A new religion? A political agenda? A training camp for the mental vacillators, you know, the not-quite bipolars—those of us who already know we chronically alternate our moods between PMS, melancholy, frustration, tears, sensitivity, resignation, or surrendering ourselves to tear jerking laughter. So you don’t need to remind us our emotions change directions faster than the wind! WE KNOW! Or as Lady Gaga croons, “Baby, we were born this way.” We don’t need a diagnosis. We just need you to get out of our way occasionally. We are once, twice, three times a lady all in the same day—all with different shoes, moods, and game plan for this moment’s task!
FYI Men: We don’t need you to understand us; we just need you to agree with what we’re saying. It’s really that simple.
This is Radical Lizlam: Radical Lizlam is a progressive philosophy of consistent bedlam, mayhem, and a variety of chaos that is best mitigated by extreme laughter, frequent raids of stashed chocolate supplies in clandestine locations and a memory more than capable of forgetting things. We Radical Lizlamists even bring stability to chaos by occasionally dropping the F-Bomb! (FAITH-bomb that is!) “Lord help me NOW please!” Can I still say bomb in a blog without being targeted by the NSA?
A radical Lizlamist is person who has big dreams and goals, but generally get about 98% sidetracked by a schedule that is spread pretty darn thin and a circumference that apparently spreads in inverse proportion to it. This is the fault of other people, not ourselves. See, we are givers, oh how we give! Please don’t lecture us about “carving out time for oneself.” Do that, and you’re likely to have a Hot Yoga for Dummies book hit you in the head.
We are the radical real housewives of every city who get the kids ready for school while answering the (surprise!) 7:00 am termite man’s questions about what our husband didn’t do. We are the ones who politely tell the phone solicitors for the Firemen’s Association to beat it because we’re 30 minutes late to our child’s school performance. Besides, we all know real firemen don’t sit at desks behind phones panhandling desperate housewives. No! Real firemen are out fighting fires and posing for next year’s calendars even though 1 square inch on calendars can’t possibly contain today’s schedule.
Don’t lecture me on putting our schedule in our smart phone either. Are you crazy??? Do you know how many times we have to find that stupid thing after one of the kids misplaced it playing Angry Birds? Lose that and you virtually lose your entire life!!
We Lizlamists are the ones who do our level best to find gluten-free, dye-free, sugar-free, flavor-FULL cupcakes at the Circle K fifteen minutes before arriving for a school event just announced by our forgetful kid who didn’t give us last week’s weekly folder chock full of important information.
We drive the car that’s had a ping for over six months and doesn’t have gas in it to get to work an hour ago as we look in the rear view mirror and note that we have eye-liner on just one eye. We are the ones who sort and chuck the bad mail from the good. We sneak corporate time from our real jobs in order to like, SHARE and pray for on Facebook for all the lame who cannot walk, as well as the animals who have no homes, and every single other woman we know who has even bigger problems, and believe me there are many! All this makes us feel things extremely, so JUST DEAL WITH IT if we happen to go a bit emo on you if you either hurt our feelings, say something really nice, or ignore us when you shouldn’t have.
We fundamentally transform disgusting litter boxes into pot pouri for finicky felines. We volunteer to host parties for our best friend who just started selling jewelry to other frazzled friends who we know in advance will forget to RSVP. We are thinking how we best can make you happy when we check Pinterest for ideas for a delicious dinner tonight. That is, before we realize that gymnastics practice, soccer practice and a vet appointment after work means we actually only have just enough time to figure out how to make chicken in a brand new way yet again. If we still fail to beat the clock, we compromise with our kids and settle for McDonald’s even though it means long waits in unhappy lines, for the sake of the 1389th happy toy made by an enslaved Chinese child (which also makes us feel really bad) when all we really ever fantasize about is a nice sit-down meal at Applebee’s.
We help with the homework we don’t understand, and when that’s not good enough, we may even attempt to pencil in some of the answers in matched offspring’s handwriting if that will reduce the endless questions pricking at our slow-percolating migraine.
We work harder than the Secretary of State importing peace to siblings and exporting lice from heads to sinks. We smuggle excess toys to thrift stores while trying to avoid detection by our children. We attempt to transform “aftermath” to Simple Home. We make executive decisions every day that promote the welfare of our family members knowing we’ll never receive accolades or awards.
We work as hard as we can, as fast as we can, every single day that we live. We are a walking Rolodex of who to call for every kind of domestic disaster and a memorized Dewey Decimal system of every item that everyone in our home still hasn’t learned how to locate.
We are continuously humbled knowing we don’t have it all together, especially compared to our more successful, better organized sisters! And yet we love them anyway.
At night while our men watch Orange County choppers or ESPN, we silently pay last month’s bills with next month’s funds, while making tomorrow’s grocery list, while hammering out a sympathy, wedding, and new baby card to mail tomorrow. Long after the kids are shampooed, read to, prayed up, and tucked in, we finish cleaning our kitchens and go ahead and fold and hang two or three loads of laundry, before attending to today’s emails requesting even more of ourselves. We hope that later we might get lucky and get to sleep in a bed not invaded by big dogs with a propensity for French kissing, feverish children with snotty noses, cats in heat, or snoring, farting men who may attempt to paw us, even though they still haven’t really heard a word we said all day.
At day’s end we pray. We pray for mercy and grace to do this all again for one more day. It may be down our knees until we fall prostrate (translation: sleep at last). For some of us, we pray quietly in our minds where words end and dreams begin.
Yes, we boo-boo kissers, stuffed animal surgical specialists, sandwich packing, sandwiched generational caregivers are the real extremists in society. We are the full time CEOs of our homes and often the part time or full time employees of wherever it is we go to rest from the exhaustion of domestic bliss. We juggle hormones, children, careers, schedules, tasks, and occasionally our dreams just for us.
We are amazing women who keep society in balance. We are the revolution that keeps the planet from tilting off its axis in a thousand small maneuvers every single day.
We are living life to the full, loving all of you with every ounce of us we possess and then some.
We are moms, wives, friends, sisters, daughters, grandmas, employees, and volunteers trying to make the world a better place by serving you well.
We are Radical Lizlamists. This is more than just our religion, our movement, our philosophy, or even our funny farm. This is who we are.
TRUE CAVEAT: This story was written ALL WHILE:
- Solving an 8 year old’s existential crisis
- Assisting with 3 digit regrouping math homework
- Mentally planning tonight’s dinner
- Taking three phone calls (2 requests, 1 solicitation)
- Instructing above mentioned child how to mail a LEGO sweepstakes entry by snail mail
- Pulling out spilled Frosted Flakes (dry ones….yay!) in between my a,s,d,f,j,k,l, and my beloved sem.