I grew up in the 70s and came of age in the 80s. I was a child of the media, apathy and societal laissez-faire- and of parents who were poor and had to work a lot more than they should have.
Even growing up in a backwater town that was 20 years behind the times didn’t help much. I still wanted to dress like the dancers on Soul Train and was convinced someday I would be a super combo of the women in the Virginia Slims and the Enjoli ads.
The church wasn’t a whole lot of help. The RCC had jettisoned much of its traditional practices and teachings so we got mixed messages from them. I learned more about Jesus and the grace of God from the rare trips I got to Sunday School in Grandma’s Regular Baptist church than from the confused version of Catholicism taught at that time. In the RCC’s defense they are more true to the Scriptures than most Protestants today, but that’s not saying much.
The 80s were a free for all both in culture and institutionalized religion. And it’s all downhill from there.
For a woman of my generation I was conservative politically and socially, but liberalism and militant feminism had their bad influences on me.
I used overwork like some people use opiates. To stay numb. To have perceived value. I didn’t need a man. I certainly didn’t want to stay home and raise kids. I wanted to be important and in control. And I had no choice because neither my first nor second husbands were good providers.
I thought once my son was born the most important thing was for me to get back to work and earn money, not to pay personal one- on-one attention to his education and well-being. I could not have afforded being a stay at home mother financially anyway, as my husband at the time was more about blowing money drinking and gambling than providing.
I was sold a bill of rotten goods. And I was gullible enough to buy it.
I bought a bill of rotten goods that caused me to fail my son by denying him the nurture and education from a present and caring mother. It was a bill of rotten goods that led to two failed marriages to beta males who needed mommies and enablers rather than wives. It was a bill of rotten goods that reaped years of exhaustion, depression and despair.
I couldn’t be the Enjoli woman or the sexy Soul Train dancer. I became just a burned out, depleted, depressed middle aged crone.
The natural order is good. It is made by God for our benefit. Men and women were made to complement and complete each other, not to compete.
One man and one woman marriage was instituted by God not just for the procreation and nurture of children but for the good of society. Men are called to provide and women are called to nurture and teach our children.
For Christians our lives are not our own. We have been bought with the price of the sacrificed Lamb of God, Who has paid for our sins and Who sustains us into eternal life.
I’ve always said that my life serves more as a warning than an example to follow. My life can show one what NOT to do.
Women, find a real man. A man who belongs to Christ. A man who supports and loves you. Marry young and have as many children as the Lord will give you. Cherish your husband, love and respect him. Give him a home.
As far as the cologne commercial, the cigarettes, and the obsession with overwork and militant bodily autonomy, let those things go. We were created for better than this.
It’s that time of year again. Most of my life I have approached the holidays with a combination of dread and loathing. From my earliest memory I still can feel the disappointment and fear that comes from being a child in tough economic times – money, or more rightly the lack thereof- was guaranteed to get Mom and Dad at each other’s throats.
The things I see while driving to work on US23…
I don’t know what is worse, fat dudes in Speedos or the Daisy Duke crowd.
What self-respecting non-terrorist dude would wear these nighties? These outfits call for an immediate forfeiture of one’s Man Card, and/or enlistment in ISIS.
I think I’d almost rather die than be corseted like this, even though it does make dresses look a hell of a lot better. My grandmother used to be a lingerie buyer for a swanky department store. She sold this stuff. Wore this stuff. Fitted people for this stuff. I have worn this stuff only on special occasions and it’s hard to ward off both hypoxia and heat stroke wearing this stuff. It’s hot and you can’t breathe worth a damn, let alone move. And the likelihood of having BATHROOM SITUATIONS is just as bad as with the lace-up pants, or with Levi’s 501s, which have button flies. Yay. Not to mention it’s hell on my nails.
I could only wish that the unfortunate 2003 Kia across the street were in this good of condition. Someone recently decided to use its roof as a trampoline, and in the process broke out the back glass – which can’t be replaced because the roof rail is bent- so the back glass consists of that plastic people use in the winter if they don’t have storm windows, and duct tape. Lots of duct tape. I feel sorry for her for having to drive it. The only cure for this thing is C4. Then again, when I see the volume of Natty cans in the yard and around their fire pit on Saturday and Sunday mornings, I understand. All. Too. Well. She’s living la vida drunksitter. Both her husband and her father-in-law make Jerry look like an amateur at drunk-n-stupid random destruction. Jerry destroyed stuff, yes, but even in his drunken stupidity, deep in that primal, reptilian part of his brain, he knew that trashing my car was a Really Bad Idea. Apparently this tipsy redneck has discovered, the hard way, that if you want to go car surfing, you need something with a sturdier roof than an aged Kia Optima. I hope she kicked his ass. She is twice his size.
This is the same guy who put up the pool on January 5. FYI: Central Ohio’s average January high temperature is 23°. Yes. Fahrenheit. Then again this is the same rocket scientist, in the same pool, who passed out on a floatie in the middle of the pool , surrounded by empty Natty cans, in the heat of the day, on a 90° (also Fahrenheit) day in the middle of July for a few hours. When all was said and done, 
She has some nice tats. I have tats too, so I shouldn’t talk. Just no names, and no poorly drawn Pitbulls…
ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL: 