9 Reasons It’s Completely Okay (And Normal) For A Strong Woman To Need A Man

One of my biggest pet peeves as a single mom is when people tell me how strong I am; that I’m so strong, I don’t need a man. When manual labors present themselves, random friends from the “friend choir” will say, “You can do it yourself! I do it myself. I don’t need a man.”

Don’t get me wrong. I can do plenty myself. I’m very independent and I run a household alone and have for almost four years. I consider myself a feminist too, but since when was needing someone so terrible?

Okay, so “needing” someone in a needy, clingy way is a turn-off. Codependency is a turn-off. Needing someone in your life to partner with you is not. It’s really more about wanting a strong partner.

Why does being a feminist or a strong woman have to translate as not needing a man (or woman, depending on your preference)? There are many reasons why strong women need men and why it’s normal. She should never have to apologize for it. Here’s why.

1. Teamwork makes the dream work.

A strong woman has a great foundation in which a partnership can build something even more fabulous. There’s nothing wrong with going solo, but wanting a partner to carry out big dreams and ideas is great.

Sorry haters, but it takes two to row a boat. There’s no shame of wanting someone on board the ship.

Read More: 9 Reasons It’s Completely Okay (And Normal) For A Strong Woman To Need A Man

The Power of Two,

Laura

Advertisements

Why Having a Bossy Girl is a Good Thing

We all know that it’s annoying when someone constantly bosses us around. We also all know that sometimes girls can be bossy. This is discussed, hashed out and paraded around like all the other stereotypes about girls and hey, it’s a pretty true stereotype.

But it’s also an unfair stereotype.

We love to drag girls through the mud for being bossy and b*tchy at a young age, but we find it heroic, amazing, sexy, and “part of the job” when a man or boy is bossy.

He’s being a leader.

Our girls are being bossy little tyrants.

Enough already.

As a grown woman with a bit of bossiness to her, I am the mom of a girl who is also bossy. Sometimes, it’s absolutely annoying. Through action, example, and discussion, my daughter and I go over the importance of leading and taking turns. Giving other people a chance to take charge and why we should try playing other people’s games, etc. She sees my happy and strong friendships and I try to model by example as best I can.

 

Read More: Why Having a Bossy Girl is a Good Thing

Praise our Strong Girls,

Laura

What It’s Like to Be an Evil Jewish Divorcee

When I started writing about my divorce, I did not realize how heated readers would be over my essays and I am writing about a pretty amicable divorce. I actually have to hold back from hugging my ex-husband sometimes. Sure, we fight, but I care about the guy and I’m a squishy and sweet person. Call me naïve (that goes back to my squishiness) and perhaps this is due to me being raised by married parents, but the amount of hate, bitterness and ugliness that comes out of total strangers after reading a one-thousand word essay from me on divorce was shocking.

Read more: What It’s Like to Be an Evil Jewish Divorcee

Has No Time For Ignorance Or Women Haters,

Laura

My Daughter’s Love For Princesses Is Battling My Inner Feminist

It’s hard for me as a mom getting a divorce and learning to fend for herself financially and otherwise to hear my daughter say as she plays, “The prince has to save me!” I have to bite my feminist tongue from saying, “You can save yourself, woman,” and OK, let’s be real here: it does come out sometimes. She looks at me like I’m crazy and just watched Cinderella in Japanese, not English.

Read “My Daughter’s Love For Princesses Is Battling My Inner Feminist

Wonder Woman Is Way Cooler Anyway,

Laura

You Can’t Have it All: Why Women Feel Like They’re Failing

Image

When I was growing up, I heard that women could have it all.

We could have careers, raise children, and make a good living, maybe even better than the men in our lives.

Damn, it sounded peachy. It sounded easy.

I always imagined myself working and as a success.

I never pictured myself as a timid wallflower, and so far that has been more than true, but for the first time in my life I am realizing that the old 70’s-80’s feminism lied to me.

I can’t have it all.

And while many of you probably feel like you’re a success and probably are, I happen to think that a bunch of you probably feel like you are failing to some degree or another, in managing that career and kids our generation said we’d have no problem managing.

