I’m not a feminist because…


I get it, ok. We’re all supposed to be pissed about gender inequality and what not.
Don’t take your husband’s last name! Make him wash his own clothes and cook his own meals! We should make the same amount of money and be allowed to get abortions! Free the nipple, blah blah blah…

 Whatever. I get where some of you are coming from.

But am I the only one who actually likes gender roles? I f*&%ing love gender roles. And I’m not sorry.

I think making your man a home-cooked meal is an act of love, not submissiveness.

I think cleaning up after him is nurturing – it doesn’t make you his personal slave.

Taking his last name doesn’t mean you’re giving up your identity.

But you know what else is cool? MALE GENDER ROLES! If I cook and clean, I can be like “Hey babe, change my tire, unclog the toilet, open this jar, etc. etc. etc.”

 Last night I had this same conversation with my bf and he literally said “I think if you unclogged a sink or toilet, I wouldn’t fully trust it..”

The feminist in me would’ve been like “Wait, just because I’m a woman, you don’t think I’m physically capable of plunging shit out of a toilet?”

But the more honest version of me spoke up and said “THANK GOD.” 

If you ask me, in America, we have it pretty good. Could we bridge that gender wage gap a bit? Sure. But if you ask me, I don’t wanna be equal to men. We have advantages and disadvantages.

I don’t hear any men complaining and asking for uteruses.

Before I get attacked by feminists, everyone is entitled to their own opinions. Some women prefer to do the heavy lifting. Some men prefer to cook and clean. To each his own. I’m just saying, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with conforming to gender roles, because quite frankly, I’d 100% rather cook a meal or do some laundry than mow a lawn.

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Conversations with a 5-year-old: Why do we have nipples?


This week on Conversations with Baby, we touched on the topic of breastfeeding.

Before you all start judging me about what a terrible person I am for telling my 5-year-old sister about breast-feeding, you should know that she was unknowingly molesting my dog.

Rewind to a couple days ago, when Baby came up to me holding my poor little mutt around the middle. Luna was struggling to get out of the sticky 5-year-old’s hands, but Baby wasn’t having it.

“What are THESE?” She exclaimed, “LUNA HAS BUMPS ON HER STOMACH!”
She continued, “Daddy, what are these?” as she rubbed the bumps on Luna’s stomach.

My dad’s eyes got wide and he burst into hysterical laughter. Meanwhile Luna is still struggling, becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the 5-year-old caressing her nipples.

“Baby, don’t touch those.”

“Why not?”

“Those are Luna’s nipples.”

Since we’ve already had the nipple conversation, it only took a second for her to understand that she was touching Luna’s “private parts.” But still, her face registered a look of confusion.

“Hang on…” she puts her tiny fingers on her chin, “Why does Luna have six nipples and I only have two?”

Silence.

I’m not sure how to proceed, but in the past I’ve learned that honesty is the best policy because if I make something up, it’ll come back to haunt me.

Like, “I thought you said Netflix doesn’t have cartoons?”

So I explained to her that dogs can have a lot of puppies at once, so they need more nipples than us.

This created even more confusion.

“How come they need nipples to have puppies?”

And so, I told her. I told her the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

That babies are born out of our nipples.

Just a reminder to count your blessings


I didn’t wanna admit to this bc, well, it’s embarrassing. But I feel like sharing this might make some of you feel better about a recent mishap. I recently bought a mustang, maybe in like August. Brand (2015) new, white Mustang. Premium interior, cream & black leather seats, touch screen – the works, ok? I saved for what felt like an eternity for a down payment and bought it. It was my pride and joy. I wouldn’t let anyone eat or drink in it. I was a obsessed, to say the least. 

Somewhere around October – 2 months into my new life as a glamorous mustang owner, I relied too heavily on that stupid backup camera and didn’t check my blind spot. I scuffed my sisters Honda parked next to me in the driveway. 

My heart shattered. I shed actual tears. “I can’t have anything nice,” I scolded myself, “Why me, God? Why can’t I catch a break?” 

I was angry at myself and my situation. I feel like I always have the worst luck. 

On my way to work that same morning, traffic slowed to a stop, because I take I35 everyday 🙄 and on the side of the road was a man. 

The man reminded me a lot of my great grandpa. Elderly, Hispanic man, standing with his hands on his hips walking around his old beat up Chevy that I’m sure had a lot wrong with it. I could see he was in distress. He was on the phone, presumably calling a towing service or maybe a family member to come help him out. 

And in that moment, I realized how truly blessed I am. I was angry about a scuff on my brand new mustang – my mustang that doesn’t have any mechanical issues. I immediately felt like an ungrateful brat. 

My message isn’t to always remember that someone else may have it worse. It’s simply to count your blessings. 

Be happy you have a nice car that runs fine. Be grateful you have an iPhone to shatter. And most importantly, don’t lose sight of the non-material things – like your relationships and your friends and family. 

I made a handful of resolutions for the new year, and one of them is to count my blessings.