This is a group of women who have seen some shit and done some shit and have worked their shit out (for the most part). Our pledge is "I promise to each and every sister that I will base our friendship on love, joy, and shenanigans. Alcohol may or may not be involved." Coffee and/or Tea are also perfectly acceptable among the Royal Order. As a helpful resource, this offers a primer of several common terms. I've been promising the sisterhood a compilation as a glossary.  Without further ado, ahem, let us begin.

The Royal Order of Feral Housewives Mutual Admiration Society

Glossary of Essential Terms, 1st edition

Feral: /ˈferəl,ˈfirəl/ Adjective (especially of an animal, of which, women most definitely are) in a wild state, especially after escape from captivity or domestication.

"A feral cat, or woman. You decide." adjective

Feral Housewife: /ˈferəl, housˌwīf/ noun A woman whose main occupation is (probably still) caring for her family, managing household affairs, but who has figured shit the fuck out and is nobody’s doormat, and loves herself and knows her worth. And if someone else doesn’t know or appreciate it they can fuck all the way off. Not just a little bit but all the fucking way. Off.

"The term domestic housewife makes me think that there are feral housewives and now I have a completely new goal.” noun

Feralicious: / ˈferəlˈaˈliSHəs/ adjective.  Something or someone who is highly pleasant to the taste. Also, the state of knowing one’s own worth, of loving and accepting oneself as is, and as a result, is delightfully attractive and comfortable in her own skin. These women have phenomenal internal radar guidance systems so, do not fuck with them. (See also, definition for fuck).

"Girlfriend, that is a feralicious dress and you are going to knock that first date outta the park." adjective

Fuck: /fuck/ Noun, verb, adverb, adjective. Can be used in multiple ways with myriad of subtle or specific extenders all centered around the basic premise of a ragged and course sex act. Done without love but not necessarily without passion. In fact, passion and heated intercourse may be the actual meaning.

"Fuck you." verb

"What in the actual fuck?" noun

“This is fucking ridiculous.” adverb*

“This is fucking beautiful.” adjective*

*In these two examples, the adverb and adjective are interchangeable.

Fuckalicious: /fuckˈaˈliSHəs/ adjective.  Some thing or someone that is delightfully pleasant to the taste. This thing or person may or may not be actually good or appropriate for you, but what the fuck (see also, definition for fuck). Remember, the #1 truism is that not supposed to is the greatest aphrodisiac in the world.” NOTE: see Truisms in the Commandments section.

She knew he was fuckalicious and in the moment, that was an extremely good thing. adjective

Fucktastic: /fuckˈtastik/Adjective.  Extraordinarily good or attractive OR extraordinarily horrible and distasteful. Depends completely upon tone and context. Excellent glossary word.

Oh, that’s fucktastic. adjective

Fuckinator: /fuckˈinādər/Noun.  A person or thing that fucks something up beyond all recognition.

The fuckinator showed up at the wedding and proceeded to burn that bitch to the ground.  noun

Fucktastrophy: /fuckˈtastrəfē/Noun. A person or event that causes cataclysmic and sudden damage or suffering; a complete and utter disaster.

And after that the wedding reception was a total fucktastrophy. noun

It is essential the reader please note that later editions will most certainly follow. As life gives us many opportunities to expand our feral vocabulary.


A memory and lesson from one of my southern girlfriends.

So, as a much younger ‘me’ I lived in the south. Of the YOU-nited States of ‘Merica. Hahaha. Good Law-hoard, I learned a lot from my neighbors and true bluest girlfriends. From my dear sister-from-another-mister, my next door neighbor, Teresa, I learned the truth that some friends are just gonna bless you by being in your life for-EVEH. But that’s another story. From my across-the-street neighbor, Tina, I learned another truism.

This one is about clothing.

In the Deep South, the summers are so hot and humid that if you want to breathe the outside air, it has to be in the earliest of the morning. Like before actual dawn. After that, get yourself back inside, girl, because it’s hotter and more humid than actual Hell. The Deep South, in the middle of July, is truly Hell on Earth and among other blessings, I learned to pray in true gratitude for the invention by Carrier…air conditioning. It’s just so hot. People stay inside like it’s winter during summer in the Deep South.

Well, being from the Pacific Northwest, I missed actual air and being outside because our summers are glorious…like 75-80 degrees and all the windows are flung open. Living in the Deep South during summer made me truly homesick. My neighbor, Tina, saw that I would go walking before dawn and took pity on me. That and probably it was a bit of a break from her two small girls and her hubsters.

Southern women really understand the value of friendship, that way.

She joined me one Saturday morning and there we were, puttering along in our little subdivision off Dorchester Road, behind the Rock and Roll-themed McDonalds. You know the kind, the type of early 1990’s house-jungles that featured big, cookie-cutter houses and no sidewalks because God knew that if he wanted people to walk anywhere, he wouldn’t have invented cars.

