What I Really Want to Say About the Virginia Gun Rally

This past Monday, I was in Richmond, Virginia for the huge and controversial “Gun Rally.” (It was actually “Lobby Day,” but I won’t get into semantics.)

If you’ve been following me, you know I quit my “real” job in October to have more time for my dream job as an outdoors/firearms writer. It’s a pretty cool gig, I’m not going to lie. Low stress, high reward. Sometimes clients pay me for range time or send me cool products like high-end FFP scopes, chronographs, and cutting-edge ammunition. (Have I mentioned I love my job?)

I was planning to head to Richmond to support the rights of my family, friends, and hunting buddies in Virginia, no matter what. However, I pitched an article idea about covering the Richmond rally to one of my regular clients. They thought it was awesome, so they basically paid me to go to Richmond and write about it.

As a bonus, I got to claim travel expenses as a tax deduction. And although TAXATION IS THEFT, I might as well claim what I can and keep myself out of jail.

However, there was one small caveat to what seemed like the perfect arrangement.

“Alice, can you keep it as non-controversial as possible? We have customers that support both sides of the aisle, and we don’t want to alienate anyone. Can you make it compelling without lambasting any political party too badly? Okay. Thanks.”

Here is the article I came up with, taking major pains not to include pictures with too many Trump flags, leaving out the life-size guillotine, and sticking to non-controversial facts.

 First-Hand Account of the Virginia Second Amendment Rally

I understand that publishing a non-controversial article makes good business sense. However, sometimes it also makes for mediocre content. This article is definitely not my best work.

After submitting the article, I still felt kind of antsy and grumpy, like someone should throw me a Snickers bar from a safe distance.

I think it’s because holding back controversial viewpoints is not my forte. And while I appreciate the paycheck and the tax deduction (TAXATION IS THEFT!), there was still a story inside me, and it was fighting to get out.

So here are some of the things I really wanted to say.

First, Governor Northam sucks and so does the mainstream media. Not that most people don’t already know that, but I needed to get it off my chest.

Leading up to the event, all Northam and the media could talk about was danger and violence and racists and white nationalists.

Law-abiding gun owners, myself included,  are tired of being lumped in with these radical groups.

I’m pretty sure these guys in particular are pretty tired of the racist/white nationalist label.

I’m posting this just in case the media doesn’t. Are these the white supremacists that they were talking about? #2A #IStandWithVirginia pic.twitter.com/RDM0ZiHjkv

— Bryson Gray (@SuriusVsVodka) January 20, 2020

Lo and behold, all the predicted danger of white nationalism was a ruse. There were no swastikas, or Neo-Nazis, or skinheads despite what this guy tweeted.

all I'm saying is that if your reaction to minor gun control legislation is to cover yourself in swastikas and go fucking apeshit on Martin Luther King Day, you're probably not a good avatar for responsible gun ownership

— Jeff Tiedrich (@itsJeffTiedrich) January 20, 2020

(I also have problems with his “minor gun control legislation” comment. It is anything but minor, but that’s probably a subject for another day.)

I challenged someone spreading this rumor on Facebook to show me some proof. They couldn’t provide any.

And we all know if there had been one lonely guy with a swastika, he would have become the media’s poster child for the rally. That I haven’t seen a single swastika image out of the Richmond rally makes me pretty confident there were no swastikas there.

If there were white supremacists in Richmond, they were keeping it on the down-low, choosing not to use Lobby Day as a platform for spreading their brand of hate.

There were also no waving Confederate battle flags. This one surprised me just a little. It is the Battle Flag of Northern Virginia after all, and Richmond was the capital of the Confederacy. Sorry Alexandria Ocasio Cortez, you’ve been caught in an outright lie (or at least an extreme  exaggeration).

I did see one guy wearing a Confederate flag patch (among many others) on his jacket and one Confederate flag sticker on the stock of a rifle. I saw no one brazenly waving what many consider a “banner of hate.”

So much for Richmond turning into Charlottesville 2.0. Even though media personalities and alarmist politicians could not stop comparing the two for weeks leading up to the event.

