June Cleaver Must Die Too!

Remember when I was telling you how Everyone must die, along with Everybody, Them, and They?

I forgot one.

June Cleaver. 

You may have heard that Junie C was TV’s icon of a mother in the fifties.

Well, she turned out to be the mother of Them all.  Pun intentionally intended

That’s why June Cleaver is soooooooooooo goin’ down!

I’m in the midst of plotting her death with my co-conspirator Patty Lennon.  Wanna help?  Of course you do.

Yes, you must come with me on this (mostly) excellent adventure of intrigue, espionage, and murder.

Oh, excuse me… you want an explanation for this murderous plot before you commit?

Fine.

Here it is:

June Cleaver became known as America’s Mom on the popular television sitcom Leave It To Beaver. However, the dirty little secret, which I’m totally making up, is that when the television cameras stopped rolling, little-miss-perfect mother Junebug would throw herself on a couch, pull out a candy bar, and start yelling at The Beav to put a sock in it.

She had such a potty mouth, June Cleaver did.

Hmmmm… bet you didn’t know that scintillating little tidbit  did you?

Still don’t believe me?

Well, I’ve got the photoshopped pictures to prove it!

Need more ‘splainin’?

Okay… you asked for it:

June Cleaver, with her pretty and perfectly coiffed hair, tiny waist, and sensible shoes, made moms all over America start second-guessing themselves. IT’S ALL HER FAULT that mothers started to question their own sanity and began looking over their shoulders to see what all the other moms were doing.

AND… they began to lower themselves further and further down the family totem pole.

As in: all the way down to the bottom.

Is this starting to make sense? Are you beginning to see why Junie-Two-Shoes has got to go? Then get out your cleaver (hahaha), um, poison sword (mine is disguised as a tube of lip gloss, natch) because that chick is going down.

Hard.

And fast.

Who knew plotting a murder would be so much fun!?

I know what you’re thinking:

She (as in, moi) used to be such a nice girl. She was always baking (burnt) cookies and giving out (stale) candy. She was always trying to help people.  She was such a quiet neighbor. Now look what’s happened to her.

She must’a snapped.

Okay, so I’ve snapped.

But just a little.

Can’t a girl get a break?  It’s not like I’ve killed before.

Wait, yes I have.  But They deserved it.

And so does JC.  Oh my goodness, I just noticed those initials. Yikes!

Seriously now…

June Cleaver is a lie.

She penetrated America’s collective psyche and burned a hole in it with the messed up message that women were less than, and moms were less than that. That Everyone and Everything else came first.

Oh, I know, she didn’t mean it. She probably wasn’t even aware she was doing it, poor thing.  She was the fantasy concocted by the producers, directors, and writers of the show: she embodied the so-called ‘ideal woman.’  Basically, she was the first Stepford Wife.  

Women took the bait and soon found themselves constructing their identities around the June Cleaver model.

And so it began.

That’s when the shoulds and have-to’s and supposed-to’s came flooding in.  In torrents.

It was as if there were a political-socio-economic effort to reconstruct Woman’s role as that of wife, mom, home-maker.  World War II was over.  Women belonged back at home. Otherwise the sky would fall.

Yeah yeah, you know the story.

But I want to have a career.

The war is over honey, get back in the house.

But I want more. 

You should be happy at home.

But I want to do something else.

Why can’t you just be like June Cleaver?   

Then along came Gloria Steinem.

Then along came Martha Stewart.

Then along came Oprah.

WHAT THE FRUIT LOOPS!

Confused yet?

Fine, let’s get back to my murderous plot, which is far less complicated.

It goes like this…

As is so clearly illustrated above, being a woman is the greatest invention since Adam.

How did we forget that?  Oh yeah… it’s all June’s fault.  Poor June. She meant well. I think.

And now it’s time to turn that ship around for YOU, my fair maidens.

Oprah always talks about living your best life, and this is what that really looks like:

Being on top means….

Staying home and being a mom; as long as that is what fills your soul.

OR…

Going to work, as long as your job fills your soul.

OR…

Staying home, baking (or burning, who really cares) cookies, loving your babies and your husband, taking care of the house and all the things that make it a home, as long as it fills your soul.

OR…

Anything else YOUR HEART desires (as opposed to what someone else desires for you), like: working part-time if you want to, writing a book, or painting, or making a paper mache totem pole with you on top…  whatever floats your boat, as long as it fills your soul. 

It’s the filling your soul part that ought to be your number one priority.

Number. ONE.

When you fill your soul first you automatically pass it on to the people in your life, especially the ones closest to you.

How do you do that?

Well, first of all, you don’t have to quit your job or get a job or leave your husband or unbirth your kids. (The last one is really really hard. Don’t bother trying.)

You do have to commit to finding out  exactly what it is that would put you back on top.

If you’re not sure, then get in on the murderous plot, I tell you!  This is more than a conspiracy theory poppets. There is a way to actually do this “fill your soul/get-back-on-top” thing.

You can’t not do this. It’s your key. Your holy grail. Your big AhaHA!!! (Because it’s bigger than a mere “Aha”).

Are you in?

Good. Then go here.

Or I am going to have to kill you too.

——————–

Remembering My Dad

I lost my Dad when I was only 17. 

He was such a Smart Ass. 

This is my Dad.

I know what you’re thinking! 

It’s taken me a long time to embrace my inner Smart Ass.

Happy Fathers Day Dad

and…

Thank you.

And I just know you would be so proud of the man I married.

Yes… I did good.

He’s a great dad!

