 cup washing soda). That worked just as well, but I thought I’d share this one with you since it’s the one I’m currently using. Try both of them, use your favorite.

The point here is that we become more self-sufficient, more chemical-free, and more economically sound.

So quit your goddamned whining and make some laundry soap.

Where the hell do I find this crap? Well, if you don’t mind burning eternally in HELL, you can get it all at Walmart. If you’re in California, CVS drug stores sell it. Maybe Target? Haven’t looked there. Do not buy it off Amazon. The bastards charge obscene amounts. If you know where to buy this other than Walmart or CVS, please comment and share your knowledge.

And you know I love you. I only talk like this because I care.

Now fucking do it.

It’s a family affair! Bonding! Time together!

(No seriously the stirring sucks. Make somebody else do it.)

1. Sometimes camping trips are fun. Sometimes your eldest daughter vomits in the tent, at 4am, somehow managing to not only hit THREE sleeping bags, but also your purse, but not the outside of the purse, THE INSIDE. Right inside.
2. I can’t make this shit up.
3. At times like that, one must recognize the need to fold. There’s no hand to play. Not the time to fight, pull through, power forward. That’s the time to throw in the vomit-stained towel, pack your shit, and leave.
4. That was this morning at 4am. I should not be writing this. I should be hanging with my beloved friends on a lake in the Tahoe National Forest. At least I should be just rolling into my driveway, after spending the day lakeside, among the pines and the mountain air, crystal water and California sunshine. But alas, being a gracious and loving mother, I came home for my poor sick daughter.
5. Half that sentence was a lie. I came home, but I didn’t do it graciously. Or lovingly.
6. In fact, I was a royal bitch about it. I acted like a horrible little kid not getting her way. You see, I had been looking forward to this trip as the light at the end of a long, dark miserable tunnel, and when it was cut short, I fell into a most impressive state of self-pity. Seriously, I felt like stomping my feet and refusing to participate (but what about meeeee!!!?). Instead, I just scowled and stomped around and assumed the martyr position.
7. Anyway I’m over it. Once again I learn old Will was right: “Expectation is the root of all heartache.” Shakespeare and the Buddhists – obviously they figured out something. I expected too much out of that trip. After months of no break, of excruciating exhaustion and almost ceaseless pressure, I staked it ALL on this trip. It was going to be The Thing that set me right again. Ah, fuck.
8. Hopefully you all are still somewhere cool for the long weekend…enjoying yourselves. WAH POOR ME. On your way home tomorrow, to tune out the sound of children asking 12,000 unanswerable questions, perhaps you can check out the podcast “One Bad Mother” with Biz Ellis & Theresa Thorn. They are funny, down-to-earth women who aren’t afraid of the occasional f-bomb. I was super honored (and terrified) to be on their show. You can listen here. Please do, and tell me what you think. {You can find their Facebook page here.}
9. Speaking of thinking, I did some of that Friday afternoon as I was driving from Sacramento up to the mountains. I was thinking that I graduated with an M.A. in English, on Friday, at 3pm. Wore the robe and everything. It’s done. Off and on for 7 years I worked for that fucker. And finally, I finished it.
10. Specifically, I was thinking about how five years ago I was sleeping in my car, but on Friday I graduated with an M.A. And this isn’t earth-shattering and it isn’t amazing and it’s barely even interesting in some circles, but it’s enough to blow me right out of the water, because it’s proof. Proof that nobody can tell me lives don’t turn around, people don’t change, or that some are just born losers, to die unchanged.

You see this picture? It says one thing. It says “there is hope in every lost cause.”

There’s hope in every single one of your lost causes, in human form or any form, I can promise you that.

And that’s a damn nice thing to know.

Thanks for traveling this road with me, you keep me rollin’ on.

with love,

Janelle

There’s that line from When Harry Met Sally: “You look like a normal person, but actually, you are the angel of death.”

We should rewrite that about Meg: “You look like the epitome of marital felicity, but actually, you are the destroyer of marriages.”