I commute a long distance from my job. I’m working on changing that, but I end up clocking in a 64 hour work week.

I love my job, but I never see my kid.

I don’t mean that my time with her is cut down. I mean I don’t know what she will be eating for lunch most of the time.

I mean I am gone so much that I never eat a single meal with her all week, until Saturday.

I mean, I don’t drop her off at her grandparents or school. Or pick her up.

I mean, I get to put her to bed 3 weeknights a week, sometimes 4.

I make use of the time I have with her on the weekend, and the few nights a week I get to bathe her and put her to bed, but do I have it all?

Hell no.

This is not the image of a balanced life I was sold as a kid.

I feel like I am not a mother, but merely a walk-on who gets to play mother on the weekends.

And of course, when I have to leave early because my kid is sick or I take off to attend a school function, I shove in my work within a short time frame, and leave early, watching others working hard, feeling guilty that I am not clocking in the exact same hours that they are.

Do I have it all?

No.

I can’t have it all. I can’t always be at the office, and I can’t always be home.

I work hard and parent well, but inside I am feeling like a failure.

When I get to work, I am in the zone, enjoying what I do, but when I got a call the other day that my kid was sick and I couldn’t get her until hours later because I live far from my job, the bus schedules blow, and traffic was terrible, I got home feeling like crap.

I couldn’t stay the full day at work. I couldn’t be there for my kid.

How am I doing a good job at all, as a parent, I wonder?

Even if you’re just dropping off and picking up your kid, you’re clocking in parenting time. You’re part of the daily routine.

I went from being in charge of my kid’s day and mostly at home, to becoming a mom-spector. Do I exist? Do I matter anymore?

You’ll tell me I do, but I don’t believe I do.

Am I saying you shouldn’t have a career? Absolutely not.

Go out and get one. Do it! I love what I do…

But find a life balance.

Make sure you’re with someone who sees things as you do, and then both of your prepare a plan for when you have kids how duties will be shared, especially finances. If you can, save ahead of time so you can go down to part-time work, or telecommute if you are able. If you want to work full-time, that’s great, but be sure that your situation will enable you to stay in the picture. Trust me.

My kid is 2.5. Her moments mean more than a paycheck.

We can’t have it all. We cannot be perfect. We will have to leave early. We will have to miss out on moments with our kids that will hurt. We will feel hopeless at times, and even feel as if we are doing nothing right.

But most importantly, at least we know the truth: we cannot have it all, but we can have what we need, and that’s what matters. Figuring out what you need will make you a happy working mom.

My identity through the eyes of men: Female Otherness

As a woman who grew up in a predominately female household, I didn’t learn that we were inferior or incapable of doing things that society indicated was otherwise.

But as I left my home and became integrated into society–school,  work, college, etc, I learned differently.

To admit this is maybe weak but, for a long majority of my life I have defined myself by Men. By their standards, judgments, and beliefs about me. Or about my otherness in relation to them. My wanting access to the circle that only men belong to. Forget about the glass ceiling. I didn’t want to be the most successful female. I wanted to be the most successful person, period. I wanted the men to lay in their tears while I threw tissues to them on the ground, walking away in triumph.

One thing I have hated since I was as  young as seven years old, was the feeling that the male circle was impenetrable. I hated when boys gathered to talk and gossip or dominated classroom conversations. I wasn’t considering that these little men might just want to be around other little men, but that because I was female I couldn’t join in. It didn’t matter that I was smarter than most of them or as equal to them, or that the same jokes they liked, I did too. I just had to merely squeak by the circle, and lean in to hear what these XY’s were saying.

Then I got older, and then the circle got even tighter. When I was younger, an occasional boy would let me in, and even let me play sports with the kids on the block. As I got older though, the message was clear: If you don’t have a cock,  keep out. Having good looks occasionally meant entering into the circle, but usually then for other reasons such as, one man or a few men’s sexual needs. Maybe one or two might have found me clever and smart. Most were not considering me beyond what my appearance had to offer.

I imagine my experience is no different than many other women, however the thoughts, rejections, and acceptances from men really whittled me down. For the majority of my  early twenties, I found male attention and approval intoxicating on the level of addicting, and their rejection, painful and harsh.