No, he doesn’t really smoke. But he looks good with a cigarette.

I wonder why…

TGIF: Thank God I’m Female

The other day I felt that familiar pang I get whenever I hear something irksome bordering on insanity.  My friend and fellow attorney/kife loach Dana Boyle, told me that her doctor said this to her:

God gives all the bad stuff to females because men can’t handle it. 

He meant it as a compliment.

Hmmmm.

I could feel the heat starting to rise inside me…

Put-downs disguised as compliments are fed to women and girls all day long.

Be careful, don’t eat that, it’ll ruin your lovely figure. 

I’m glad you’re not one of those women who cries whenever she’s upset. 

Thank goodness you don’t throw like a girl. 

But I am a girl.

I do throw like a girl.

I also walk, talk, run and cry…

… just like a girl.

I also fight like a girl.

Think like a girl.

Wear lip gloss like a girl.

Sound like a girl.

Giggle like a girl.

Get all sentimental and weepy just like a girl. Because…

I.

Am.

A.

Girl.

God gave girls so many wonderful things.

And this isn’t just some knee-jerk retort to Dana’s doctor.  I believe this with all my heart.  And I want you to believe it too.

Anything else is a lie.

Pass it on girlfriends!

PS: yes, I know, we are women, but we were girls first and being a girl is the best part of being a woman!

Are You Starring in Your Own Soap Opera?

Yes, I admit it, I sometimes like to be the super star in my own soap opera, aptly titled, As My World Turns.  I have won numerous awards for my performances, most notably, Best Hyperbolist, Best Town Crier, and my favorite, Best Performance by a Woman in an Orange Dress.  I am really really good at it.

Even if I am the only one who thinks so.

How much unnecessary drama do you create in your life?

What purpose does it serve?

What does it cost you? 

We often say we just want to be happy, and then we conspire against ourselves to create anything but happiness.

For today, notice what you contribute to manifesting your own happiness.

After all, it is your responsibility to be happy.

Not your mother’s.

Darn!

———–

Hey chicas!  Don’t forget Tuesday’s meeting of The Worst Club.  Trust me, this is the best girls club, ever.  Make new friends. Bring coffee. I’ll bring some of those cute little finger sandwiches.  C’mon! Here.  NO BOYS ALLOWED.

AFGO Bustin’ Hokey Pokey Contract Drafting or: How to Save Your Life!

Run for your lives!!!! 

Wait, how do you run from your own self?  Hmmmm.

A woman I know who is in a very unhappy marriage tells me that her family is encouraging her to leave the marriage.

They’ve been telling her this for twenty years!

The reason this woman can’t leave her marriage is that her contract with herself tells her that this is where she belongs. Everything she believes about herself convinces her that she can’t leave the marriage.  Of course, she’ll tell you it’s because she can’t afford to, that her husband isn’t that bad, that she has nowhere else to go and, because of the kids. 

None of this is true, or relevant for that matter.

The truth is she cannot leave because she believes she cannot leave.  Leaving means she would have to leave her self. She can’t do that. Her self contract requires her to stay in situations (marriage, work, friendships) that reinforce the belief system she has about herself.  That this is what she deserves. This is what she is worth.

She doesn’t see that.  Instead, she has convinced herself that her husband is the problem, the kids are the problem, money is the problem, her weight is the problem.

And this is what I say to her:

You must not leave,

you cannot leave,

until you understand,

really really believe

your true worth.  

Leaving is not the answer.

Neither is staying and complaining.

The answer lies in her self contract. 

Does she even know what’s in that old thing?

No wonder she thinks staying in this marriage is her only option!  

In her mind, it’s all she deserves.  It’s all she’s capable of. It’s all she’s worth.

Even if she did leave, she’d very likely find herself in a similar relationship, UNLESS…. 

…she breaches her self contract.

In other words, she has to tell herself to go stuff herself. 

To do this she needs to re-write that smelly contract she’s been carrying around in her back pocket her whole life.  That thing seriously stinks!

So, how does one go about writing a new self contract or, what we call an AFGO BUSTIN’ HOKEY POKEY CONTRACT?

Well, it really is all in the wrist action!

Get out a pen and paper and start writing.  Write it down. Write it down. Write it all down.

Keep writing.

Hey!  Did I say you could stop?

Um…. EVERYTHING!

Write about what makes you happy.

What makes you sad.

What you like. Why don’t you have more of it?

What you don’t like.  Why do you still have it?

Who you like.

Who you don’t like yet still bother to keep in your life.

What do you believe in?

What are you values?

Do you live by your values?

What kind of daughter are you?

What kind of friend are you?

What kind of wife are you?

Are you kind-hearted?  To Everyone?

And the biggest one of all….

How (un)kind are you to your self?

How do you love YOU?

Can you list 10 things you love about yourself, like I did?

This takes some work.  Deep work.  It requires introspection.

This could take a while.

And so it should!

But when you’re done you’ll be able to do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around without even having to put your left foot in.

In other words: You’ll know exactly what you need to do in your marriage, your job, your life!

Think of the possibilities.  Don’t let fear stand in your way.

Don’t settle.

———————————–

Hey kids…  next Tuesday June 7th is the next meeting of The WORST Club.  You HAVE TO come. There will be dancing Polar Bears (the Grizzlies can’t make it, sorry).  We are going to be talkin’ ’bout AFGO BUSTIN’ Hokey Pokey Contracts.  We’ll help you write yours.  Go HERE to find out the details!

Or to Facebook, The WORST Club page, and click LIKE.  Because you like me. Admit it!