Oh come on. I know Meg Ryan doesn’t write the scripts for those romantic comedies. Duh. I realize there’s a good chance she thinks that stuff is inane drivel, but you have to admit, Ms. Ryan and her perky blonde curls, the unbelievably heartfelt love stories she tells, the “true love,” the best friendship, the soul mate stuff…she’s like the quintessential depiction of “all that a marriage should be.”

Or, as I like to call it “The Shit that Ruins Marriages.”

Let me explain: We watch movies like that from the time we’re young and it gives us ideas. Expectations. Beliefs.

And then we meet that special someone and we’re all “OMG I’ve found my soul mate, just like in the movies!”

And we’re just SURE he’s the one and the love story is coming true and OMG it’s all so good.

But then we get married, and one or two or three years later we’re like “Who is this douchebag and why is he in my house?”

And every day feels like work and work and MORE WORK. You hate your husband and he pretty much hates you.

There’s no romance. There’s only confusion and miscommunication and yelling and silence. There are tears and reflection of the “old days” when you were new to the relationship and actually liked each other. And you’re sure you’ve made a tragic mistake. Something’s happened to your marriage; the love has died. The friendship has flickered. Something is terribly wrong.

And all you can do when nobody’s around is think: But it’s not supposed to be like this! Marriage is supposed to be fulfilling! It’s supposed to be fun and interesting and enlightening! We’re supposed to laugh and flirt and have sex on the kitchen floor. Witty banter, coy smiles, dancing!

No, that’s not it. And since nobody else seems to be saying it, I guess I’ll take the plunge and just throw this out: “Marriage is the hardest fucking work in the world and the only thing that makes it last is bulldog-like tenacity and full acceptance of the fact that your partner is not supposed to give your life meaning.”

I can’t believe I just said that out loud.

But it’s true.

I’m no authority on marriage. OBVIOUSLY.

But sometimes, my friends get married. Then, about a year later, I get a phone call or fifty, generally announcing something along the lines of “I made a mistake. I hate being married. Screw this shit.”

And I’m like, “Yes, well. Welcome to the club.”

Them: “This is nothing like what I expected.”

Me: “Yeah. I know.”

Them: “I’m not fulfilled. This is totally not fulfilling. In fact, I hate the motherfucker.”

Me: “Yeah. I know.”

Them: “How did you and Mac make it so long?”

Me: “We didn’t divorce.”

And then there’s a weird silence while they try to think of a friend to call who’s actually helpful.

Having gotten married too young on a cold December day with a baby in a sling across my body, under a tree in front of a courthouse of a hideous town, dressed in all black, I started my marriage in a highly unromantic way.

We were insanely in love when we first met. You can read about it here. But after that, for a variety of reasons (mostly involving immaturity and Captain Morgan), we spent years and years doing everything in our power to obliterate our little love story. We often loathed one another.

Like seriously hated each other. We separated a couple times, but always came back together. I just never left for good. Why?

You want the truth?

Because I couldn’t stomach the thought of another woman being around my children.

Yeah, I know. It’s profound. Super romantic. Real Sleepless in Seattle shit.

But it’s the truth. I’m telling you this so you understand that THAT is how little “love” I felt. I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t feel it. All I knew is that I didn’t want a broken family. So I held on and held on and so did he and I’ll be damned if eleven years later, we’re still here, and we’re doing alright.

Most of the time. The rest of the time it’s yelling and screaming and wishing I could whack him with blunt objects. But that’s rare these days. Much to my astonishment, it’s pretty rare. And I’ll even say, we’re happy.

But nobody talks about the price you have to pay to get that “happy.” The longed-for “happy marriage.” Nobody talks about the screaming and the agony and the silent nights – after night, after night, of the same. The cruel insults and utter dismissal. The depression. The counseling. The soul-crushing inability to connect with a person you used to feel inextricably connected to.

The moment you realize “Whatever. Fuck it. I guess this is as good as it gets.”

And you surrender.

