Well, have you heard the one that starts with “A woman walks into a room…”? Because if I’m the woman, then half the time I have no idea why I walked into the room in the first place. I’m a smart girl, drink plenty of water, eat right, get my rest and keep my stress low, but dammit my memory is CRAP!

Pick a room in my house and I’ve actually whispered aloud “why did I come in here” at least a dozen times in each of them.

20 years ago I blamed it on Mommy-Brain, but I think now there’s another “M” at play.

Mumps? Measles? Mad Cow disease?

Nope, according to the calendar I have arrived at Menopause station. All aboard…next stops are  vaginal dryness, night sweats and wait for it…memory problems.

Let’s put all the other symptoms to the side for now and focus on the hunk of Swiss Cheese I now refer to as my memory.  I actually stop in the middle of doing stuff because I can’t remember why I started doing it in the first place. Sometimes I will be mid-sentence and then all of a sudden it’s gone. And as far as people’s names go, I would definitely have an easier time if everyone in my life wore nametags or just responded warmly to “Hey…you”

You know how your phone fills up with pictures, videos, test messages until things stop working correctly until you start deleting and making some space? I’m convinced my brain also has a tiny little memory card that can hold only a certain number of things and then it drops one to add one.

• If I remember your name, I’ll forget my address.
• If I remember to do the laundry, I’ll forget to pick the kids up at school.
• If I remember to stop at the store for bread, I risk forgetting to take my pants off before I start peeing.

You get the idea…it’s awful. Why do women have to get it? I know men have something similar but for crying out loud it says MEN right in the name!!!

Since I can’t remember what I ate for lunch, it’s not a stretch to figure that I’m not going to remember all the day-to-day experiences I had with my family this past year. Even in the year of Covid, we still managed to laugh, to cry and even had an adventure or two.  I never want to forget family movie nights watching “old” movies like Sixteen Candles, Protocol, Jaws, Rocky Horror Picture Show, or my favorite Alien (a little slow but still holds up and Sigourney Weaver is a total bad ass at any age, although my girls knew her as the Ghostbusters lady – another family movie night classic). We visited Old Westbury Gardens for their Shimmering Solstice light show. I bought a Tesla, we went to a wedding and I grew closer to a cousin I barely knew. This was also the year I experienced my older daughter’s first driving lesson (part of me wouldn’t mind forgetting that). I watched my husband receive 2 Emmy’s for his incredible work in television. And who wouldn’t want to forget the look on my older daughter’s face during her first driving lesson. I, on the other hand, have been trying very hard to forget it.

I want to remember all of it, the good and the bad. Menopause may have given me sore boobs and taken away my ability to have a good night’s sleep but my memories are off limits.  My hubby is constantly telling me we need to back up our phones so we don’t lose anything, so I decided to take that a step further. So before my Hard Drive became a Floppy Disk I came up with a plan.

Enter the memory jar. When I first read about this idea, my post menopausal brain did a happy dance. This is the perfect way to fill in all the blank spaces and a fun thing to do with my family that costs no money. The value is in the experience, not the purchases my dear readers.

We keep a jar on the kitchen table (it’s a thick glass square jar that I think held flowers at my wedding 20 years ago. But with my memory, I may have shoplifted it from Home Goods last week…who knows?) and every time someone feels inclined to share a moment (good or bad) they write it down on a piece of paper and add it to the jar. It’s like a time capsule but without all the burial dirt, thanks to our dogs Han and Leia there is never a shortage of dirt in the house already.

Then on New Year’s Eve we dump out the papers and read them out loud. It’s fun because even the rest of my family who aren’t in menopause forget about this stuff too. So whether you are reading this in January, July or November it’s never too late to start backing up your memories and preparing a fun surprise for the whole family on New Year’s Eve. When you’re done reminiscing keep the strips of paper in a box, scrapbook, display it all in a shadow box, shred it, or compost the paper. It’s a fun way to remember all the moments, big and small, that you share as a family and then the next New Year’s Day you start again.

If your family is like mine they embraced the idea right from the start.

• “Do we have to. I hate to write.”
• “Why do I have to do this? I remember everything just fine.”
• “I don’t have menopause. This is stupid.”

But it never fails, after we read through the whole jar they are singing a different tune.

• “This was so much fun, I’m glad we did this.”
• “Thanks mom, that was a great idea.”
• “I don’t have menopause. This is stupid, but I guess it was fun.”

I hold back my “I told you so” and my “I knew you would have fun” and just silently gloat like a good mom. Getting older isn’t awesome, I’m still HOT but it just comes in flashes now and I may find myself in the garage holding a spatula and a bottle of nail polish trying to figure out what the original plan was. Our memories and experiences are how we document this journey and in many ways it’s the best part. Looking back at those experiences with my family and reliving them as we prepare for a brand new year is my favorite “M”…Magnificent.

The post Was I writing about menopause? I can’t remember. appeared first on Living Clean and Dirty.

