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Be Proud, Mom

natural living momHippie. Tree-hugger. Vegetarian. Greenie. Stuck-up bitch.

To all I give a great big thank you, except I must deny one: Hippie. I am not a true hippie.

Sorry to disappoint, Mom.

In a world of Big Macs and big trucks, sometimes you get called a name or two at work for being the chick who, in her bamboo heels, silently shuts off her Prius before she bends down to save the earth worm from the asphalt and, when in the air conditioning she frowns at, refuses the PTA’s doughnut breakfast in favor of carefully iceboxed (in a fair-trade bamboo bag but of course) organic kombucha and strawberries with a side of animal rights talk to anybody who will listen or not.

In the community of legit hippies, I take too many showers. I fornicate with only one boy. The only L, S, and D in my life were my initials pre-marriage. I’ve never played the banjo, and I yell at people who buy me flowers.

In fact, I’m probably the worst hippie ever with the mere fact that my anger usually ends up in a fist and a soliloquy of words I don’t ever want my son to say.

Now, some probably think I’m totally stereotyping the hippie here, but that’s not at all possible because the aforementioned traits are, in fact, listed under hippie. I Wikied it.

So moving on.

Since permanently exiting the mold-infested building in which I sought to educate America’s youth about not only adjectives and complex sentences but also the art of escaping teenagehood with a hint of hope and optimism intact, which is something I can proudly say the better version of me, Zeke, did, I’ve failed at hippie all the more. Sad truth. Too many layers of clothes (in public, anyway); a semi friendship with de-frizzing mane tamer; and roughing-it travel consisting only of carrying a small person from one end of the air conditioned house to the other.

I don’t think hippie is in the cards for me.

However, like everybody, I have a list of quirks. I suppose a few hippie dance toward bizarre. I’ll share the non-rated R ones and some of my justifications with you as long as you share your rated R ones with me.

  • Sometimes, when I think I smell, I murder a lemon and marry its carnage to my pits.

It works wonders, trust me.

TIP: Do not leave lemon on counter. Do not make green tea and, after green tea is bogging down belly, remember that lemon at bottom of cup was married to your

smelly pit.

  •  Probably because I smell so pretty,

Husband got me a Samsung Galaxy bigger than my computer, and he even showed me how to text, which made me feel way too in touch with the modern world,

BUT I research green products on it and take a lot of pictures of green things with it.

And I text people little green speech bubbles.

To the point that they conserve energy by ignoring their incessant phone chirps because they know I’m telling them about something like–

  • how I cannot stand being barefoot inside, even in my apple cider vinegar-cleaned home, so my toes are swimming in cruelty-free wool socks that I did not make myself, which is way disappointing, I know,

BUT the expensive socks are sufficiently disguising some toenails that shame Wolverine.

My husband is a lucky man.

  • While I wear socks inside,

I wear nothing outside. My husband and the mosquitoes love it.

(That counts as non-rated R because I’m not telling you about what my husband and I do in the garden besides garden.)

  • I do brush my hair, Mom, after it dries from its weekly tryst with shampoo and conditioner.

Let me repeat: weekly. Once a week.

So, yeah, sorry, Mom.

  • Since I thought the Polaris ATV my husband parked in our driveway was gas guzzling toward Frick, That’s Totally Unnecessary, USA,

I bought another Prius, a Prius V, which I think stands for Prius with a Vendetta for all things not 58 mpg*. So, yeah, there in the driveway bad-a moth balls on wheels

trap in the Polaris. Ha, ha.

*Fifty-eight miles to the gallon if I cruise at 65 with no AC, coasting down hills, while sweat mixes with the leaking breast milk in the bra I haven’t washed in, oh, 3529 days because I heard bras have a 120-day lifespan and that’s just not fair to all the recycled paper and cloth put into this eco-friendly bra.

Mmk. I’m going to stop right there.

Hey, at least I have a bra on.

Oh. I don’t.

Sorry, Mom.

Have you ever consumed lemon that rubbed itself all over your armpit? Here are some products, besides citrus, of which keep me from smelling like a giant foot:

BTW, I am totally affiliated with those products. But I wouldn’t recommend them if I didn’t use them militantly. What are your favorite healthy hygiene products?

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