Because there’s nowhere  else to go and the thought of starting over with a NEW MAN is about as appealing as stabbing yourself in the eye with a razor blade, so you just give up. You “resign” yourself, even though you swore you’d never do such a thing…I mean how SAD! How pathetic!

You’ve sold out. It’s over. You’ve never been so down.

And in that moment of total desperation, in the deepest sorrow you’ve ever felt, the insane thought enters your mind… “Maybe marriage isn’t supposed to ‘fulfill’ me.”

Maybe I’m meant to live my life fully and completely and let him live his, and independently we build this thing together, but separately, and I let him be and he lets me be, because the “change each other” plan isn’t working, and I can’t live with him and I can’t live without him.

Maybe those movies were wrong, you think to yourself. Maybe Meg fucking Ryan lied.

Maybe I had it all wrong.

And with your heart in your gut and the surety your life is over, you stop fighting and accept the douchebag for who he is, and you make peace with the fact that he’ll never fully meet your expectations, he’ll never be your perfect “soul mate,” the one who makes your life whole and full and meaningful like the italicized poetry in those Hallmark cards.

[Alright maybe some people have Hallmark marriages from day one. Yeah, well, some people also experience “orgasms” during childbirth. The only thing to do with those people is assume they’re fucking lying and move on.]

For the rest of us, staying married often feels like stepping into an abyss and falling, forever, into the unknown.

Until two or three or four years go by, and one day you’re sitting on the couch with that same man and you break into laughter about something only you two understand, or you tell a friend about 10 years ago, when you first met, or you see him sleeping with your son curled against his chest, and in a flash you realize you’re desperately, terribly in love. That something has happened when you weren’t looking, that some new man stands before you and you hold him in respect with all your heart and there’s admiration and true, lasting friendship. He’s there, still, through history and hell and somehow, a life built itself while you were busy arguing, tearing each other apart, sure this couldn’t possibly be life.

And like war survivors you think back and know you’ve got each other only, a dark crazy history, and a family so gorgeous it makes your head spin.

My god, you think, I’ve got a goddamned love story.

And with everything you’ve got you want to thank your younger self and the universe for not giving up, for staying there, for this, even though you never knew it possible, to have this, with the man you were sure you “didn’t love anymore.”

You sit back, watching your friends get married, still a little amazed they look at you and him as a picture of a “happy marriage.” But mostly you can’t believe you really are happy, usually, and in love, mostly, and okay with all of it, the way it’s turned out, in the big picture, the only picture that really matters.

A Meg Ryan love story.

Fused perfectly with Apocalypse Now.

In the greatest love story ever told.

Or this, which is good enough for me.

Everybody’s always trying to figure out how to do it right.

What’s “best” for my children? What can I do to raise the healthiest, most well-adjusted kids possible?

How can I do it “right?”

Well I think we should reframe this whole discussion into a simple recognition that we’re doing it all wrong.

Everything we do, it’s wrong.

Every decision is the wrong decision. And I have proof. Check this out.

If you have a hospital birth you run the risk of being bullied and manipulated by misogynistic OB/GYNs determined to cut you.

But if you have a homebirth, you’ll probably kill your baby.

So there’s that.

And then, once the kid comes out, you will fail. If you circumcise your boy you’ve engaged in genital mutilation and will have most likely set off a disturbing chain of events in the child’s psyche, possibly resulting in a fascination with burning puppies.

But if you don’t, your kid’s gonna get HIV. And you’re a dirty ass hippie.

If you vaccinate, your kid will probably get autism. If you don’t vaccinate you’re a leach sucking the life out of society and bringing back preventable diseases.

So basically, killing all the people.

Breastfeeding? You’re tied to your kid and undoing years of feminist work. Also you’re ruining your tits and will never be hot again.

Not breastfeeding? Wow. Really nice of you to give your kid brain damage, ADHD and a propensity toward obesity.