What I did see were tons of Gadsden flags, which seems appropriate for protesting the potential loss of Constitutional rights.

There were also a ton of Virginia flags. Also highly appropriate considering the location and the seal’s declaration of “Sic Semper Tyrannis.” Thus Always to Tyrants.

And yes, there were some Betsy Ross flags (which are apparently offensive now) and Trump 2020 flags (I know. You’re triggered).  But I also saw a rainbow flag and, my personal favorite, the flag of Hong Kong.

It’s only fair. They’re carrying ours.

Despite the apparent absence of white supremacists, there were highly visible representatives from minority groups, including Democrats for Guns, the LGBTQ community, Black Guns Matter, and Hispanic gun groups. There were throngs of women open carrying, declaring they would not become victims, refusing to relinquish their right to protect themselves.

As my favorite meme of the day quips, “Worst White Supremacist Rally Ever!”

I’m still reeling from the experience. I almost backed out of my plans to attend due to the prevailing rumors of violence. But I am so glad I didn’t. It was definitely one of the best displays of freedom, friendliness, and personal responsibility I've ever seen.

However, slipping back into my normal routine on Tuesday morning was a little shocking. What I was reading from some people on the internet was not what I experienced in person.

My social media feeds were packed with posts claiming that Richmond had been “invaded by armed racists.” That the city had been “held captive by an occupying militia.” One “friend” even claimed we couldn’t call the event “peaceful” or “non-violent” because the “threat of violence was everywhere.”

Hold up! That last one may be right.

But that was kind of the point, Dear Internet “Friend.”

Yes, it was a peaceful display by normal, hard-working Americans attempting to protect their Second Amendment rights by using their First Amendment rights.

But it was also more than that.

It was also a chance to demonstrate the fact that general, law-abiding citizens control more firepower than sweet Governor “Blackface” Northam could muster, even in a state of emergency.

Before you start calling me delusional, consider these numbers.

• The Virginia National Guard has 7,500 members.
• The Richmond Police Department employs 760 police officers.
• The Virginia State Police force has approximately 2118 troopers and special agents.

Reports on rally attendance vary, but there were at least 22,000 people there. Most of them were armed. Some of them heavily.

Even on a freezing Monday morning, after some major scaremongering that kept plenty of concerned patriots away from Richmond, Northam’s forces were completely outnumbered. And that’s if every police officer and weekend warrior at his disposal showed up willing to confront their friends and neighbors. (He certainly can’t ask local sheriffs to help him out. They are largely responsible for leading Virginia's 2A Sanctuary movement, bless their freedom-loving souls).

On a national level, private citizens own more than 400 million firearms. That’s one hundred times the amount all four branches of the United States military combined has at their disposal. I’m just pointing out that civilians have access to some pretty respectable firepower.

Yes, I know that Bubba’s AR-15 is no match for the prowess of the greatest military force in the world. But I’m going to remind you here that a bunch of guys in flip-flops and hand-me-down Russian AKs have been befuddling that same world power for decades now.

Now, to all the whiny, latte-sipping, skinny jeans-wearing scoffers that ask, “Why do they have to bring their rifles? That’s just over the top.”

Yes, Brandon. It is over the top. That’s the point.

Go ahead and make fun of that sea of Carhartt and camo that flooded the streets of Richmond on Monday. But you completely missed the message, which is a boisterous “We Will Not Comply!”

Sure the message was delivered peacefully, responsibly, and without incident. But it was also made while showcasing a tiny fraction of the hardware capacity free citizens have at their disposal.

Just enough to hopefully make Governor Northam, Virginia Democrats, and definitely whiny, latte-sipping Brandon, a little uncomfortable.

That is the whole point of the Second Amendment. It isn't about deer hunting (although venison is certainly a tasty side benefit).

If the government wants to deprive citizens of their god-given rights, the Second Amendment ensures power-hungry politicians will have to work really hard to take them. Richmond was simply a reminder. Let's call it a peaceful threat of violence, shall we.