I beg of you don’t say goodbye, can’t we give our love another try?
Come on, baby, let’s start anew, ’cause breaking up is hard to do

Wiser words have never been spoken, so much so, that even the Partridge Family delivered the same message in full Partridge regalia at a carnival in the 1972 episode “Nag, Nag, Nag” (look it up).  Gloria Estefan, Clay Aiken, Carole King and so many others have preached about the ‘hard-to-do-ness’ of breakups but sadly I don’t think any of them were trying to break up with plastic like I am.

So if you remember all the way back to my last post about Earth Day and my impending war on all things plastic.  I talked about how my vitamins and my weird former co-worker Steve both came in plastic containers and those 2 things are both very bad. Well, I’m here to remind you I’m still fighting the good fight against plastic.  You don’t realize just how much plastic we use in our daily lives from toothbrushes to phone cases, garbage cans to car bumpers, dog toys to eyeglasses, and what I’m talking about today…kitchen gadgets and food storage.

I think the easiest way to kick plastic to the curb (in my blue recycle bin of course) is by going old-school, and when we start talking old-school then we have to start with “Hell-on-Wheels Helen”. My Grandma Helen grew her own food, sewed her own clothes and bought a car before she even got a driver’s license. She was never in a car accident but they say she caused more than a few, so take that advice with a grain of salt.  She was the Chuck Norris of grandmas.  Legend has it that she once had an underwater breath-holding contest with a fish…and won.  When she sliced onions, the onions would cry.  The flu still gets Grandma Helen shots each year.  Basically, she was a bad ass before women were supposed to be bad asses.

I’m pretty sure she would get a kick out of my Year of Clear. She was a real no bullshit lady and I like to think I get all my good qualities from her.  She was the boss of her house and not only could OG Helen start a fire with an ice cube and beat the sun in a staring contest but she knew that when it came to the kitchen, glass was where it was at. She stored everything in glass and it made a ton of sense, it was completely see-through, you could go directly from the fridge to the oven and so long as you don’t chuck it at your husband (allegedly) it will last for years.  Plastic wasn’t an option back then and even if it was I don’t think Helen would have had any of it. Sure plastic might be lighter and cheaper but glass is more durable, non-porous and won’t warp over time. Legend has it that Helen could dribble a bowling ball and win at connect four in three moves, so she would tell you plastic didn’t belong anywhere near her kitchen.

She wasn’t around for the rise in popularity of stainless steel straws, silicone storage bags and biodegradable sponges, but if she was I know she would be a fan.  Maybe she would’ve started Living Clean and Dirty. Maybe we need to think a little more about what touches our food. Maybe we need to simplify things. Maybe the Boogeyman still checks under his bed for Grandma Helen.  My point is…maybe we all just need a little more Old School in our lives.

So I don’t want to “Nag, Nag, Nag” (Jesus, just look it up!) but in honor of OG (Original Grandma) Helen here are my top 5 Old School meets New School tips for breaking up with plastic in the kitchen. And feel free to share any of your favorite plastic break-up tips, or 8×10 glossies of David Cassidy for that matter.

1.   Sponges: “Sponge-worthy” jokes aside, if you’ve ever use a loofa in the shower you’ll know it’s a great way to clean your body. Why shouldn’t your dishes, pots and pans be treated with the same TLC. Not only is Scrufah biodegradable, compostable, non- toxic and of course plastic free (the packaging has NO plastic too) it works really well on scrubbing off those tough messes after sitting in the sink all night. To clean my counters I love, love, love Skoy Cloths. They’re biodegradable, chlorine-free, unbleached, washable in either your washer or dishwasher and the best part is they last a really, really, really long time. The website says it can last for months and is the equivalent to using 15 rolls of paper towels but mine have lasted YEARS and I barely buy paper towels.

2.   Storage Containers: Taking a page out of Grandma Helen’s book, I switched to all glass containers. I have a ton of Mason Jars which are awesome, but sometimes it’s more convenient to have shallower storage. There are plenty of companies that sell glass containers BUT the lids are plastic and they suck, so lose-lose. They warp in my dishwasher and are difficult to wash by hand. They crack and split apart so you never get a good seal, and much like a Dutch Oven, if you don’t have a good seal then what’s the point. So basically the bottom part is great and the top half is useless (much like most of my old boyfriends). Thankfully I came across a company called Nummy. Nummyware is glass stackable storage containers that come in different sizes, are dishwasher/oven/microwave/freezer safe. They come with a bamboo lid that is 100% biodegradable, BPA free, phthalate free with a food grade silicone seal that is easy to clean and dishwasher safe.  Check out Nummylife here.

3.   Grow my own food: No plastic containers, no BPA filled receipts, no plastic wrap, no plastic produce bags. Just go outside (in the winter it’s inside) and cut, wash and use. Want great tips on how to grow your own garden. Check out this blogpost for more info. **Pro-Tip!! You can GROW SCALLIONS IN WATER INSIDE YOUR HOUSE from store bought scallions. Check it out here!