When I entered stand-up, I found men to be either wonderful and helpful, or absolute toxic creatures who liked to shut me out of conversations with not just looks, but with words. Telling me I wasn’t smart  and wasn’t funny. These were the same men of course, who wanted to sleep with me.

Let’s not let the cute one succeed. Instead, let’s take her for all of her good parts, and throw the rest of her to the wolves.

The one moment of fresh air came when I entered college. While my former educational experiences taught me that the boys are more cherished and nurtured intellectually, college was a bit more fair and egalitarian. I felt like my intellect and potential mattered.

There have been many times in my life pre-30’s in which I let men decide where I would be allowed to go both personally, and professionally. I cowed to their toxic comments. I backed away at times when I wanted to be treated as an intellectual and artistic equal, yet I always had a bit of a fight in me, like a scrappy dog who refuses to get beaten down by a shinier, larger full-breed.  The same girl who wanted to beat every boy competitively, not physically, in elementary school has always been alive and well.

After spending a long time–years–working on my memoir, I realize that claiming my identity and refusing to let it be defined by anyone, especially men was my big hurdle to cross.

After six years departing from comedy, I went back last night. I went back because I will not let men tell me what I can do or who I can be. I am not 25 anymore. I am not someone’s plaything or some stupid blonde.

I am me, and after taking the time to do other important things–reproduce, finish college, get my head together–I decided I wanted to share my story in more than just the printed word again, and I won’t shut up until someone enjoys me. Until someone figures out that my story is much like many other women and people.

And if anyone doesn’t like it, F-off.

I am woman. Hear me roar.

Now? The 30’s have told me

Princess Coma: How to survive as a feminist when your day is dictated by Disney Princesses

My name is Laura and I am a feminist.

That could mean anything.

What it doesn’t mean is that I am a man hater, because I don’t hate men. You people piss me off sometimes, but I love men. Seriously. A member of the I love men club.

Feminism is a broad movement with many little subdivisions.

I happen to be the type of feminist who was raised knowing women can do it all, but I’m not against hiring someone for manual labor, as I couldn’t put my arm back on if it were attached with velcro. If I were good at manual labor, I wouldn’t, but I’m not. I will say that in the past few months I have attempted gardening and landscaping, which hasn’t gotten too awful or too great, so I’m not lazy.

I’m the type of feminist who believes in owning our own sexuality–and not being subjugated by it. I believe that the sex industry perpetuates our dilemmas, but I also believe women have the right to choose their own destiny both sexually and as a person.

I am both Madonna and whore, and yet neither.

However, once I realized I was having a girl, I made sure to tell everyone: don’t indoctrinate my child with Disney princesses.

News Flash: There is no Prince Charming. There is just Prince “okay for you.” He may be Prince Charming for a little while, but no one can stand up to that type of idealization.  There is  also no need to stand like an idiot trapped in a castle, hoping someone will climb up your hair weave, a la Rapunzel, and save your skinny ass. If your stepmother hates you and poisons you with an apple, you will probably end up suffering. The chances of some guy riding up on a horse and saying, “Look at that–some cute chick is in a coma because she was poisoned. I better kiss her and make her better,” is about 0 in five billion.

I didn’t mind my kid reading fairy tales as it’s nice to enjoy the world and be altruistic as little kids often are, but I didn’t want her to get wrapped up in the romantic notion that women need to be saved by a more capable individual, i.e, a man, and that once you meet someone and fall in love, paradise awaits you.

Mother in-laws exist to banish that sort of fable anyway.

I digress.

I always liked the animals in Cinderella, and Snow White, but I was more of a Dorothy, Alice, or Laura Ingalls type of girl. That’s who I imagined I would be until Madonna came around, and then I wanted to prance around in lace outfits and crucifixes (who cares that I was raised Jewish. Have you seen how pretty those prayer beads are? Serious stuff man. I begged my Catholic friend to let me wear her rosaries. She said no. Party Pooper. Would have gone awesome with my denim jumper, huge clip-on hair bow, wigwam socks, and purple mascara.) Of course, let’s not even delve into the fact that Madonna was not exactly the most proper role model for me.

