That Angry Chick

Mamma Bear's got beef.

measly-weasley:

If you’re a woman and you don’t feel oppressed by society, reblog this.

Me!

womanforthepatriarchy:

Found this gem on Facebook this morning courtesy. of Tugboat.

What does a feminist use as contraceptive?

Her personality.

Hahahaha this is excellent

(Source: )

Competence is defined as

idreamofkirstie:

Having the knowledge, skills, energy, experience, and motivation to respond adequately to others within the demands of the professional responsibilities.

I think someone needs to make a motivational posted with this on it for hanging in all DHA offices.

Is it possible that I had a wise thought?!

Last Friday, Australian Remembrance day, I got to thinking about the concept of immortality. I was thinking of this because of the nature of the day, and as we said goodbye to one of our most recently fallen soldiers, LCPL Luke Gavin.

What does it really mean to live forever? Do we look too much into the physicality of living? 

To be immortalised is really quite simple: it is to ensure you are remembered.

To live your life in such a way that you love and are loved in return, for so long as you are loved and remembered, you will live forever.

My great-grandmother will have been gone for 10 years in June, yet I still regularly think of her, tell stories of her, and tell stories that she told me. As do the other members of my family. One day, my children will be old enough to remember the stories of their great-great-gran, and they too will pass them on to their friends and children.

To be gone yet never forgotten, that is to be immortal. 

And so I say to all of those who have lost loved ones, you have lost their physical presence, their conversation, their touch. Such a huge loss is the physicality of a human being, that we often forget what we still have of them. Every time you tell a story of them, they are there, every time you remember them in a moment of quiet solitude, they are there, every time you reflect on the love you bear for them, they live on in your heart, your mind, and your soul.

Through you, they have become immortal.

I’m such a terrible mother…

Like I said here the time would come when once again my blood would boil over the whole breast vs. formula feeding issue.

That time came on Tuesday morning at approximately 10.34am. (I know because I could see the clock in the background, but that’s besides the point.)

To bring you up to speed, the formula we feed the girls does a bulk discount for multiple parents. To take advantage of it, you need a note from your doctor saying you are formula feeding your children. Our doctor is away until next Friday, and I’m fucking sick of being gouged $20 a tin when I could be getting it for $10, so I email them and ask if I can get the note from anyone else. Turns out I can get it from a registered nurse, child health nurse, or midwife. I got that email response Tuesday morning and thought ‘Perfect, the CHN will be here in half an hour, I’ll be able to get one today!’

I was wrong.

Why was I wrong? According to the nurse ‘Queensland Health is a baby friendly organisation.’

Apparently, by choosing to not breast feed, I am classed as not being baby friendly.

I was told that she couldn’t write me such a letter without clearing it with her superiors because Queensland Health will not condone formula feeding unless there is extenuating circumstances, and simply having multiples doesn’t constitute that.

I have never felt so fucking insulted in my entire life - and in my own home, in front of my parents who were visiting for the week. I am very rarely lost for words but in that moment I was so speechless I couldn’t even make a sigh.

I don’t breast feed because like several generations of my family’s women before me, I am not capable of producing milk. I also think its more important that my children have a mother that’s sane, rather than a mother that’s going round the bend trying to feed them, spending all her time with either a baby on the breast or a pump on the breast just trying to force the hand nature dealt me. I know my limits and that would’ve been a swift path to post natal depression for me.

According to this nurse, that means Queensland Health think I don’t deserve the same level of support as my breast feeding friends do.

I thought that by feeding a baby, changing it, bathing it, loving it and generally caring for it would constitute being baby friendly. 

Apparently not. Apparently I’m not baby friendly. Apparently I’m a terrible mother.

Never mind the fact the girls are thriving and have doubled their birth weight. Never mind that little C is about 2 degrees away from rolling onto her tummy all by herself at the tender age of 7 weeks instead of 7 months. Never mind that I may possibly have the two most content babies in the universe.

None of that matters, because I don’t breast feed.

Excuse me while I go say my hail Mary’s for being such a fucking terrible mother.

Just a friendly reminder that you’re going to die…

That’s right, one day you will inevitably die.