4.   Stainless Steel Straws: I would ditch using straws completely but I love drinking lemon water, which is basically lemonade’s cool older cousin. Some say if you drink this daily the acid in the lemon can ruin the enamel on your teeth. Others say to just to rinse your mouth with water after drinking the lemon water and you’ll be fine.  Still others will say that if you drink it from a straw then your pearly whites will be safe.  Legend has it that life gave my Grandma Helen lemons and she used them to make lemonade, 2 grenades, a motorcycle and an entire bottle of bourbon.  So basically no one knows what the real answer is.  I play it safe and drink my morning lemon water with a straw. I love turtles WAY too much to ever use a plastic straw, paper straws are gross, so that’s why I go with stainless steel. I bought 4 and use them over and over and over again. I even carry one in my purse when I go out which embarrasses the crap out of my kids. (grenades, motorcycle and bourbon not included)

5.   Silicone Storage Bags: My kids hate it when I take our used ziplock plastic bags, wash them and reuse them. My hubby actually says THIS is the last straw (not even stainless) and too much for even him to watch. I’m not using those bags once and throwing them away and thankfully I’m not the only one with this problem. We use non-toxic, dishwasher and microwavable silicone bags. They come in all sizes and colors so you can freeze, store or use them to carry around food. You can check some out here and here.

The post The Legend of Grandma Helen and the War on Plastic appeared first on Living Clean and Dirty.

Many will say that much like a misplaced dildo (Armadillo on the Dildo?) the Elf has become an unexpected pain in the ass.  Take a quick browse on any facebook mom’s group and you’ll find that the one thing they can all agree on is that they should have never started this tradition. If they had to do it over again they would have told their kids their Elf moved to Sweden and joined an ABBA tribute band.

God help us if you forget to move the damn thing one night and now you spend the next day rationalizing why a toy has not moved around the house…here’s a few suggestions

“Maybe if you were a better listener he would have moved”

“If you did better on that Math test then maybe the Elf would would love you more”

“Maybe if grandma wasn’t so controlling and approved of my parenting style then the fucking doll wouldn’t have sat there like a lump of shitty plastic silently judging me as I tried to balance my work life, my home life, menopause, being jealous of Gwen’s new Tesla, the fact that Big Bang Theory was cancelled…” wait, where was I going with this??

If you’re a normal mom like me then you may have read these three suggestions and said “ hmmm…that sounds about right”. Unless of course you are GWEN…little Mrs. Perfect.  We all have a Gwen in our lives.  Perfect lawn, perfect lighting in her Instagram posts, perfect life, perfect everything. I  HATE HER because I’m jealous and that make me hate her even more (Gwen bangs three businessmen?)

So for all of us non-GWEN’s, I like to call us real-moms (Mamas in Pajamas?) I raise my well-deserved wine glass to you and offer you my help. There are plenty of sites to give you cute little kid-friendly ideas of what to do with you Elf, but you ain’t never seen a site like me before.

Maybe you get an Elf on the Shelf just for you and your husband and create these pics or better yet, you have your fun with the Elf yourself and you just make him watch.  However you choose to pleasure yours(elf) make sure you tag us at Living Clean and Dirty when you post them on social media so we can admire and praise (and obviously judge) your work.

As far as I’m concerned, if all the Chucky movies were rated R, then why should the exploits of a self-aware Christmas-themed doll who is supposed to have his own adventures be any different. Right click on the calendar below, save the image and print it out for yourself, hang that shit up proudly on the fridge (or better yet, in the closet where you hide the booze)…why should the kids have all of the fun?  Leave the “classy” for someone else and may all of your Elf adventures be filthy.

Happy Holidays
Ho-Ho-Ho

The post What a doll! appeared first on Living Clean and Dirty.

If you’re like me, you read that in Don LaFontaine’s voice.  Did I lose you with that reference? Basically, if you’ve ever seen a movie trailer in your life then you have heard his voice.  He was the “In A World…” guy who narrated 5,000 movie trailers over the past 40 years.  There’s your rare super-random fact of the day.

Anyway, let me get back to my story…

This isn’t a sappy romance story, this isn’t a mystery thriller, and it sure as hell isn’t a story about a future utopia where computers cater to our every whim.  Quite the opposite, this is a story of the day the water came in and the lights went out.

Was that dramatic enough? Are you compelled to keep reading? Of course it was and of course you are.  Now to be fair, this wasn’t the worst day I’ve ever had. There’s currently a 3-way tie in that category and if we were to give them titles they would be “And this is why we always leave the house wearing panties”, “Funny, this almost tastes like pee” and “Jesus Dad, close the door, no, I’m not masturbating”.

Maybe I should refer to this particular day as a “momentous” day. It was the day that made me embrace gratitude and that one simple shift changed everything. EVERYTHING. So I live on Long Island (emphasis on Island) and a few years back we experienced mother nature’s equivalent to a fist in the ass…while she was wearing a watch…and some sort of jeweled bracelet…and possibly a fitbit. Rather than refer to it as “The Great Fisting of 2012” let’s be slightly more mature and refer to it as “Getting Sandy-ed”. We went from living our everyday New York life to a page right out of Amish Homes & Gardens (“In A World where the Amish published a weekly lifestyle magazine…”).

