How I know I’m an adult: I enjoy the holidays for about five minutes, spread in incriments over a six week period. The rest of the time I’m on the verge of popping like an overripe peach in the heat.

My stress levels have been through the roof, despite lots of cool stuff. My Chef’s Choice piece on Lisa Slay made it to the dead tree edition of The Riverfront Times. I find this so funny. When I worked for the competition, I only appeared in the print edition. People constantly asked, “Can I read your stuff on the website? No? Oh.” Dejected! Disappointment! Must not be a “real” writer if stuff doesn’t make the website for the world to see! Now, I get “Can I read your stuff in the print edition? No? Oh.” Dejected! Disappointment! Must not be a “real” writer if stuff doesn’t merit killing a tree! Now, I’ll occasionally be in both, which makes me Super Journalist, right?

(Funny. I’m at Companion, and someone just walked by with that edition of the paper with my piece. After all these many years of writing, I still had the urge to say, “Hey! I’m in there!” I think when that urge goes away, it’ll mean my writing career needs to end.)

My last post about my little Twitter run-in with a local business owner was picked for Five Star Friday. I have no idea who chose me, but thank you! You made my week. For real. If you’re local, let me buy you a beer or coffee. If not, can I Paypal money for a beer or coffee to you because really, getting that little bit of recognition made me feel better about the whole mess.

Unfortunately, I got slammed with comment spam last night. In my tired, irritated, heavy-handed deleting tirade I not only deleted a ton of crap, but I accidentally deleted all the comments on that post, which really made me want to throw up because there was some interesting, well-thought stuff in there. If your comments are among the lost – whether you agreed or disagreed with me – I’m sorry. I hate to see well-thought words vanish, especially at my own overzealous hand.

There were comments that I overreacted, but they were from my pal Hollinger so I appreciated them, and his ability to tell me he thought I overreacted in a manner that wasn’t insulting, condescending, or loaded. Lots of, “you go, girl”-type comments. Oh, and the comment regarding my lax food politics, and how I’m gonna die!!!!! because I haven’t accepted veganism as my savior.

Okay, so it wasn’t worded quite like that, but you get the gist – a lecture from a total stranger on my food politics not being up to snuff.

Hi. My name is Robin. Five days a week I write this, and choose to include as much information as possible to illustrate how deeply broken the American food system – especially as it pertains to the meat and dairy industries – is. And sometimes I write about brawls at Chuck E. Cheese’s (Cheese! Devil curd!) and Parmesan shivvings (Another life shortened by dairy! Nooooo!).

I understand the zeal of the converted. I do. Doesn’t mean I’m going to take it seriously. Especially not when my friend Kate’s been converting to veganism and can attest to how difficult it is. Not when my own food politics, especially in regards to the subsidization, over-processing, and transportation of soybeans and their possible issues with hormone interference would most likely lead to starvation if I opted for veganism. Not that I’m going to insist that my vegan friends – or vegan strangers – change their way of life because I have a problem with the soy industry. No food system is perfect. They’re all broken, just in different ways. Anyone who can afford to feed herself in a manner that coincides with her principles is lucky. First-world problem, when you consider how many people are dependent on food that comes from relief agencies. Or consider how many people in the “first-world” are in that situation.

Eat what you like. Nourish yourself and others. Be generous. Be happy. Do what is right in your heart, even if it’s not what is right in the hearts of others.

The day after I got my vegan lecture, I got a slap on the hand for being a bad feminist.

Yes, I’m a feminist. Strident. At times, on certain issues, militant. I’m old enough to remember when the Equal Rights Amendment didn’t pass. I wasn’t much older than Clara Jane, but I clearly remember thinking it audacious that women and girls aren’t always afforded the same stuff as men and boys.

During a play date last week with another feminist mom, I suffered a mild stroke. Not because of my bovine-infused diet, but because she told me about a college-educated co-worker in her 30s who didn’t know what suffrage means. She thought women got the right to vote in the 1960s with “all that civil rights stuff”.

Oh boy.

I mean, girl.

I mean, human being.

Last Saturday night – after the whole fat battle thing -  I spent an evening with three astute, articulate fellow feminists, eating Rotel dip, watching “Love, Actually”, and drinking enough Dr. Pepper loaded with vanilla vodka and peppermint Schnapp’s to fell much weaker menfolk. Or elephants. During our round-table discussion, we covered, among other things: rabbiting, the overt classism and racism on that week’s episode of “The Office”, doing it hard, creepy photos of naked babies dressed as angels, and the best partners for processed cheese foods in a crock pot.

The next day I watched the episode of “The Office” in question and was pretty appalled. I paid a visit to a feminist website visited by some of my Saturday night companions, read the massive discussion on the episode, and contributed my own thoughts after much consideration.

To which the website’s moderator chastised me because I referred to Michael behaving like a dick. “Gendered insults are verboten.”

I fully understand the need to a safe place, but good lord a’mighty. I’m mom to a five-year-old daughter who’s shunned princesses, Barbies, Hannah Montana, etc. in an attempt to give my kid a shot at not falling into so many of the gender traps that girls and women still face. Especially the body image ones.

If your daughter likes those things, that’s fine. She can still play with my daughter and I won’t hover over her or you on my high horse. Promise.

And oh, I can go on and on and on about the stuff I’ve done in my lifetime to be a good feminist, beyond my relaxed attitude regarding leg hair in the winter months. Which isn’t a feminist statement on my part; it’s a laziness one. But I digress.

Yes, I see the irony of getting worked up over one word (fat) and then getting tsk tsk’d over using another word (dick). I could justify myself, but I won’t. I trust that you’re all smart enough to understand the difference. Or smart enough to see the part emotions play in such exchanges. You don’t need me to explain anything; you’re all capable of making your own decisions.

So, let’s review:

• I’m not feminist enough because I called a fictional character on a sitcom a dick.
• I’m not politically correct enough in my food choices because I sometimes eat face.
• I’m not an acceptable airplane seat partner because I’m not thin enough.

On Monday last week, I rebelled. Hard. My lunch was handed to me through the window of my truck and contained cheese that I’m pretty sure was spelled with a Z. Corporate coffee drinks with lots of dairy and sugar were consumed. Over-purchasing at a big box store happened. Atrocious behavior in my child was not only encouraged, but demanded.

Oh geez. Unbunch, already. This was taken while parked in our driveway.

I guess my point is, I’m no different than anyone else in that I do not react well to being told what to do. Or being told that something subjective I’m doing is wrong.

Sure, if you’re offended by what I write, I respect your right to say, “I will no longer read what you write because I don’t dig it.” That’s what I did on the feminist website. I apologized for breaking their rule and stated that in light of the situation, I didn’t think it was the right place for me. And then I let them be. I didn’t even call anyone a pussy.

I thought it, but I didn’t say it. At least, not there.

But my goodness. Let’s do a little living and letting live. Okay? Who cares if it’s in the digital or print edition? If it’s vegan, local, or came from Wal-Mart? If someone’s a dick or the more gender-correct asshole? If someone’s fat or thin? Sure, it all matters a little. But none of it matters a lot. Not nearly as much as people living in peace without being judged for their choices when really, we’re all just doing what we can to muddle through.