Sometimes the threat of violence is more productive than actual violence. Let's hope that's the case this time around.

One last thought...

On Monday, I got to be part of a diverse group of polite, friendly, well-behaved individuals, all  unified by the common cause of liberty. It is an experience I will cherish

I often tell people, “I am a proud gun owner.”

The behavior of my fellow gun owners in Richmond makes me even prouder to be part of this inclusive group.

Rally participants even cleaned up after the crowd, going so far as to scrape discarded “Guns Save Lives” stickers off the Richmond pavement. Capital Square and surrounding streets were actually left cleaner than they were before the rally began. That’s something that can’t be said about some other groups that protest for the sake of protesting.

Thanks for keeping it classy, guys.

After the Richmond Rally...

After the Women's March....

I know which group I would rather be associated with.

Besides, I look better in camo than I would in one of those pink things with ears.

"But women have a right to walk down the street alone at night without being afraid."

Honey, you're absolutely right. That's why I carry a Glock.

Which also happens to be why I was in Richmond on Monday.

Better at Being Me

I haven’t written here in a while.

(Thank you to the handful of people who have messaged me to make sure I’m okay and to say you miss me. I promise to show up more.)

It’s not that I haven’t been writing, however. I’ve actually been writing a lot. Just not here. I’ve jumped with both feet into the world of freelancing. People are actually willing to pay real money for my words.

I know! I was shocked, too!

In fact, this writing gig pays well enough that I’m now doing it full time.

Last Friday, I said good-bye to what many people have considered my “real” job.

On the Square has been like a second family (although a highly dysfunctional one). I’ve been there for almost a decade, and I am eternally grateful to Stephen and Inez for letting me be a small part of something really awesome. Working at this restaurant opened up a whole new world of food and wine I never would have experienced otherwise. Where else would this redneck Southern girl have had the chance to try foie gras and uni (that’s fattened goose liver and sea urchin for the unrefined) or sip Bordeaux that cost more than her first car? (But just the one sip that was left in the bottle... and only after the customers left.)

There is no argument the experiences of wine and food are things I will never forget. However, the restaurant business isn’t all exotic eats and interesting spirits. Working in customer service will slowly suck the life from your soul.

It is draining to witness the worst of human behavior shift after shift.

It is draining to be grabbed, pushed, pulled, and even slapped while you smile and pacify and pretend that all's right with the world.

It is draining to have rich male customers proposition you right in front of their wives.

It is draining to overhear a prominent lawyer brag about shooting people with a pellet gun on the other side of the Princeville bridge. Just to see them dive in the ditches. Just for fun. But only in his younger years.

It is draining when someone calls your black male co-worker “Kunte Kinte.” To his face. Because he thinks it's funny and he can.

It is draining to listen to drunk men claim women are only good for sexual pleasure.

It is draining to deal with customers who complain about poor service, especially when you’re doing everything you possibly can. Like when those customers just watched EMS attend someone who suffered a heart attack in the dining room.

“Gee, Karen! I don’t know why your wine glass is empty. Maybe it's because I didn’t want to step over the elderly gentleman fighting for his life on the floor.”

The ugliness of humanity often dresses itself up and heads out for a nice dinner.


And while most customers are happy, polite, and pleasant (special shout-out to Frank and Dana!), it is the rough ones that stick with you long after you clock out and head home.


Each night before my shift started, I would grab a styrofoam cup and fill it with ice and water (or Coke if I needed caffeination. Which was often). On any given night, there would be half a dozen styrofoam cups in the server station, all lined up like soldiers, conveniently placed for the staff to grab quick sips between taking orders, silvering tables, and running food.

Most of those cups would have scribbled names or initials on the side, so we could easily tell them apart in the rush and bustle of trying to make people happy.

No one wants to accidentally take a swig of unsweet tea when they are expecting something else. Actually, I don’t know why anyone would want to take a swig of unsweet tea.