No power, no heat/hot water, no cars, no internet, no porn, nothing. 27 inches of water came rushing through my house and made it virtually unlivable in a matter of hours. The next morning we stood amidst the wreckage of our flooded house, ruined cars and decimated neighborhood; I did the only thing that a rational person would do in this situation…I cried. I cried every single day, my poor hubby was trying to keep everyone and everything together and I sobbed like a baby. I cried like Sally Field in Steel Magnolias after Shelby died.  I cried like Drew Barrymore after getting egged in Never Been Kissed. I cried like everyone in the audience watching Bangkok Dangerous starring of course, Nicolas Cage.

My entire world was turned upside down, I was so overwhelmed and just felt like things would never be normal again. How would we ever get our lives (and our house) back to normal?  I would have lucid moments of getting my shit back together but became so disappointed with myself the water works would start all over again. I was a mess.

About a week later, I had learned my neighbor had set up a makeshift kitchen in her house and there was a strong possibility there would be coffee. I brushed my teeth, which represented the only form of hygiene that my current lifestyle would allow and promised myself I wouldn’t cry.  I made it across the street and almost through her front door before the tears started coming.  She will always have a special place in my heart for the advice she gave me that day.  I walked into her home like a sobbing hot mess, she could clearly see the pain on my face and knew I wasn’t coping with our situation.  She poured me a paper cup full of freshly brewed coffee, looked me in the eye and spoke the words that changed my life.  “Oh for fuck’s sake enough already. Stop crying.”

My first thought was “Bitch, give me my coffee and you’re a shitty friend. I’ll “C” “U” Next Tuesday” (that’s a classy way of calling someone a cunt, Mom raised me right). After I had my first sip of morning Java in almost 170 hours I started to see the wisdom in her kind words.  She was right, all this crying bullshit was getting me was a puffy face. When you don’t shower for a week and you’re living in Amish-pocalypse, red swollen eyes just makes everything worse. That night in early November of 2012 when I went to bed I was still filthy and unshowered but it was the first night of my new “shift” towards gratitude. I closed my eyes tight (which made things worse because I could hear the scratching of mice from somewhere in the nightmare that was my house) and concentrated. All I had to do was find one thing I was grateful for that day. I needed to sift through all the bullshit, all the frustration and all the feelings of hopelessness and find a single positive thing to grab on to.  For a caffeine junkie like me the choice was easy, I was grateful for that cup of coffee.

…The next day I was grateful that the FEMA representative came to our house

…The day after I was grateful that my friend drove in from Westchester just to pick up my laundry for me.

…The day after that I was grateful that our auto insurance processed our claim and scheduled a time to tow away our cars.

You get the idea.

It took a long time to get our lives back to normal, but we did.  In many ways our home is even better than it was before and so is my outlook on the world. Hey, there’s something else to be grateful for!

Every night I’ve ALWAYS found at least one thing to be grateful for. Some days it’s simple like the cup of coffee or a convenient parking spot. Other days it’s more “serious” like the day my father died. What could I be grateful for that night? I was grateful that he was my dad and I had him in my life to play silly games with me as a child, teach me how to balance a checkbook as a teen and walk me down the aisle as a bride to be. There’s ALWAYS something to be grateful for. What I love about gratitude is that you can be grateful anytime, anywhere, and it’s always free of charge. Studies have shown that there are tons of health benefits to practicing gratitude like improving your physical health, making you more empathetic, helping you to sleep better, increasing your self-esteem and of course it’s awesome for your mental health. I read that on the internet so it’s obviously true.

My girls have even gotten in on the act as “what are you grateful for” is part of our bedtime routine.  I do have to admit that their gratefuls tend to be a little jarring sometimes. “My tummy has been hurting me for like 2 days and tonight I finally pooped, so I feel a ton better.”  That wasn’t one of theirs that was actually mine but seriously I felt a lot better.  So one of my daughters hit me with “I’m grateful for this girl in school who isn’t very nice to me”. I was confused why this fell into the grateful category but she went on “She’s not nice to a lot of my friends either and I’m grateful because she shows me the kind of person I don’t want to be” (Gets you right in the feels, doesn’t it).  Not to be outdone by her sister, my other daughter tells me “Well, I’m grateful that there is a Hell and that Hitler is in it burning for all eternity”.  I told her that there might not be a Hell, but there is a Cleveland which is pretty close and maybe he’s there.

So that’s today’s story.  Will it change the world? No, probably not but sprinkling in a little daily gratitude will definitely change the way you look at it.  Oh don’t get me wrong…I totally have shitty days and sometimes it’s a struggle to come up with my daily gratitude, but I always find something.  I believe we can all find something big or small to be grateful for each day.  And just remember, at the end of the day if you find yourself struggling for your moment of gratitude, sometimes just making it to the end of the day is as gratitude-worthy as that “2012 Apocalypse-Blend” cup of coffee in a paper cup.

The post Gratitude…freshly brewed in a paper cup appeared first on Living Clean and Dirty.