Cosleeping? Your children are overly-dependent and will not leave your bed until they’re 19 (if they’re lucky enough to even live that long, since you’ll most likely SMOTHER THEM before that). Also your sex life will die and you’ll never sleep again.

Putting baby in a crib? Hello, attachment issues. Babies need their parents, not a CAGE! If you want to stick something in a cage why don’t you get a rabbit? Also you’ll never sleep again.

Working out of the home? Your children are suffering from your absence. They need a MOTHER, not more MONEY. Teen pregnancy and drug use a sure future.

Stay-at-home mom? Well since you don’t work you can’t afford the character-building activities that turn your children into well-rounded individuals. Teen pregnancy and drug use a sure future.

Involved in everything your kids do? Helicopter parenting. You’re creating entitled lazy asses.

Involved in nothing? Hands-off parenting. Why did you even have kids? Kids need parental involvement to succeed. Studies have proven it.

Private school? Your kids are receiving a skewed version of reality wherein everybody’s wealthy and hyper-educated. Learn nothing of the real world.

Public school? Learn too much of the real world. Pushed into non-thinking followers of society. Worker-bees. Nothing ruins a kid like public school.

Well except maybe homeschool.

Homeschool creates social derelicts. Everybody knows that.

Let your kids play with guns, raise serial killers.

Don’t let your kids play with guns? No worries, they’ll chew their pretzel into one.

Barbies? Your daughter requests breast implants at age 13.

No Barbies? Your daughter becomes so obsessed with Barbies she ends up jacking one from Walmart and you get taken by CPS for raising a little hoodlum.

Have TV in your home? Brainwash your kids.

No TV? Raise out-of-touch weirdos. Go fucking nuts because you can’t get a break, which increases irritability and thus yelling, which we all know ruins children.

Speaking of yelling, do you fight with your partner in front of your kids? Well, that sucks. Way to create an unstable, unsafe home environment.

Don’t ever fight with your partner in front of the kids? Nice. Now they have NO EXAMPLE of conflict resolution and will never communicate well.

We could go on like this all day.

Always vacation with your kids? If you don’t vacation alone with your spouse your marriage is going to fizzle out and die, ending in divorce.

Vacation without your kids? How are they ever going to see the world? You’re a self-centered asshole.

Stay in the same house for 20 years? Raise sheltered children afraid of the world.

Move?  Without stability, your children will seek shelter and grow afraid of the world.

And so…what’s the moral of this story?

What does it mean that we’re going everything wrong?

Well, lest my brain deceive me, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t mean we’re doing everything RIGHT.

It’s simple logic: if everything is wrong, then nothing could possibly be right, which then makes everything neither right nor wrong, but rather the same. Equal.

Cost, benefit. Advantage, disadvantage. Right, wrong. Yin and yang and shit.

Playing field, LEVELED.

So sit back and enjoy your failure.

Since there’s no other option, we might as well embrace it, have fun, and raise some fucking well-adjusted children…you know, by doing everything, WRONG.

Just like we’ve been doing since the beginning of time.

Do you know why?

Because motherhood can take it. Because there is nothing stronger.

I can tear it up, brutalize it, make fun of it in every way possible, tease the darkest corners, shed light in the most covered places…and yet she stands undiminished, untouched. She barely hears me. She raises a disinterested brow for a moment, maybe, but then goes on, being her.

The queen.

Like the friend with whom all barriers are broken, motherhood and I have gone the lengths. We’ve already beaten each other, or tried: She won. We’ve stood face to face in the firing line.

I’ve fought her in a million rings. She wins every time.

I’ve told her to get out. I’ve laughed in her face. I’ve sworn I would force her out.

She sits like a ghost in the easy chair. Never moves a muscle.

You know she’s dished out more than I can ever give with my words, on this blog or a thousand blogs.

She made me a woman I wasn’t ready to become. She throws me every day into the mercy of the universe: through pregnancy, birth, parenthood – my whole existence begs for my kids to keep living, for their hearts to keep beating, for their feet to find loving ground, from the moments of their births I’ve been enslaved. To her. To them.