So what better way to be reminded of this every five minutes of every day, than by being shown fucking thousands of life and funeral insurance ads. I would seriously pay a tax to get them off my TV. Don’t even get me started on how incredibly fake and scripted they are!

As a stuck at home mum, I watch a lot of day time TV. In one ad block where there were seven ads, five of them were for some kind of insurance that relates to your untimely, inevitable, fucking-over-your-loved-ones-so-much-you’ll-become-nothing-but-a-pain-in-the-ass-and-they’ll-resent-you-forever demise. 5/7! Thats fucking ridiculous!

Not only is it overkill, but its pretty fucking inconsiderate and down right rude in a way.

What if you’re a terminally ill patient stuck in hospital, and all you have to do is watch tv, and then every 5 minutes you’re reminded of the fact that you’re dying? Nice, just what you need, that’s going to reinforce the power of positive thinking that is.

What if you’re that patient’s family or friends, constantly being reminded that you’re about to lose a loved one? And then being reminded of how much its going to cost you, what the fuck are you going to do with their stuff, all the cold hard bitch lawyers you’ll have to deal with, and that you have to organise what’s really just a morbid party, all before you even get to shed a real tear over it all!

Then there’s the old people who just plain don’t have much time left anyway constantly being reminded that the sand is almost all in the bottom half of the hourglass, so they better fork out their last dying dollars so they don’t become a horrible, inconvenient, life ruining ‘burden’ on their family. (On a side note, that little marketing point is really quite moot considering how many people already consider most of their family members a horrible, inconvenient, life ruining burden.)

If you want to avoid it then you better love the ABC.

You know what? I don’t even think its worth it either. Funeral insurance is to cover the cost of a funeral but…

Its called a credit card. I’m sure someone in the family will have one. We put both my grandparents’ funerals on my mother’s visa. Not only that, but funeral home people kind of deal with tough situations all the time, I mean you only go there because someone kicked the bucket and that’s pretty shitty. If you need more time, chances are they’re not going to tell you to have the money by Friday or they organise for you to have an ‘accident’ (which would coincidently be great for business so perhaps you should consider yourself lucky).

As for general life insurance…isn’t that kind of painting a target on your back? Is that not the motive in at least 20% of the murders on Law and Order? Why bring yourself the trouble. If you go before you’re of the magical retirement age, then your super will take care of it, if you go after that time, chances are you’ve got a fair chunk of money anyway or you have grown children with a fucking credit card.

And then, at the end of the day, why do you even fucking care? You’re kicking back, sipping a margarita and nibbling on tappas behind the pearly gates with Elvis and James Dean, and do you know what that means?

For once, its finally not your fucking problem.

I love my mother-in-law, but…

Fucking hell I’m so glad I don’t live with her.

She came to stay after the girls were born to help out around the house and be my chauffeur for a bit, because thats the kind of saintly angel she is, but holy shitballs is she a pain to live with! No wonder my sister-in-law never came home for days at a time when she was living there! 

Now don’t get me wrong, she really is a lovely, beautiful person, but nobody’s perfect - myself included. For instance, I don’t go to another persons house, family or not, and leave my used teabag in the sink every single morning. Especially when the bin is right there under the sink. I also don’t walk around someone else’s house in my underwear and a t-shirt even at my age, so I certainly won’t be doing it at hers!

I don’t insist on buying a fucking broom to sweep with when there’s a perfectly good, made for tiles, bagless, very fucking expensive vacuum cleaner to use instead. The broom doesn’t get up the dog hair, it just pushes it from A to B and then as soon as there’s a slight breeze its all over the place again, you need to vacuum it, woman! I live here, I think I know just a little bit more about how to clean this house than you!

I don’t just leave the recyclables to pile up for days on the kitchen bench when there is a perfectly good bin designated especially for them just on the other side of said bench. 

I don’t shut out other people’s dogs who are allowed in the house, for hours and hours on end for no good reason.

I don’t complain about what a crappy cook I am, and then continuously badger someone I know to be an extremely good cook about whether or not they want me to take over in the kitchen. No. I don’t. You put too much salt in everything, I’m not Dutch, I don’t like a side of food with my salt. In fact, I don’t like salt period.

The thing about it is that I feel so bad for getting shitty at her for these things because she is one of those super nice people who just don’t deserve anyone being shitty at them.