Growing up, my family went on a vacation every year. My parents hated the beach, Disney World was too immature for them and a “European trip would be wasted on children.” Needless to say, for three kids that left our options somewhere between the National Mustard Museum in Wisconsin (yes, it’s real) and somewhere in Yemen. My father was in the insurance business and every year he went away to a convention and dragged us along with him. I still think Yemen might have been the better choice. When I was 12 years old, the convention of the year was in San Diego. Me, Mom, Dad and my two brothers on a plane for over four hours with no in-flight movie (“that’s a waste of good money”), no smartphones and no iPads. How we survived the ’80s I have no idea.

Entertainment consisted of sitting still, Mad Libs or staring out the window praying it would open. I got a little adventurous and stealthily snuck off to ransack the tiny bathroom in the back of the plane. I know that doesn’t sound like a lot of fun, but after an hour of Mad Libs you’d poke your own eyes out just for a change of scenery. If you’re a woman reading this, you know what I found. That’s right, ladies…the stash of free sanitary napkins. My Walkman was running out of batteries and I could only listen to so much Cyndi Lauper anyway, so naturally I thought it would be fun to spend the next few hours of the flight wearing a big-ass pad. I didn’t even have my period yet, but all my friends did and I was dying to feel “grown up,” because nothing screams “womanhood” quite like riding the front half of a diaper cowgirl style.

That lasted about a half hour.

Yup, that’s all it took for me to run back to the bathroom (my mom must’ve thought I had diarrhea) and rip that thing out of my underwear. I actually considered peeing with it on just to see what happened, but thankfully I chickened out. Otherwise I might’ve ended up years later sitting in a bar on my fourth glass of wine, refusing to get up because I was convinced nobody could tell my pad had expanded to seven times its normal size.

Fast forward thirty-something years and now it’s my daughter telling me she can’t wait to get her period. As I’m about to roll my eyes, I think back to that flight and remember how clueless I was too. “The only periods you should be worrying about right now are the ones at the ends of your sentences. Now go finish your homework.” Parenting…nailed it.

Time went on and before we knew it, Aunt Flo came knocking on my little girl’s door. She was so excited she was practically beaming. We immediately went to the pharmacy, made our purchase and came straight home. I think you know where this is going…nine minutes. She lasted nine minutes. “Nope. I’m not wearing this.” I explained that my house wasn’t going to look like a crime scene and she had to wear something. She was way too young for tampons (organic only…do you know how much chemical shit they spray on those before you’re supposed to shove one up your hoo-ha? That’s a whole other post), she couldn’t use a menstrual cup like me, and as far as I knew there weren’t any other options.

Turns out I was wrong.

Rather than continue a losing battle with my hormone-raging vampire snack, I asked my friend Google to help me keep the peace and keep the laundry to a minimum. After a couple of very unfortunate internet searches (I can’t wait to see what starts showing up in my newsfeed), I found a potential answer…period underwear. Yup, don’t beat yourself up if you’ve never heard of it either. At the time, only two of my friends had, and neither one knew if they actually worked. I figured I had nothing to lose and everything to gain by giving them a try. In the age of cell phones, Wi-Fi and the Swiffer, surely my daughter didn’t have to suffer through the equivalent of a small travel pillow stuffed into her underwear once a month.

When I hear “period underwear,” I picture giant tan granny panties with stretched-out elastic and a couple of unfortunate Rorschach stains. They’re not sexy, nobody wants to talk about them and they’re definitely not fun. They’re the Nicolas Cage of underwear.

Who knew period underwear had become a huge industry? There are a bunch of different brands out there, but after a lot of research I decided to try Thinx. I heard the founder, Miki Agrawal, on a podcast and thought she was a fucking badass. I love supporting companies that give back, promote ethical and sustainable manufacturing and make it easy to find exactly what you need. I’m not going to lie, I was skeptical, but much like watching Nicolas Cage in a dramatic role…I felt nothing.

Yup. Nothing.

They’re comfortable, super cute and incredibly easy to wash. I rinse them in the sink, throw them in the washing machine and let them air dry after a few minutes in the dryer. They come out perfect every time. Thankfully those giant pads are a thing of the past in our house, and my daughter will never have to experience what felt like half a roll of damp toilet paper stuffed into her underwear like I did. Isn’t that every mom’s dream? For her daughter to have it just a little easier than she did.

Mission accomplished.

As a side note, you know how eco-friendly I am, so I’m hanging on to that last box of giant pads for the next time my friend Allison comes over with a bottle…or three…of wine. I think it’s incredibly rude to excuse yourself in the middle of a great story just to run to the bathroom.

The post Finding comfort at the end of a sentence appeared first on Living Clean and Dirty.

I’ve had some doozies.

• Eat more kale.
• Eat fewer desserts.
• Perfect my Daffy Duck impersonation.
• Declare myself a pirate on my tax return.
• Slay my enemies.
• You know…the usual.

When I hit my mid-thirties (for about the tenth time), I gave up on New Year’s resolutions and started declaring each year my “Year Of…”

My first was the Year of Fear.