Every night I worked, I wrote a different name on my cup. Some nights I would be Helen or Jessica or Kristen. Some weekends I followed a theme. I might masquerade as dead queens of England and be Anne, Mary, and Catherine. Other times I would scrawl a string of literary heroines and be Hermione, Katniss, and Jean Lousie for the weekend. I was never the same person twice.

It started as a joke. One night, I was serving a large group of old women (probably about 20 of them) with perfectly coiffed hair, all carrying garish handbags and wafting floral perfume. The group consisted of members of the local Garden Club and their guests, all in town to learn how to properly trim their hydrangeas and complain about their neighbor’s yards.

The woman in charge of the event  approached me with special instructions concerning their bill, time constraints, drinks and appetizers, etc. I filled her in on how I would take orders and split the ticket. I told her not to worry about anything, that I would make sure they enjoyed their outing.

At the end of our conversation, she smiled. ”I know you’re going to take great care of us. What’s your name?”

I smiled and told her, “Alice.”

She immediately turned to the group of women and introduced me, ”All right, Ladies. This is Jennifer. She’s going to be taking care of us this evening.”

I didn’t correct her, because it wasn’t worth it. It was much easier to just be Jennifer, especially if that’s who she wanted me to be. Most customers don’t care one iota about who is serving them, so long as their drinks are cold and their food is hot. Most look right through us as if we are completely invisible. They don’t realize we have homes and families and lives outside of pouring wine and properly placing their bread plates. They don’t understand how we smile and act like they are the most important people in the world, even when we have sick children at home... or our father died just last week.

I never wrote “Alice” on my cup because it was easier to pretend to be someone else. It hurts less when someone treats you like you aren’t really a person. Someone whose ass can be grabbed when the customer had too much to drink. Someone who can be cussed out because a salad was too small or the steak too rare. Someone they can write bad Yelp reviews about if my smile isn’t wide enough or doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

If I wasn’t Alice, it didn’t matter as much. Then, if they snapped their fingers at me or slapped my hand as I reached for a near-empty glass, they weren’t demeaning me. It was just Jennifer. Or Melissa. Or Julie. Or whichever name was written on my cup that night.

The moral of the story here is treat your servers better. Although it’s easy to look right through them, they are actually human beings with lives and families, hurt and heartache, hopes and dreams.

And now I am following mine.

If you’re interested, you can keep up with my writing at AliceJonesWebb.com. Just a heads up, as a professional writer, I specialize in shooting, hunting, and outdoor skills. Which is a far cry different from expensive wine, proper serving etiquette, and smiling when you don’t feel like it.

I know it isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But it’s mine.

This cup has my name on it, and the tea is most definitely sweet.

I’m really much better at being me. Much better than I am at pretending to be someone else.

I got the corner office!
(And the cup has my name on it.)

It's A Big Deal: So Glad They Told Me

Today is a big day! (Cue the triumphant and dramatic theme music and colorful confetti.) Today is the release date for HerStories Project Press's newest book, So Glad They Told Me: Women Get Real About Motherhood.

I'm super excited about this book for a couple reasons.

Number one: This book isn't just full of boring, run-of-the-mill parenting advice (I mean that stuff is already available in bulk.), this book contains 60 essays by women who are honest, raw, and real. There's just not a lot of authenticity floating around these days. Too many people wear their well-polished masks, presenting who they want the world to believe they are, but hiding their flaws and doubts and honest dreams. But this book has some of the most authentic, primal, naked-soul writing I've seen. These women are writing from the trenches of motherhood and it is simultaneously beautiful and heart-wrenching. Mostly it is honest, even when honesty isn't pretty.

Number Two: If you turn to page 251, you'll find an essay written by little ol' me. (Happy Dance!) I am both humbled and excited to be included between the covers of this magnificent book, my name stuck there in between and amongst some incredibly talented writers.

You can buy the book here. It's available in both paperback and Kindle versions. It's a great gift idea for a new or expecting mom (especially if you're looking for something original and meaningful to go along with the diapers and cute baby socks), but this book covers everything from pregnancy to empty nest. Any mom or anyone who has a mother (that's like everyone, right?) will love this one.