The even worse thing than that? That makes me even more shitty at her!

Talk about a fucking vicious cycle.

The 5 kinds of neighbours we’ve all had…

So, we had a random blackout this afternoon for no fucking reason according to the local news. During this time, when all appliances were silent and televisions were off, we got a pretty good glimpse into the kind of people we have for neighbours.

I realised that there’s a common theme when it comes to neighbours. The street/block seems to always be made up of a staple composition of households. These include:

The people with an endless number of children:

Everywhere I’ve lived, I’ve had those neighbours who seem to just either not know how to use a condom, or are devout Catholics because they have this endless stream of kids hanging around their place. Of course, they could just really love kids, but who am I kidding, after 5 or 6 of the little demons, nobody loves kids anymore.

This also means there is an endless amount of screaming, balls flying over the fence, and a dicey game of ‘dodge the kid’ every afternoon when you get home from work, because the little fuckers are playing all over the street.

These people may be the good kind of overly efficient breeders, who are good parents of well behaved children, and who are considerate of their neighbours. Unfortunately, the ones we live next door to now are not those kind. Their little brats spend hours every afternoon running up and down our fence stirring up our dog, and just about giving her a fucking heart attack. I also assume the parents know nothing about dogs, because we have a rottweiler, and even though she’s the biggest failure of a rottweiler ever, I’m still pretty tempted to invite the little douchebags over to play with her, and tie meat to their butts, just to see what happens. We’ve asked them politely to reign in their hell spawn many times, but sadly, it would seem that the grandparents were also shitty parents, because courtesy doesn’t seem to be in their vocabulary.

The chatty Kathy/nosey parker

You know the one, the neighbour who always is on for a yarn and seems to just know everything about everyone. You know once you get sucked into their - usually HER - tractor beam of verbal diarrhoea, that you’re not going anywhere for at least half an hour, and whatever plans you had for the afternoon can be considered fucked with. 

The thing about this neighbour is they are usually a genuinely lovely person, which makes it kind of hard to be truly pissed at them, or you feel guilty if you do think a bad thing about them. That is unless of course they cause you to burn your dinner even though you can both smell its on fucking fire. Then she’s a bitch.

The ones you consider calling community services on

Also known as ‘those people who were having another domestic last night.’ These neighbours are fans of yelling abuse at each other, their children, their pets, and in one weird case I swear I heard one yelling at their lawn mower. Sometimes, its harmless, just lost their temper bullshit, but sometimes you get the extreme end where you are seriously thinking whether or not you should call the cops, child services, or PETA.

We have these neighbours at the moment, and their dog is constantly yelping in panic, they’re constantly swearing at their kids who swear back, and the things they say to each other would make even Bobby and Whitney blush.

I’m seriously about a bee’s dick away from calling the animal rights people about the dog. They scare me.

The morally questionable ones

Though you don’t really have any solid reason to think it, you’re probably convinced they’re dodgy motherfuckers. They keep odd hours, have ridiculous numbers of guests that also seem to keep odd hours, they get really strange packages or deliveries, they seem to have way too much money to be living in your neighbourhood, and they may or may not be a different ethnicity to you.

Of course, sometimes they really are criminals. My parents once lived next to who we think may have been members of the local mob. I suppose it explains the amount of razor wire we saw disappear into their garage, not to mention the strange 3am dealings that took place in and out of their mailbox. Last time I checked, the postman didn’t come at that hour. One night the cops came around asking questions about them and the next week the house was on the market and they sold it for less than what they paid for it, in spite of what would have been about $70K worth of renovations they did on it. Nothing suss.

The dickheads with a really annoying habit or hobby

This is the fuckstick who doesn’t realise their stereo has a volume knob, or that not everybody loves hearing Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture on the cello for 4 hours every day, or that that buzzing noise their remote control car makes is fucking annoying, not to mention the fact that they insist on driving the fucking thing on the road is just plain dangerous.

The thing I do love about this person is you very rarely feel bad for hating them. Especially the stereo challenged douchebag. I never get sick of calling the cops on their ass as soon as it hits 11pm and I can still hear Cradle of Filth blaring at 500 decibels.

Ever.