Instead of making promises I knew I’d break, I decided to spend an entire year saying yes to things that scared me. Nothing crazy. I wasn’t wrestling alligators or jumping out of airplanes. I started with things like parallel parking and buying a pair of long, dangling earrings because I’d always convinced myself they weren’t “me.”

Eventually I worked my way up to public speaking at my daughter’s elementary school graduation, jumping off a cliff into a swimming hole, trying a trapeze and riding a trail bike down the side of a mountain.

That last one wasn’t my finest decision. I broke my shoulder in two places.

Live and learn.

The next year became my Year of Me.

Not in a selfish way.

In a healthy way.

I started saying no to PTA committees I didn’t actually want to join. I stopped feeling obligated to attend every family event simply because I was expected to. I started reading books again, knitting some truly ugly scarves and slowly removing toxic people from my life.

Don’t get me wrong. I still emptied the dishwasher, went to doctor’s appointments and handled all the things adulthood requires.

I just stopped putting myself at the bottom of every list.

So here we are, hip deep into 2018, my third year of YO. I’ve learned to embrace my fears and put myself as a priority so when you mesh the two together you obviously get the Year of No Fucks Given. Let me explain…I’m tired, obviously as a mom I’m sleep-deprived but I’m talking about being TIRED. I’m TIRED of always doing the right thing, TIRED of being the bigger person and I’m sure as shit positively EXHAUSTED by not sticking up for myself at the risk of someone else’s feelings.

So here’s a little slice of my 2018…there’s a guy I know and he’s super creepy. And by creepy I mean if I was to hear that 20 dead hookers were found in this guy’s basement my first thought would be “hmmm…thought the number would have been higher”. He’s also got a little Family Feud era Richard Dawson in him and likes to kiss hello every female in his path. It doesn’t matter who it is…85 year old grandma, the cashier at the bagel store, young hot mom in Kohls and especially a hot ticket like me. To make matters worse, when he goes in for the kill he turns his head trying to plant one on the mouth (ugh, it’s just as horrifying as it sounds).

So for years I’ve been enduring the sleazy cheek-kiss, I got wise to the head turn early on and compensated for it. I would change my route so I didn’t run into him, some women have feigned a cold and other women have pretended to be on the phone when they saw him…but no one ever stopped him, no one ever told him no. Now, you can pass judgement and say “Oh I’d never”, well if I was sitting at my computer braless in a pair of 4 day old pajamas I’d say the same thing. The first few times you’re caught off guard and then it just becomes too awkward of a situation so you just put up with it. As women, I think a lot of us were raised to take the figurative “hit” before we made another person uncomfortable.

• “You can’t say that, you’ll hurt his feelings”,
• “Oh there’s no sense in making a scene, he doesn’t mean anything by it”
• “I know he’s a little creepy, but he’s your uncle so just go give him a hug.”

I’m here 24/7 busting my ass trying to raise 2 warrior daughters and I don’t feel comfortable telling some low-budget lothario to keep his mouth off of me? There’s only one mouth I want anywhere near me and it sure as shit wasn’t this guy’s. So in my Year of No Fucks Given I decided that awkward or not, this shit had to end. The next time I saw him, he leaned in for the attack and I put my hand up in front of my face and said, “Please stop, the kissing makes me uncomfortable. Just say hello”. He looked shocked but then accepted his fate. This public kissing booth was officially closed.

And that was it.

Years of women changing direction when they saw him. Years of awkwardness. Years of silently tolerating something none of us liked. It ended with one sentence.

Maybe that’s what my Year of No Fucks Given is really about. It’s not about being rude, selfish or impossible to get along with. It’s about finally understanding that protecting your own boundaries isn’t something you should ever apologize for.

Late last year I declared that 2018 was going to be the year I really poured myself into Living Clean and Dirty. Like a lot of resolutions, life had other plans. But there’s still plenty of 2018 left, plenty of stories to tell and plenty of opportunities to keep becoming a better version of myself. I’m still here, still fighting the good fight and still trying to figure it all out right alongside you.

And for any haters out there who would like to break my balls about not posting enough new material this year, please write me at my new imaginary email address None@Fucksgiven.com

The post I’ve Got None Left to Give appeared first on Living Clean and Dirty.

Goals: The result or achievement toward which effort is directed; aim; end
Selfish: Devoted to or caring only for oneself; concerned primarily with one’s own interests, benefits, welfare, etc., regardless of others.
Liquor: How a male animal cleans his mate (ok, that one might be a bit of a stretch, but I was on a roll)

Well, so now that 2016 has finished kicking our
ass I’m looking forward to my life in 2017.

We lost Prince but we got Batman vs Superman.
We lost Zsa Zsa but we got Zika.
We lost Bowie but we got killer clowns.
We lost Gene Wilder but we got Pokemon Go.
We lost The Good Wife but we got Fuller house
We lost Muhammad Ali but we got the Ice Bucket Challenge.

Yup, pretty fucking awful.

And so here we are…2017.