Tina and I were walkin’ along, makin’ good time, and she was telling me some such thing about one of her crazy daughters’ antics that we both agreed were the most adorablest things. Out of one house and into her driveway walks this neighbor woman that I didn’t know but Tina did because she knew everyone living in our subdivision.

“Hiiii,” she says, drawing what should be a one syllable word into at least two. I love my southern girlfriends. “How’re you?” And, she’s wavin’ because you can’t say “Hiiii” in the south without wavin’.

“Oh, Fii-inne. Just Fiii-iiinnne,” and our neighbor gal, she’s wavin’ back. She gets out, past her porch and she’s wearing a pair of pearl-sheen, passion pink, cropped, spandex workout pants, left over from the 1980’s, with some big white tennis shoes and a tight white sweatshirt that, I swear, shows every inch of her self, leaving little to the imagination. “My huhs-band and I are fixin’ to head to Wal-Mart. They got a big sale on craftin’ supplies. Want to get there ria-height when it opens.”

Just then, her huhs-band, Bubba. emerges from the house, wearin’ his trademark Nascar shirt and his trucker hat with the confederate flag on the front. I swear to the Law-hoard, you can NOT make this shit up. Do these folks not know that character actors seek them out, in Wal-Mart, just to study them?

I wave, Tina waves, “That’s great. Y’all have fun. Have a good day, now.” And we wave again and keep walkin’. It’s silent for a minute. The neighbors’ car starts up, backs out of the driveway and heads in the opposite direction, out of the subdivision past the Rock and Roll-themed McDonalds.

“Oh. My. Gawd,” says Tina.

“What?” I ask, truly mystified.

“Spandex is a privilege, not a right. She does not know this. Her mama obviously did not raise her properly.” And, actual fact. I just about keeled over, laughing, onto the road because there were no sidewalks for keeling over on. I laughed so hard, I almost peed my pants.

“Ok, duly noted,” I answer. “I will not wear spandex in public,” wiping the tears from my eyes.

“Girl, she looks about four pounds a puhtatuhs in a two pound sack. Does that woman not look in the mirror? Spandex should only be worn to and from the ladies’ gym and she should be issued an actual citation from the fashion po-lease. At least she put her makeup on before she left the house.”

I am forever grateful to my southern girlfriends. Their teachings were pure gold.

I have never worn pearl-sheen, passion pink, cropped, spandex workout pants. Out in public. And, I have always put on my makeup before I leave the house.

Promise on a stack a bibles and prayin’ to baby Jesus.

Along with all the others, there’s also a birthday season!

It’s probably due to the people we are drawn toward. For me, birthday season is typically in late June and early July, as well as from late August through all of September. Feels like every day I’m checking my calendar to remind myself who to send a little “love” their way.

With that in mind, the other day I called a childhood friend of mine who lives a couple states to the south so I could wish him a happy birthday.  Here’s how it went down.

“So, what are you doing to celebrate your birthday, today?” I asked. I’d gotten the low-down on his classic car adventure from the evening before and wanted to hear a bit more before we hung up.

“No big plans,” he said, chipper, as always. Some folks are just good souls that way.  “But I take my mom a bouquet of flowers every Saturday, so even though it’s my birthday, I’m doing that today, as well.”

I laughed. “Buddy, let’s re-phrase that.  You’re taking flowers to your mom because it’s your birthday. Ever since I became a mother, myself, it’s totally reframed the way I see and celebrate birthdays.”

“How’s that?” he asked, kinda mystified.

“Well, given my experience there are two chief participants in a birthday. The baby and the one who delivers that little bundle…the mom. Do you actually remember what happened, when, and how it happened on the day you were born?”

“Oh,” he sat there a moment with the static from the long distance cell connection sorta rippling over the line. “Wow. You’re right.”

“Well, it’s funny, because for our whole lives we’re getting all the hoopla when it’s really about the mama who did all the work. That’s why they call it labor.”

We both laughed, out loud, at that. At the simple ridiculousness of the way birthdays are celebrated.

After we make our grand entrance into the world, it’s our mothers (and fathers) who are taking photos and ensuring we are safe and clean and fed and clothed and educated and prepared to tackle life as (sort of) an adult at some point in our lives. If they are (mostly) on it, they are checking all the boxes for us in Maslov’s famed hierarchy of needs. Yet we’re the ones that get the cake and presents.  OMG.

The cake and crown are really due to our moms.  Let that sink in.

Being born isn’t the job. And, yet, the person who’s born is really the one who gets all the credit.

Birthdays feel especially important during this season. This feels like one heavy, huge birthday season. From now, on, think about your mother and your mother’s mother. And then consider your daughter and your daughter’s daughter. Think about the choices that they will have to make from now, on, given this particular “birthday” season in the United States of America.

Yes, please bring them a huge bouquet of beautiful flowers on your birthday and their children’s birthdays. Maybe even hold birthday parties in THEIR honor, from now, on. Just think if everyone did that?! I might even consider becoming a florist. For sure, we’re going to be celebrating a lot more birthdays by this time, next year.

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