And yet not.

For I am myself still, independently, and I’ve got this mind and heart and ambition, and it appears I’ll never fully reconcile the two.

There’s nothing gentle about that.

You think a mother’s love is gentle?

Think again.

My love will kick your ass. Don’t believe me? Try to hurt my kid.

My love is a muddy soldier charging enemy lines. Why? Because there is no other choice. This is where we are. This is what we’re doing. It doesn’t matter that I’m tired and broken and somewhat disinterested. It doesn’t matter that it’s Saturday or I’m alone or my last baby passed away.

You get up. You move your feet. Motherhood wins again.

sweat and blood and work. grit and dirt and bruises.

I’m dragged through the mud crying, but begging for it never to change.

Please don’t leave me, motherhood. I’m nothing without you. But I wish, sometimes, you’d kindly go fuck yourself.

My love is the struggle of a drowning man catching air. My tenacity will amaze you.

My love is woman offering her breast to a starving child, knowing there’s no milk.

My love would kill me in an instant, for my baby.

And it would kill you too, for my baby.

Do you think she gets hurts feelings when I make fun of her, when I belittle her, when I voice my little fears and agonies and jab at her ribs?

You think she cares?

No. She doesn’t. Because motherhood has nothing to prove. She’s the one with the power and she knows it. WE BOTH KNOW IT. The one with the power sits back and relaxes. No bluster or fear.

I’m like an annoying puppy nipping at her heels. She kicks me aside without a word.

She knows I’ve got nothing on her, and I’ll kneel at her feet in adoration at any moment, because she’s given it all to me: my heart, my future, my life, in separate souls, these babies who caught me up in their gorgeous little hands and touched my head, with a kiss: “Mama.”

And I’ll fall at her knees to hear that voice again, to hear it always, to know it’s still me.

And I’ll fight whatever fight’s necessary to make her keep on loving me, motherhood. I’ll fight for you, you sick twisted fuck.

Knowing you are eating me alive, each day as I wake up exhausted without any answers, lying on the floor searching for peace, to know how to give the girl what she needs, and the boy eyes to read, and the baby. I’m just gone too much.

And I’m just so in love.

So yes, world, this Mother’s Day, you’ll find me talking shit about motherhood.  You’ll find me laughing my ass off. You’ll find me dripping with sarcasm and saying things I shouldn’t  in an unfeminine and unladylike manner. And you’ll say I’m diminishing a mother’s value.

But I disagree.

I just want to know: Why do I bother you so? My tongue, my attitude, my rugged irreverence?

What about the grit, the incredibly HARD WORK of my life makes you so uncomfortable?

Does it not fit your marketing, your Hallmark card? Does it make your Lifetime movie seem irrelevant? Do you have to rethink your own mother?

Or are you afraid? Are you just simply terrified?

To see us as we are….or can be…?

fierce, mouthy warriors,

fighters and shit-talkers.

Soldiers.

Burly and ripped and sweaty and so goddamn powerful, the toughest motherfuckers you’ve ever seen,

yet

offering the softest breast to a petal mouth seeking, a feather brush on a newborn’s cheek, the most delicate pink, a baby’s soft spot, a “hush” from a loving mouth, she enfolds a tiny creature of perfect vulnerability into stone security, a broken little being —

catching the exhausted of the world in muscle-ripped arms,

pulling small falling hands into her own calloused palms,

and kissing them a thousand times, sending them on their way, to build their own.

the mother.

Is it too much for you, that we exist like this, in perfect contradiction? Is it too much for you that we are all of it, right now, at once?

Then go. Good riddance.

If you can’t take our heat, get the hell out of our kitchens.

Your bellies aren’t the ones we’re living to fill anyway.

And honestly, motherhood doesn’t have time for this shit.

And we aren’t going to write a new story for you, because it’s more palatable, more pleasant. We aren’t going to invent something to soothe your desires.

This is us. This is it.

This is Mother’s Day….

the softest, fiercest mama love…