And because I am a tease, here is a tiny excerpt from my own essay (If you want more, you'll just have to get your hands on a copy of this book):

Stupid, isn’t it? Telling a mother not to worry? It’s like telling water to run uphill or pigs to sprout wings or mothers-in-law to mind their own business. It’s just not going to happen. Worrying is wired in our maternal DNA. And there are so many things to worry about; whether the baby is pooping a sufficient amount, whether his teeth will be jacked up from using a pacifier, how much his future therapy is going to cost from just how much I’m bungling this motherhood thing on a daily basis. 

“Don’t worry. It gets easier." 

I still grabbed on to that like a lifeline… because I was worried. I was worried that I might not make it through this motherhood gig with my sanity intact. Those assurances made me feel as if there was a light at the end of the tunnel that maybe I just couldn’t see yet. It was like they were coaxing me on from the other side, like the roaring crowd cheering on the runners at a marathon. They could see the finish line even if I couldn’t. If I just kept going, even as smelly and unshowered as I was, I would get to that wonderful promised land of “easier”. 

It was a lie.

Spring Fever

Photo by Catjaa

I don't want to write today.

I don't want to sit at this keyboard and pound out my thoughts, whether they come out as profound or merely trivial. I don't want to care about whether or not someone reads the words or just scrolls past, whether my words resonate or just get lost in the droning hum that is the perpetual flow of information in cyberspace. I don't want to work my brain or spin a phrase or wax poetic. I don't want to stare at this screen, searching for the inevitable typos and grammatical errors that will bring out the language purists with their virtual tar and virtual feathers.

Instead, I want to walk barefoot through too tall grass, feeling the earth still cool from recent winter damp under my feet. I want to lay in the yard, lost in a good book, my eyes squinting from the glare of the sun off the white pages. I want to breathe deeply and listen to birdsong and laughing children. I want to swing on the playground swings, pumping my legs like I did when I was little, back and forth as my hair blows out behind me.

So for today, these few word will have to do... just keep scrolling if you must... because I'm going outside. There's to much to do, to see, to BE! I'll be busy soaking it all up, this wonderful vibrant budding life that beckons from outside my windows.

I'll write tomorrow.

Today I'm going to play.

The Real Enemy of Free Speech

"Je suis Charlie."

Translation: "I am Charlie."

Before last week, I'd never even heard of Charlie Hebdo. But on Wednesday, the French satire magazine was thrust into the international spotlight after self-righteous Islamic extremists stormed the magazine's Paris office with Ak-47s and shouts of "Alahu akbar!"

Twelve French citizens were slaughtered.

Since the Paris magazine bloodbath, everyone has been talking about Charlie Hebdo. The magazine specialized in offensive, in-your-face, generally obnoxious satire. It routinely tap-danced all over the fine lines of intellectual criticism and banal vulgarity. Boundaries of taste and tolerance were frequently pushed by the publication. The pushing of those boundaries often created somewhat disturbing material that slapped political correctness squarely across it's rather smug face.

While the massacre left the world talking about terrorism and Islamic extremism, it also brought up the subjects of free speech and journalism, arguably the cornerstones of free Western society.

Being a writer myself (and one who has been known to be occasionally interpreted as "offensive"), the right to speak (or write and publish) controversial material is sacrosanct. So when I started hearing major criticisms of the magazine, by friends and coworkers and even journalists, I was surprised and more than slightly appalled.

"They shouldn't have done that."

"Offending people isn't right. They were just being mean."

"I do think it's understandable."

"Sounds like they were bullying."

"They basically asked for an early grave."

"They were just being racist assholes, that isn't freedom of speech. You can't just say whatever you want to say."

Actually... you kinda can.

Freedom of speech extends to the unpopular, the minority view, and yes... to offensive racist, homophobic, sexist and other forms of the politically incorrect.

We don't need protections of free speech to talk about the weather or what's for dinner or other mundane bull crap that isn't really worth talking about. It's not for discussions of popular thought or conversations that are easy and unchallenging and leave everyone feeling safe and cozy within the confines of their comfort zones.