Last year, or maybe the last two years, became my Year of Fear. The idea was simple: do one thing every day that scares you. I jumped off a cliff into a lake, I parallel parked, I wore dangly earrings with a pair of jeans, and I started saying yes to things that made me uncomfortable. Some were big. Some were ridiculously small. But they all counted.

To me, 2016 was the slap. Now I want 2017 to be the hug.

I’m taking off my superhero cape and wrapping myself in a warm blanket of selfishness. Actually, let’s stop calling it selfishness. Let’s call it self-care. It’s not about me, me, me. It’s about putting me first once in a while. That’s the goal. The Year of Me.

Let me unpack this a little more…most all of us have been on a plane and listened to the flight attendants give their safety speech. Try to get past the visual of them blowing up the life-vest like a little pinky sized pee-pee…what do they always say?

“Put your oxygen mask on first, before helping others”.

It sounds backwards, but it makes perfect sense. Most of us are hardwired to put everyone else’s needs ahead of our own. But if we’re running on empty, we’re not much help to anybody.

It’s like when I hear, “A happy mother equals a happy child.” Personally, I’m still convinced high-speed internet has something to do with it too. But just because a saying is a little cheesy doesn’t make it wrong.

Take these “Just Because…” gems, for example:

“Just because I’m looking at you doesn’t mean I’m listening”
“Just because it’s handmade doesn’t mean it’s cheap”
“Just because I can’t sing doesn’t mean I won’t sing”
“Just because it’s a hole, doesn’t mean you should stick your finger in it” (Fine, I might have made that one up, but it still holds true. Sorry hubby)

I’m not sure when being selfish became synonymous with being a douchebag, but here we are. My answer to this is in 2017 is I’m declaring myself the supreme leader of Douchebagistan and the borders are open to all who want to embrace the lifestyle with me. Who says that being selfish makes you a bitch? That makes about as much sense as a dentist trying to have a conversation with me while she’s got a couple of metal sticks in my mouth poking and prodding.

Let’s be clear, as much as I’d like The Year of Me to consist of nothing but Netflix and an all-wine diet, I still live in the real world. I have 2 kids (3 if you count the hubby), 2 dogs, my mom and all the other responsibilities that I treasure, but that doesn’t mean that me and my needs always need to take a backseat.

I vow to myself to stop putting shit off. I love to read, sleep late, experiment in the kitchen, take a candlelit bath, and simply have an hour where nobody needs anything from me. It’s time to stop pushing me to the bottom of the list or God help us, off the list. It’s easy to lose a bit of ourselves along the way, and to that I say No Fucking More!

2017 “The Year of Me”. You can find memes galore on the internet about “Ain’t nobody got time for that”. Well then call me Dr. Nobody, because I’m making time for that…who’s with me?

The post Welcome to Douchebagistan, Population: ME! appeared first on Living Clean and Dirty.

No sugar. No dairy. No processed foods. No coffee.

Yes…no fucking coffee.

When I told my husband, he just looked at me and said, “I don’t know what’s left for you to eat. But if it’s what you want to do, go for it. More coffee for me.”

My thinking was simple. Even if I hated every minute of it, maybe I’d learn something about what was actually in my food. I read labels all the time, but I’m usually looking for the organic seal or the non-GMO label. I don’t spend my grocery trips reading every ingredient like I’m studying for the SATs.

Which, by the way, turns a one-hour shopping trip into a three-hour tour…a three-hour tour…

Whoops. Sorry. I’m back.

I made it six days before I was ready to sell my soul for a sandwich and a glass of wine. Sandwich optional.

But something unexpected happened.

I felt…better.

Not “I can run a marathon” better.

More like “my stomach finally stopped trying to kill me” better.

That’s when it hit me.

It was probably the dairy.

For years I’d blamed everything else. Stress. Eating too fast. Bad restaurants. A “sensitive stomach.” Growing up, my mom was convinced I had what she lovingly called a “spastic colon.” Apparently watching enough Marcus Welby, MASH, Quincy, Trapper John, St. Elsewhere, and Doogie Howser qualified her for an honorary medical degree from Bullshit University.

Thanks, Mom.

Looking back, the signs were ridiculously obvious. Ice cream always came with stomach cramps. Cheesy casseroles were basically a warning label. Milk and I had been enemies for years, and somehow I never connected the dots.

I’m not a doctor, so don’t take my word for it. Do your own research. But once I started paying attention, it became pretty clear my body and dairy were no longer on speaking terms.

Sometimes we get so used to feeling a certain way that we assume it’s normal. We adapt. We work around it. We tell ourselves, “That’s just how my body is.”

Sometimes it isn’t.

Sometimes…

Turns out it was the milk.

The post Turns Out It Was the Milk appeared first on Living Clean and Dirty.

I’ve had a few glasses, okay, a bottle, of my excellent organic, heart-healthy wine, so I thought I would share what I do during those few special days of the month.

Early on in my eco-friendly journey, I realized I was throwing away a ridiculous amount of tampons and pads. I was also starting to think more about what was actually in them. Growing up, I gave Toxic Shock about as much thought as my friend’s Foreigner cover band.

