Welcome to my blog.

I grew up under the shadow of a little old revolution some of you may recall as the Women’s Liberation Movement. Which no doubt explained my boyish, cropped Dorothy Hamill haircut and the fact that I gladly let my brothers burn my Barbie Dolls to a crisp using leftover 4th of July fireworks.

My pro-women’s lib mama raised me to be strong, independent and as fierce as any man. Then, in my twenties when I informed her I was going to grad school to advance my career, her response was, “Why? You’re just going to have to give it up when you get married and have babies.”

My life is chock filled with such ironies.

Like, I graduated with highest honors and landed a kick-butt first job, yet still had to water my boss’s plants and look the other way when he pinched my butt.

Like, I once wrote half of a screenplay about how I didn’t believe in marriage, yet just celebrated my 13th wedding anniversary.

Like, I find ZERO fulfillment from housework, yet found myself foaming at the mouth over the prospect of getting a Dyson Vacuum. (Yes, Men. It’s the one domestic gift she won’t neuter you for getting her).

And, though I never had a maternal bone in my body, God blessed me with–count ’em– three kids. Then I got hired by Graco Baby to give advice to expecting moms. I kid you not.

Oh, and nobody ever taught me to cook, yet people expect me to do it on a daily basis in spite of the results. Uhm, really??

And, like, I’ve never even read Betty Friedan’s penultimate women’s lib book, the Feminine Mystique, yet it influenced my grrrlhood even more then Tiger Beat, Seventeen Magazine and Cosmo COMBINED. And I used to read those rags monthly, from cover to cover.

But the one thing I couldn’t learn from my mom or the women’s movement is that life happens in spite of what you plan or believe, and you can shake your hand and curse your fate, or shake yourself off and laugh. I’ve chosen the second route. Instead of worrying about having it all, I’ve learned to be moronically happy with what I’ve got. Which, it turns out, is way more than I could have ever dreamed of back when I was a young Betty Friedan in training, watching Barbie Dolls burn in my backyard.

And that, my friends, is the biggest irony of all.

This blog is my place to laugh about all the moronic and oxymoronic things that make up my reality and the world at large. Like Frederick Nietzsche once said (or was it Kelly Clarkson?), “What doesn’t kill you…would make a great blog post.”

How about you? What ironies smack you in the face on a daily basis? Do tell me in the comments.

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