The beauty of freedom of speech (and freedom of the press as well) is that it extends to the controversial. The provocative. The unconventional. The audacious. And yes, sometimes the obscene.

Perhaps we should assume for a moment that the journalists and cartoonists at Charlie Hebdo weren't just being assholes.

The bloody attack on Charlie Hebdo probably came as less of a surprise for them than it was to the rest of us. The magazine had been running depictions of questionable taste for years. It had come under harsh criticism and even physical attack numerous times in the past. In 2011, the magazine's headquarters were firebombed after running edgy cartoon depictions of the Muslim prophet, Muhammad (including a drawing of him with a clown nose).

Death threats were nothing new to the employees of Charlie Hebdo.

That the journalists at Charlie Hebdo were risking death to publish what appears to be childishly goading cartoons should prove the seriousness of their cause. Few people risk life and limb to simply be funny. There was a matter of principle here, that whether you agree with their views or not, you certainly should respect their desire to be heard. Plenty of people with more important and substantial things to say have cowered under the fear of lawsuits, lost income, humiliation, and damage to their public image... with personal harm never even registering on the radar.

How many of us are comfortable saying what we feel the need to say when there is nothing substantial on the line? How many of us start to stumble and retract the moment the stakes get higher? Few of us have the hutzpah to press on once the pressing gets uncomfortable. (And if we are so quick to back down and make concessions, then how much of what we have to say is based on real and authentic principle?)  There are few of us willing to face death for something we thought worth saying.

Grandmothers the world over drone on saying, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."

I say, "Bullshit!"

Sometimes when there is nothing nice to say, those un-nice things are the very ones that need to be said.

That satirical cartoons, like the ones so often featured in Charlie Hebdo, create such visceral responses proves their effectiveness. Nothing grabs people's attention as quickly or as earnestly as the offensive. Satire is about exaggeration. And seeing cultural or religious ideas in extreme exaggeration hammers criticism home in a way no calm intellectual discourse can. It is a harsh shake to wake us up and elicit a response... any response. Just show us that you are paying attention.

So maybe the cartoonists and journalists at Charlie Hebdo were being assholes, but they were assholes with a purpose.

There is a far worse evil than hurting someone's feelings. It is leaving the truth unsaid. It is remaining silent when something important and worth saying bubbles inside you. It is remaining mute when you feel the need to speak out.

To even imply that the artists and writers at Charlie Hebdo deserved to die is obscene. Since when is murder less a crime than offending people?

When did being accused of racism or homophobia or insensitivity become the most heinous crime of all?

The real enemies of free speech aren't Islamist extremists or terrorists or overly zealous politicians. The pressure of being politically correct and the fear of accidentally offending keep more things from being said than any law. Political correctness (and the mindless way the masses cling to it) is the enemy of free speech.

Thank you, journalists of Charlie Hebdo. Thank you for reminding me that there is a very real enemy out there, an enemy willing to bash down doors and steal my right to say what I think is worth saying.

That enemy isn't wearing a turban or brandishing an assault weapon. That enemy is fear. It is fear that keeps people silent. It is fear that so often keeps the things worth saying from being said. It is fear of public opinion and loss of popularity, fear of humiliation or intellectual bullying, fear of offending someone (even when that someone might be worth offending), and sometimes fear of actual harm (whether emotional or financial or physical).

Thank you Charlie Hebdo for not being afraid.

Thank you for saying what you felt needed to be said, even when it wasn't popular.

Je suis Charlie.

Staring At An Empty Page

Usually when I sit down to write, I have some idea of where the article is going.  At least an idea of what I want to convey to whomever might stumble upon my writing.  I've often written the entire blog entry in my head before I ever sit down at the keyboard  hammering out the actual words and sending it out into cyberspace.  But sometimes I don't.  Sometimes, I sit down at the keyboard and stare at the blank screen with no idea of what to write.  And sometimes what my fingers type is brilliant, even though I had no idea where I was going when I first sat down.  (More often it's absolute bunk, but I like to pretend that those particular samples of my writing simply don't exist.)