My best friend from childhood is a nurse practitioner, and for years she tried to convince me to wear tampons during the day and pads at night. Sure, I tried it, but the next morning I usually found myself as a contestant on the monthly game show, “Surprise Laundry!”

Thanks, but no thanks.

So I started looking for another option and eventually found the Menstrual Cup.

There. I said it.

My husband affectionately referred to it as the “Twilight Goblet,” which did absolutely nothing to make me feel better about trying it. I spent hours reading reviews online and then many more hours trying to convince myself I could actually use the thing.

Finally, after enough research and a little liquid courage, I ordered one.

Before anyone asks, yes, I filed my nails first.

The first few attempts were not graceful. There was a learning curve. A surprisingly steep one. I felt like I was trying to crack a safe. Fold. Twist. Reposition. Nope. Wrong combination. Start over.

It took me months to finally figure it out, but once I did, I never looked back.

Now I honestly think the menstrual cup is one of the greatest inventions ever made. I use a Diva Cup, and for me it has been reusable, comfortable, economical, and much less wasteful than buying tampons and pads every month.

I can wear it for hours without thinking about it, and I have no idea why more women are not trying one.

Is it for everyone? Maybe not. Every body is different. But if you have been curious and the whole idea seems a little intimidating, I get it. I was right there with you.

Six months later, I finally cracked the safe.

For the love of Mother Earth and your wallet, it might be worth a try.

The post Say it without giggling…menstrual cup appeared first on Living Clean and Dirty.

By far, the most questions I get is about Mama Ellen’s recipe for homemade deodorant.  It never fails…when I tell someone I make my own deodorant they wrinkle their face, say something like, “Ew gross” and by the end of our conversation they ask me for the recipe.  Now it’s quite possible they are putting it in their back pocket for the next time their husband bitches about dinner not being ready, but I like to think they have their “pits” in mind and not their “putz”.

Unfortunately my journey into the green is still a sweaty one and with all of the crappy toxic chemicals in deodorant, I took baby steps and bought different brands of “organic”, “non-toxic” and “more natural” deodorants.  They were all great in their own way except for the only one that mattered…I still stunk.  I smelled so bad by the end of the day that I had to shower before bed.  If I didn’t my hubby would mumble something about a locker room and gym socks as he grabbed his pillow and made his way onto the couch.  I couldn’t blame him, I hadn’t been out hiking or running or bike riding, but I smelled like I was in terrific shape.  I smelled just going to drop the kids off at school and buying groceries.  Now that I CrossFit it is totally unacceptable to smell like a young boy in the midst of puberty.  I wasn’t going back to off-the-shelf deodorant, no matter how many pink flowers and pretty names it had on it.  They might as well have given it a name like “Toxica:  Because Aluminum isn’t just for the foil in your kitchen, NOW IN LILAC!”

So I tried making my own deodorant, and let me just tell you that Rome wasn’t the only thing not built in a day.  I suffered more than a couple of setbacks, but with every failed attempt and itchy rash I knew that I was on the healthy road to the dryville.  My kids thought I was crazy, my husband would just shake his head and walk away and I’m not sure but I think someone mistakenly ate an early batch (but no one fessed up).  Then one day, the skies parted and the angels sang…I wanted to scream like Dr. Frankenstein “It’s Alive!”  I’ll be honest, I had my doubts for a while, but it really paid off in the end.  After some fine tuning I am happy to report that I’m rash-free and no longer smell like I should be standing in line for bread.   I’ve been little-miss-clean-pits for 2 years now and I still don’t smell.  Trust me, there would be a husband-shaped dent in the couch if I did.

So here’s my recipe:

• 1 Tablespoon Organic Coconut Oil
• 1 Tablespoon Organic Shea Butter
• 1 Teaspoon GMO-free Cornstarch
• 2 Teaspoon Aluminum-Free Baking Soda (if needed)

You can add Tea Tree Oil or other essential oils but I haven’t yet.

Mix all the ingredients together in a small bowl.  I usually leave out the coconut oil in the window until it starts to turn liquidy (makes it easier to stir).  You can either put it in an old deodorant stick holder or a small glass container and use it like a crème.  The first few months, I poured it into an old deodorant container but it wouldn’t stay hard (ladies, you know what I’m talking about).  At one point I started keeping it in the fridge but to be honest I like a hot cup of coffee to wake me up in the morning, not jamming what feels like a cold stick of butter in my armpit.  These days I prefer the cream approach, it’s in a glass jar in my bathroom and the chances of my husband accidentally spreading it on a bagel have been drastically reduced.   Bonus: reusing glass jars.

**Also a note on baking soda – originally I broke out in a terrible rash so I used less in mine.  After a few batches I took it out all together because one armpit kept getting a rash (I did a lot of research and this is common so I just removed it).  My older daughter, who is new to the deodorant world, has her own batch.  She has no problems with the baking soda, so for hers I leave it in.

The post Smell Ya Later! appeared first on Living Clean and Dirty.