Who do you want to be when you grow up?

I want to hump a dog and go on a gondola in Italy with a lion, while I’m half-dressed.

Don’t worry, there were plenty of good influences in my life–I did want to be Pee-Wee Herman for most of my childhood–not that it helped, but damnit, I did not want to indoctrinate my kid into Disney.

Nope. Minnie Mouse? Sure–just don’t make me listen to Mickey for more than five minutes. That creature has the most annoying voice on the planet. Sadly, I do a good Mickey.  Going to Disneyland and seeing some of the classic movies? Sure. I’m not a totally nazi over the topic. I can imitate a Disney character and sing the songs with the best of them, but I just didn’t want my kid to idolize dimwitted princesses who probably were barefoot, pregnant, and living over a stove once the fairy tale lights were out.

Guess what? It doesn’t matter. Everyone else has introduced her to princesses as she’s a girl, so they think she’ll love them, and golly gee, would you know what?

She loves them.

She doesn’t think to herself that Cinderella probably prostituted herself out that night to get in to the upper echelons of society. She just loves the songs, mice, and dress.

And damnit, all day long in my head is the song, ‘We can Do it, We can do it, gonna help our Cinder-elle–ee, there’s really nothing to it. We’ll tie a sash around it. Put some ribbon to it.”

I eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner with Sleeping Beauty, Tiana, Snow White, Ariel, Rapunzel, Cinderella, and Belle. I give them their vitamins, brush their teeth, and make sure they’re in the proper spot at meal time (to the left of my daughter’s high chair tray on our dining table.)

They join us in the potty.

They join us in the car.

I even have the dolls with the magic clip-on dresses.

My mom bought her a Cinderella Barbie, which I have yet to give to her.

When any other kid goes near the princesses, fire and brimstone erupt. I swear my child plots the death of these poor kids.

Note, she’s two and doesn’t want to share yet. Totally normal, but not as funny as she wails while trying to holding every damn doll in her hands.

All day long, my mind whirs of “Feed child, walk dog, where’s Cinderella did I lose her again?, wash dishes, write, apply for jobs, wipe kid’s butt, was Sleeping Beauty a narcoleptic or drug addict?, eat a snack, wash my hands, wash her hands, and don’t forget to wash Snow White’s too.”

Our day ends and begins with these little dolls, in which my child reenacts the most intricate and sometimes rather imaginative conversations with these dolls.

The other day, desperate for my kid to chill out, stop chatting, and start eating, I made Cinderella tell her, “Less Talking, More Eating.”

I knew having the ability to switch my voice would work to my advantage one day.

As “Cinderella” disciplined my daughter, she wanted nothing of it.

She turned to the Cinderella doll and said, “No Cinderella. I don’t like you anymore. Go back to your video. I’m not gonna to be your friend.”

Freaking 2 and she’s already pulling that “not gonna be your friend” business.

I told her that wasn’t very nice…and later on I heard her tell Cinderella:

“Let me give you a hug. I’m sorry I made a bad choice. I’m sorry I said I won’t be your friend.”

And then, to prove the apple is part of my tree, she dons a Cinderella voice and says, “I was disappointed in you. You made a bad choice.”

The “two” hug and make up.

When my daughter sees princess bikes, towels, shirts, toys, or dolls, she hovers over these items whether they belong to her or not, and is entranced.

I guess whether I want them or not, I am stuck with these princesses, and hell, I’ve even started to sing her some of the songs from my childhood.

Why not? Hopefully I won’t get my feminist card revoked.

What I really fear, more than being forced to watch Snow White or Cinderella twenty times, is the fear that my daughter will make men count more than herself.

That she will want so badly to matter to the opposite sex, that she will forget who she is. That she might end up bowing down to someone thinking, “he knows better.”

These fears are all from me. She’s only two. She is still smart enough to boss boys around and know that it works.

And being subjugated or bowing down to a man doesn’t just require a female with a bad self-image, but a male with a poor view of himself.

We need to be conscious of how we socialize both young men and young women. The conversation is not one-sided. It’s multifaceted and starts at home, continues at school, plays out in the media, and is then enacted in society.

