A crusty ex-radical's guide to cleaning and minimalism

My parents were hoarders and I lived in activist and or hippie/punk collective situations for about seven years, and now I even have a kid creating extra filth to clean up after. You can recover from being a huge mess and keep your rad politics if you want. Or you can just be a bitter crusty ex-radical like I am, but you can change. If I can do it, you can do it.

Here's my advice for other broke-ass radical types who think that maybe it might be possible not to live in filth…

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Why my feminism includes traditional gender roles

When you hear the word "feminist," you likely don't picture is me: a housewife who does all the cooking and housekeeping, who makes dinner from scratch, and a solid effort to look pretty for her husband everyday when he comes home from work. I'm "mom" to my two rescued mutts. I'm a published writer. I'm a wife. And my feminism includes my right to want to be the best wife and partner that I can possibly be to my husband. The keyword there being "partner."

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How I learned to stop worrying and love the domestic arts

I am a shit housekeeper. My culinary background is in microwave dinners and take-out. I didn't think anything of it until it came time to move in with my now husband. We moved into a lovely house (check), I bought some lovely lipstick (check), I found a strand of pearls at a garage sale (check). So why the hell is the laundry always in a pile, the dishes never done, the floor all dirty and most of the things I cook are gross, mushy approximations of food?

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Doing your laundry with a Japanese Hillbilly twist

You know, our grand-parents and great grandparents didn't necessarily have high efficiency washers and dryers. They had time, the sun, the wind, and Borax. So, taking a few pages from their books, I came up with my brilliant new laundry plan that, believe it or not, will only end up costing me $30 a year.

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Kill your darlings: what being a writer taught me about homemaking

Kill your darlings is one of the writing terms which has become a mantra to me over the last year of homemaking.

You'll hear in writing courses and author's workshops across the nation: Kill your darlings. Supposedly advice from Faulkner, "kill your darlings" means letting go of your work — even when it is beautiful, hard-won work — in order to make progress in a piece of writing. That beautiful landscape description your readers will simply skip? That character you spent months developing but turns out to be unimportant to the plot? Off with their heads. On with your work.