There's something gloriously pure in that blank white screen.  Before that blinking cursor begins to spit out letters which turn into words which (hopefully) pull themselves into something worth reading.  Maybe it's why I hover there, fingers poised over the keys for at least several moments before I start to type.  In that blank screen is pure potential.  Absolutely anything could spill out across that blank screen.  Brilliance, humor, insight, drivel.  I have no inkling when I gaze upon that blank computer screen. It's humbling and awesome and occasionally overwhelming.

It's how I felt the first time I held each of my babies.  Like I was gazing into the glorious pure potential of everything that tiny little person could be and everything they could bring to the world.  I held my breath and hovered in that moment, holding it sacred before that human started to pull itself into being.  Anything could have come pouring out of that life. Brilliance, humor, insight..... It's humbling and awesome and absolutely overwhelming.

And then the little bits of that person came slowly into focus, sometimes coaxed by parents and environment, sometimes already programmed through ages of genetic selection.  Like letters and then words that spill onto a blank page...the person wrapped inside that tiny body started to come into focus. And the gifts they have to give came pouring out into my life.  (Most often in the form of things that fill diapers. But also in smiles and tenderness and beautiful innocence.)

But in those first moments I gazed into the eyes of each of my precious children...how could I have known what absolute brilliance and beauty waited to unfold before me?  Like staring at an empty page.

Do What You Love...And Sometimes What You Don't

Today has just been one of those days.

I woke up with a horribly stuffy nose and killer sinus headache.  I had to walk to work in the cold and rain.  The internet was down at home for most of the day.  Dinner was a disaster.  It's still cold and rainy and I still have a killer headache and all I want to do is curl up in the fetal position under my covers and wake up tomorrow in a better mood.

It's amusing to me that just when I make a decision to do something, it seems like the Universe conspires to throw stuff in my direction to make me change my mind.  (This time it's my decision to blog every day for 21 days and I didn't even make it to day 3 when Mr Universe tosses nasty weather, a lack of internet connection, and the worst headache I've had in recent history to make me want to say. "Screw you!" to my resolve.)

But here I am at 10:42 PM headache and all.

I've read a lot lately about happiness.  According to some schools of thought, you should do more of what you enjoy and less of what makes you miserable.  "Do what you love" say the happiness gurus.  And while I agree with that to a large extent.  There are a few exceptions.

I hate to write.

There.  I said it.  I'm grumpy through the whole process.  I dread it when I know I have a deadline coming up.  I find it emotionally exhausting, and stressful.  Usually because I'm overly critical of my own writing, and I probably care far too much about other people's opinions of it.

But I love having written.

I enjoy the feeling of accomplishment.  I enjoy seeing a them developed through words I've written.  I enjoy hearing from others that my words have made them think, or challenged them, or inspired them.

Basically I hate the process, but I love the result.  Kind of weird, right?  Not so much.

I also hate cleaning my house.

I absolutely hate every second of it.  I especially hate mopping floors.  I despise washing dishes.  I loathe folding laundry.  I can generally think of a million other things I'd much rather be doing.

But I love a clean house.  There's little I enjoy more than walking into a clean kitchen first thing in the morning to fix my coffee.  I enjoy propping my feet up on the couch in my tidy living room just to read a book.  I like being able to find neatly folded clothes stacked neatly in dresser drawers.

Basically I hate the process, but love the result.

So should I abandon cleaning house because it's something I don't enjoy?  Should I quit trying to control the dust bunnies and the clutter and the million little messes that a family of six makes?  If I did, I miss out on the comfort and peace I feel when the house is clean.

And this is the same reason I right.

With a little time and thought I could probably think of a dozen other examples, but right now I'm tire and it's late and it's raining and I still have this major headache.  So I'm going to bed, content that I have written today.  But I will try to think of this truth next time I consider skipping an activity because it's not something that I enjoy.  It might just bring me happiness in the long run anyway.