My role as her mom is to expose her to many different goals, activities, people, and viewpoints, with the reassurance that who she is is wonderful, no matter what, as long as she respects herself and others.

This means that for now, I get to wear tiaras, and watch her reenact fairy tales that while they may hold no real bounds in life, they are wonderful, fanciful, and simple for her and her world.

If only we could capture that joy in the simple that children have, we would all be much happier.

Excuse me now…one of the princesses needs a bath and the other, a dress repair.

All in the day of the Queen.

Lessons on How to be a Douche: Etiquette for Jerks

There are times in all of our lives when sometimes we as individuals are unsure as to how one should behave in a particular situation. However, there are some people who have no freaking clue on how to behave, ever. Here are a few tips on how to follow these losers’ leads, and be a douche just like the best of them.

#1- Play Your Heavy Metal Loud. All. Day. Long

A little Black Sabbath never hurt anyone, A lot of Black Sabbath and other heavy metal or really ANY kind of music on loud, all day, when you live in an apartment complex, townhome, or any neighborhood near others, is totally douchey.

I am glad you sold your soul for rock and roll arse, but I don’t need to hear your music all day. Go pump some iron and smoke a joint while listening to your music at ear-splitting volume at someone else’s house.

Thanks.

#2 Advice, Unwanted

If you really want to be a total jerk, just go up to any old tiny female, one about my size, and try to give her workout tips even though she didn’t want any. Even though you have a beer belly and legs the size of twigs, I am sure that a very cut and fit athletic woman wants your input because you know, she’s only 100 pounds or so, and she must need your advice, Gut Boy. We wouldn’t want to leave the poor woman clueless now, would we?

#3  Don’t Wave.

If you want to go to Hell, don’t wave at a young toddler who waves to you. In fact, turn around, give the child a grimace and the finger. That would be more appropriate.

#4 Ignore Child/Children. Stay on phone.

When you are at the park, pool, or anywhere else in public, ignore your filthy kids, and instead stay on your phone. It is way more important, I’m sure. No, you shouldn’t watch your kid ram into mine or other unsuspecting kids on the playground. No, you shouldn’t watch your kids go around like wild animals. Instead, continue you with your life. Kids aren’t that important anyway, right?

#5 Advise on timing of babies

It’s always necessary to tell other folks when to have kids if you want to be a MEGA DOUCHE.

If a woman has a kid who’s already—GASP–2 years old, it’s time to advise her to get on top of kid #2. How dare she let that uterus rest? Doesn’t she know she has the world to populate? That she was put on the planet to make tons of little unemployed minimum-wage earning mutants?

Or better yet, if she has many kids, it is your advice to close down the shop now! Tell that woman to shut down the garage, and tie those tubes. How dare she muck up the planet with her filthy kids?

#6 Don’t Leash Your Dog

If you want to be an ignorant douche, do not leash your dog. Dogs don’t need to be leashed. It’s okay for you to put their innocent lives at risk by not leashing them and risking them getting hit by a car. It’s okay for them to shit wherever they want. It’s okay for a dog on a leash to be threatened by your unleashed mongrel. It’s totally okay. Dogs are animals and need to be free. No, the word domesticated in front of that can’t possibly be real if you’re a super douche. No, dogs should just run free and risk injuring themselves or another. That’s what douches do, and douches don’t care what happens, because we all know leashing a dog is cruel and unusual punishment.

#7 Gawk at Women’s Bodies

Women are not on this earth to be humans you know. If you’re a Douche, you know that woman are here to be looked at, poked at/in, and dominated. Women are not equal. Women are just hot pieces of ass to be enjoyed and discarded. It is totally okay to make comments about a woman’s body when she doesn’t know or even like you. Yup, that’s awesome!

I hope these tips help you become the best douche you can be, or at least commiserate with me that there are way too many inconsiderate douches in the world.

Thank you, and excuse me while I let my dog shit on your lawn, flaunt my boobies everywhere, unleash my child to run free and terrorize others while I go on Facebook at the park, and blast my Run DMC for my whole lovely neighborhood to hear.